summary: MotoGP legend joins Formula 1 with Mercedes, entering a season of extreme scrutiny, media pressure, and divided public opinion as she fights to prove she belongs on the grid.
pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader
warnings/tags: smau + irl, mentions about misogyny, cursing here and there
notes: this is my old series also named more than a driver, but reimagined because the original series just could not get out of my privates no matter what i tried. so i thought that rewriting the whole thing is the best thing i could do, and i can explain driver!yn and her experiences in more detail than i did in the original. thank you !!!
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
SERIES
chapter one â unpleasant welcomes
chapter two â private testing
chapter three â tension rises in melbourne
chapter four â will luck run out in shanghai?
chapter five â internal interference
chapter six â culprits in paddocks
okay, this turned out to be a little different than what you asked but I hope you enjoy it just the same. it may or may not of been inspired by Allie & Deanâs secret fling in Off Campus.
18+ | fem!reader
You told Steve last week that this wouldnât happen again.
Just like you said two days ago when he had you pressed against the wall in Tinaâs upstairs hallway. Your leg hooked around his hip, grinding against what lived up to all the stories and then some while the party raged down stairs.
Now youâre in his empty basement knees pressing into the couch cushions on either side of his hips, while his big hands adjust you on his lap.
Steve grabs at your thighs tugging you close enough that your breasts press tight against his chest. He nips just under your jaw before peppering open mouth along the length of your neck. Catching the small roll of your hips with a smile against your skin, he pulls away confidently showing you the whites of them.
Grabbing your chin between two fingers, he tugs your face down just enough for his lips to ghost against yours.
âLet me guess, this is the last time.â He whispers against your mouth with a knowing smirk.
âYes, I mean it.â You huff, unable to control your own grin, rocking your hips again. âLast. time.â
âWhatever you say.â
Steve snorts, not waiting for whatever smart comeback you have waiting on the tip of your tongue. Instead, he curls his hand around the back of your neck, and catches it on his own.
The moan that escapes out of your throat comes stirring from deep within your chest. He huffs out a small laugh at it before licking into your mouth with the kind of hunger that lights a fire along your already heated skin. Meeting him with equal enthusiasm, you apply more pressure with the next grind of your hips making his confidence stutter.
âFuck ââ He breathes in between kisses, the grip on the back of your neck tightening.
Doing it again, itâs your turn to smile against his mouth, lashes fluttering open to admire the furrow of his brows.
âBetter enjoy it while you can.â
His eyes open at that, something darkening the amber that swirls inside of them.
âWho are you trying to convince, honey? Me or you?â Steve smirks with a narrowed gaze filled with determination, the hand on your hip tightening.
âShut uâ ohmygod.â
Your bratty response is cut off, when he drags you over his lap, the seam of your jeans pressing into where you need it most.
âWhat was that? Couldnât hear you.â He chuckles darkly, tearing his lips from your mouth to wrap around your pulse point.
He sucks hard enough for your eyes to hit the back of your head, leaving a bruise youâll have to deal with in the morning. But when he drags his teeth along the sensitive skin, you canât bring yourself to care.
âSteve, are you down there? I forgot my keys.â
Robinâs voice freezes you in place with fingers curled into the roots of his hair. Steveâs teeth stop right over the already blooming purple mark, the grip on the back of your neck tightening.
âSteve â?â The stairs squeak with the first steps she takes, and itâs enough for him to find his voice.
âY- yeah!â His voice cracks, and your giggle that follows it earns you a glare.
âMy keys, are they down there?â She calls out again, another creak following.
âShit.â He blows out a breath, pulling away to look around the room, groaning quietly when he spots them on the coffee table.
âYeah, I got them. Give me a second.â He lays back, running both his hands down his face before meeting your playful gaze.
âItâs getting late, I should probably go.â You smirk, using his broad chest as leverage to push yourself off his lap.
âWhat? No, sheâll be gone in like 2 seconds.â He whispers harshly trying to grab at your hips, but you slip through his fingers just like this moment.
âI said enjoy it while you can.â
âYou canât be serious.â
Steve stares you down, watching you with heated eyes as you straighten out your shirt and tug up your jeans.
âNever been more serious.â You wink, swiping Robinâs keys off the coffee table before calling out to her.
âIâm heading out too, Iâll bring them up!â
summary: it's round four in bahrain and you are about to discover that you are the absolute center of a high-stakes investigation. the culprit may still be hiding in the paddock, how long until you run out of time?
pairing: formula one + female!driver!reader
warnings/tags: smau + irl, tension (in the paddock), mentions of sabotage
notes: no racing just yet! we'll get into that in the next chap ;)
reblogs, likes, and comments are so so appreciated! if you want to read more from me, kindly submit in my inbox !!! xoxo
ynlnupdates
liked by user90 and 6,439 others
ynln updates YN LN arrives in Bahrain ahead of Round 4. She faces a tense weekend amidst ongoing rumors of an internal Mercedes investigation.
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user89 im literally holding my breath for her this weekend. pls just let her have a safe race, thats all that matters right now
user72 rumor has it the merc garage has extra security guards checking passes today
user64 protect our rookie at all costs !!!!
user21 eyes on the track, yn! we love u and we r all standing w you this weekend
The flight to Bahrain was quiet.
Not the normal, comfortable quiet where everyone falls asleep under thin airline blankets. It was the heavy, suffocating kind. The kind of silence that settles over a room after something terrible happens, and nobody has the world to talk about it yet.
Three weeks ago, you were just a rookie who had shocked the world by winning a race.
Now? You were sitting at the center of an active criminal internal investigation.
The absolute absurdity of it would've been funny if it wasn't your actual life. You spent most of the flight staring out the window into the black sky. You didn't sleep. You didn't read. You just thought.
You thought about China. You thought about the terrifying moment in Suzuka when the rear of the car completely snapped. You thought about the exact tone in Luca's voice when he told you the access logs had been wiped.
But mostly, you thought about Toto.
The moment Mercedes realized somebody had actively tampered with your car, something shifted inside him. The public facade stayed exactly the same, but internally, the uncertainty vanished.
Somebody had put your life at risk. Mercedes knew it. And Toto wanted a name.
Thursday morning arrived far too quickly.
The Bahrain paddock was alive, basking in the dry, intense desert heat. Mechanics hurried past, media crews set up large cameras, and VIP guests wandered around with lanyard.
Everything looked exactly how an F1 weekend was supposed to look.
Except for Mercedes.
You noticed the change the second your driver dropped you off. Security was tight. Too tight. It wasn't obvious enough for the casual fans pressed against the fences, but you knew what to look for.
There was a guard at the hospitality entrace. Another at the garage door. Another by the engineering trucks. They weren't just checking passes; they were scanning faces.
The media noticed it too. Unfortunately.
"YN!" a reporter yelled, shoving a microphone over the barrier before you could even reach the team building. "Can you confirm reports that Mercedes has identified internal suspects?"
You kept your head down. Just keep walking.
"Has anyone been suspended yet?" another voice barked. "Are employees currently being interrogated?"
"Do you feel safe driving the car this weekend?"
A PR handler physically between you and the cameras, her arm blocking them from you. "No comments today, thank you," she said firmly, pushing you through the glass doors.
Inside the building, the atmosphere hit you like a physical wall. People spoked in hushed whispers. They moved quicker. They looked exhausted.
"You look terrible," a familiar voice said.
You turned to see Luca. He was holding a large black coffee, and the dark circles under his eyes looked like bruises.
"Morning to you too," you muttered. "Did you sleep at all?"
"No."
"Good."
"Why good?"
"Because if you had slept while I was awake all night panicking, I'd be offended."
For a split second, a small laugh escaped his lips. But it disappeared just as fast. His phone buzzed in his hand, and whatever he read on the screen completely ruined his face.
"Luca," you said, stepping closer. "What is it?"
"Nothing."
You stared at him, raising an eyebrow. He stared back, his jaw tight. Eventually, he let out a long, defeated sigh.
"Toto wants everyone with system access histories reviewed again. From scratch."
"Again? Didn't they do that on Monday?"
"Yes," Luca whispered, looking around to make sure nobody was listening. "But they think someone lied about their login times."
đïž Sky Sports F1, Lando Norris Interview
[Sky Sports]: Lando, a quick word. Obviously, the massive talking point today is the ongoing investgation at Mercedes. You and YN are close friends outside the track. Have you had the chance to speak to her?
[Lando]: Yeah. Yeah, I've... I've been with her a lot. It's tough, you know? It's completely messed up. I mean, we're talking about someone messing with a car. It's not a joke, it's not some stupid rumor. It's her life.
[Sky Sports]: How do you assess her mindset now?
[Lando]: She's tougher than anyone realizes. But she shouldn't have to be. She should be celebrating a win and worrying about her tire wear, not checking over her shoulder to see if someone's watching her every move.
This whole thing makes me sick. I just want her to be safe. That's all that matters to me right now. The rest of this paddock can go to hell, to be honest.
(Lando's PR immediately stepped in, tapping his shoulder to end the interview before he says too much, though Lando doesn't look sorry at all.)
The conference room meeting started ten mintues later. It was, without a doubt, the most uncomfortable room you had every stepped into.
Toto sat at the head of the long table. Surrounding him were the team's top engineers, techincal directors, cybersecurity experts, and legal advisers.
"We know the vehicle was tampered with," Toto said. Straight to business. No corporate fluff, no softening the blow.
A cybersecurity specialist clicked a button and a large screen lit up behind Toto. It was filled with rows of data. System logs, access records, authorixation cahins.
"We are no longer investigating if an incident occurred," Toto continued, his voice dangerously calm. "We are not investigating the individual responsible."
The room somehow became even quieter.
"We will continue reviewing digital records," Toto said, his sharp eyes sweeping across every face at the table. "We will continue tracking every single person who had access to the garage in Japan. If anyone knows anything, come to my office before the end of the day. After that, legal handles it."
When the meeting ended forty minutes later, people filed out slowly. Nobody wanted to linger. Nobody wanted to be the last person left in the room with him.
As you stood up to grab you water bottle, Toto's voice cut through the quiet.
"YN. Stay for the moment, please."
You nodded as the last engineer left, closing the heavy door behind them. Now, it was just you and Toto. The silence felt different now. Less like a boss talking to a company, and more personal.
Toto folded his hands on the table. "How are you sleeping?"
You blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"I asked how you're sleeping, YN."
"Not great," you admitted honestly.
He nodded slowly. "As expected. It's a heavy weight to carry."
You hesitated, gripping the strap of your gear bag tightly. You knew you shouldn't ask, but you couldn't help it. "Do you know who did it? Honestly?"
Toto didn't look away. "No."
The answer made your stomach tighten. But then he leaned forward, his voice dropping an octave.
"But I know they're worried."
"What do you mean?"
"People make mistakes when pressure increases," Toto said, and the look in his eyes was deeply unsettling. "They know we're closing in. They know we're checking every digital footprint. They'll panic."
Somewhere in this very paddock, maybe just walking past you, maybe standing beside you in the garage, maybe drinking coffee just ten meters away, was the person who had messed with your car.
And Toto wasn't going to stop until he found them.
ynnation
liked by user63, and 43,239 others
ynnation YN LN and Toto Wolff spotted havinga warm conversation inside the Mercedes building.
You don't need a leaked audio file to know what's being said behind closed doors. Toto's making it explicitly clear that he protects his drivers.
The rest of Thursday passed in a tense, exhausting blur.
There were sponsor meetings where you had to fake a smile, techincal briefings where you tried to focus on data, and media session where you spent twenty minutes dodging questions you couldn't answer.
Everywhere you walked, it felt like people were watching each other. Not watching you, watching each other. The automatic trust that usually held a garage together was completely gone.
By 9 PM, the paddock had emptied out.
You were walking back from the physical therapist's cabin, pulling a jacket tightly around yourself against the cool desert night air. As you passed the main Mercedes building, you noticed the lights were still blazing in the primary conference room.
Through the glass wall, you saw them. Toto. The head of team security. Two senior engineers. A woman from the legal department.
On the main projector screen, a new presentation was displayed. It wasn't the confusing code from this morning. It was a list of names.
You slowed your prace, staring for just a second too long, before pulling your eyes away and walking out into the night.
Five minutes later, your pgone buzzed in your pocket. It was Luca.
You answer immediately. "Hello?"
"We found something."
Your footsteps froze. "What kind of something, Luca?"
"We found digital footprint. A login from an unauthorized device during the lockout period in Japan."
Your pulse spiked, hammering against your ribs. "Who was it?"
"I can't say anything else over the phone," Luca whispered. In the background, you could hear loud, hurried voices. Door slamming. The entire energy on his end was chaotic and electric.
"I shouldn't even have called you, but..."
"Luca, please. What does it mean?"
"It means," Luca said, his voice dropping to a sharp whisper, "that Toto cancelled every single one of his meetings for tomorrow morning."
You stood still under the bright paddock lights. Toto Wolff did not cancel meetings. Not with major sponsors, not with the FIA, not with the media. Nothing took priority over the schedule.
Unless something mattered more.
"We're close, YN. Be ready," Luca said quietly.
The line went dead.
You lowered the phone, staring at the blank screen. You looked back toward the Mercedes building. The conference room lights were still burning bright, but now, figures were moving rapidly inside.
And somewhere, close by, someone had just run out of time.
You were sitting in the back of the garage, fully suited up in your fireproof base layers, staring at the telemetry data from Thursday's practice simulation.
"YN," Luca called out, snapping his fingers gently to get your attention. "Let's focus, alright? Look at Turn 4. We're losing a tenth on entry because you're catching the curb too hard. Are you happy with the brakes?"
"Yeah," you said, your voice a little scratchy. "Brakes feel... fine."
The word brakes made Luca pause. He gave you a sympathetic look, softening his posture.
"The car is safe today, champ. We've personally verified the lines and the software patches three times. I check them myself."
"I trust you, Luca," you said. And you did. You trusted the mechanics. You trusted the engineers.
But you didn't know who else was walking around with a Mercedes security pass.
Suddenly, Toto stepped out. His face was entire unreadable. Behind him walked the head of team security and two men you hadn't seen before. They didn't look like F1 people. They looked like investigators.
Toto didn't look at the mechanics. He didn't look at the cars. He didn't look at you. He walked straight down the center of the garage and tapped a junior IT engineer on the shoulder.
"Alistair," Toto said. His voice wasn't lout, but in the quiet garage, it carried. "Step into the office, please."
The young engineerâa guy no older than twenty-six, who usually helped set up trackside serversâturned completely pale.
"Sir?" Alistair stammered. "FP1 starts in forty-five minutes, I need to finish the tire sensor calibration-"
"Now," Toto interrupted.
The entire garage went silent. The sound of air guns stopped. The mechanics putting tires into thermal blankets froze. Alistair slowly stood up, his knees visibly shaking, and followed Toto and the security detail into the back office.
f1 â
liked by user58 and 4,239 others
f1 â A bittersweet FP1 for Mercedes. While rookie sensation YN LN managed an impressive P6 on track, a sudden wave of tension swept through the garage as a prominent IT workstation was reportedly cleared out by security during the live session.
An official statement from team principal Toto Wolff is expected imminently.
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user64 muscle memory carried her thru that session because her brain is deffo trying to process the madness. props to yn !!!
user79 wait did they find the guy while she was driving??? is that why the desk is empty???
user3 the silence in their garage right now must be deafening. lets hope we get reall answers soon! this is getting scary
FP1 was a disaster for your focus, but somehow, muscle memory pulled you through. You went P6. When you climbed out of the cockpit, pulling your helmet off, the tension in the garage had morphed from anxiety into pure shock.
Alistair's desk was empty. His laptop was gone.
Luca met you at your car, throwing a cooling towel over your shoulders. His face was flushed, a mix of adrenaline and disbelief.
"Was it him?" you whispered under the roar of the pit lane. "Alistair?"
"No," Luca whispered back, guiding you quickly toward the hospitality building, away from the hovering cameras. "Not Alistair. He didn't do it."
You frowned, confused. "Then why did security take him?"
"Because his login credentials were the one used to wipe the Japan logs," Luca explained. "But Alistair was at a team dinner in Tokyo when it happened. He has an alibi. Someone cloned his security badge and stole his encryption key."
Your breath hitched. "So... The guy could be here."
"It means whoever did this knows our cybersecurity protocols perfectly," Luca said. "They set Alistair up. They expected us to find his name, fire him, and close the case."
Before you could reply, your PR manager intercepted you in the lounge. He looked stressed, his phone ringing continuously in his hand.
"YN, change into your team polo quickly. We have an emergency press briefing in ten."
"About the car?" you asked.
"About everything," he said grimly. "The media knows an employee was questioned. Toto's going to address it before rumors completely derail the weekend. You need to stand by him."
The media center was packed to the gills. Photographers were practically climbing over each other to get a shot of you and Toto sitting at the desk.
Toto cleared his throat, leaning into the microphone.
"Good afternoon," Toto began, his tone sharp and commanding. "I'll make a brief statement regarding the rumors circulating the paddock, and then YN will take a few questions regarding FP1. We will not be taking questions regarding legal matters."
He paused, letting the weight of his presence settle over the room.
"An internal security breach occured involving our data logging systems. Today, we isolated the point of entry. We are working fully with local authorities and the FIA. Mercedes has zero tolerance for any actions that compromise the safety of our drivers and our sporting integrity. The investigation is no longer internal. It's now a criminal matter."
A collective gasp went through the room. Criminal matter. He said it out loud.
A reporter immediately shouted out, "Toto! Is the suspect still in the paddock?"
Toto leaned closer to the mic. "They are."
The room erupted into a frenzy of shouted questions, but Toto simply stood up, placing a hand on your shoulder. "Thank you. YN will now answer questions about FP1."
You sat there, staring out at the sea of frantic journalists. Your heart was pounding against your ribs.
They were still here. In the paddock. Walking among the crowds. Watching you right now.
As the first reporter began asking you about your tire degradation on the soft compounds, your eyes drifted to the back of the press room. Standing near the exit, wearing a black polo shirt, a man with a media credential lanyard was watching you.
He wasn't holding a camera. He wasn't taking notes.
When you caught his eyes, he didn't look away. He just gave you a small, chilling smile, turned around, and melted back into the crowd.
f1 â
liked by lewishamilton, lando, and 5,329,126 others
f1 â "It is now a criminal matter." Mercedes Team Principal Toto Wolff confirms that local authorities and FIA are investigating a major security breach and vehicle tampering within the team. Wolff also states the suspect is believed to still be in the paddock. #YNLN
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user62 look at yn's face the whole time she barely looked at the cameras. protect our yn :(
user40 can we talk abt how someone literally cloned an IT guy's credentials to frame him???
user13 this is insane. ive been watching f1 for a long time and ive never seen a press conference like this
user84 the fact that the suspect could literally be anyone bro
sectorpurple
liked by user9 and 82,438 others
sectorpurple A Friday morning unlike any other in F1 history. Here is how the Mercedes drama unfolded today in Bahrain. Who do you think is behind the sabotage?
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user9 the fact that toto canceled every single sponsor meeting tells you everything. you don't lose that much corporate money unless you have found a massive lead
user62 poor alistair. imagine turning up to work and suddenly youre surrounded by guards because someone stole ur identity to crash a car
user10 props to yn herself. i genuinely dont know how she even got into the car for fp1. the mental strength required to pull even p6 under this stress is legendary. can't wait for fp2
user53 this has to be an inside job! someone who knows the mercedes firewall inside out!
have you seen the tiktok trend of the girlfriends telling their boyfriend they found their bestie on hinge/tinder. think of that with garrett graham, his reaction would be hilarious
OBSESSED WITH THIS!!!!!!
trouble
summary - youâre going to send garrett to an early grave with some of these tiktok pranks
pairing - garrett graham x girlfriend!reader
word count - 948
You slumped down on the sofa next to Dean.
Garrett was on the other side of the sofa, doing whatever guys did on their phones.
You had set up this prank with Dean, to play on your boyfriend, after having seen it on your TikTok a couple of times.
âDude, you have to see this.â You said to Dean, sitting shoulder to shoulder with him as you pretended to show him the fake Allie profile youâd set up on Hinge. Yes youâd really gone to lengths trying to perfect this prank.
âWhat?â Dean asked, looking up from his own phone at yours.
âAllieâs on Hinge.â
âHuh?â
âAllie. I found her on Hinge.â
âLike the dating app?â Dean pretended to look confused as he put down his phone to look at yours.
You subtly looked at Garrett from across the room, who you could tell was actively listening but still paying close attention to his phone.
âYeah, look.â You fully handed Dean your phone.
âThe fuck?â Dean spluttered. âI literally took this photo of her.â
âThatâs seriously what youâre focusing on right now?â You gaped.
âBut lookâŠâ
âYes, Iâve seen, Dean.â
âWhat are you two freaking out about?â Garrett piped up.
He was peering over his phone at you two like he was absolutely done with whatever nonsense was ensuing. He had told you multiple times about the day he regretted introducing you to Dean.
âMy girlfriend has Hinge, G!â
âOh.â His brows furrowed and you wondered whether he had already sussed out the situation. âLetâs see.â
You tried to hold back a laugh as your boyfriend walked over to your side of the sofa, sandwiching you between him and Dean as he sat next to you.
Garrett looked over your shoulder to your phone in Deanâs hand.
Dean gave you the side eye as Garrett intensely looked at the fake Allie profile. Both of you wanted to laugh so bad, but you were in too deep to stop the prank now.
âGod.â Garrett tutted. âWhy would she do that?â
âFuck if I know.â Dean answered.
He scrolled down Allieâs profile, past the pictures and prompts. It was made to look like sheâd really taken building a profile seriously.
Then Garrett pulled away from you really fast.
You pursed your lips to keep you from laughing as Dean looked at his best friend with teasing eyes.
âHold the fuck up a minute.â
âWhat?â Dean played.
âWhoâs Hinge are we looking at this on?â Garrett asked.
Hook, line and sinker.
The crux of the prank.
âI dunno. Y/N passed me her phone.â Dean shrugged.
Your chin was cupped by Garrettâs hand. He twisted your face so you were looking at him, his eyes wild and eyebrows raised.
âYes?â You teased.
Garrett just raised his eyebrows further.
âWhy do you have Hinge?â He looked at you, assessing every micro-movement.
Dean returned your phone to your lap and scooted an inch away from you, clearly very disturbed by whatever was happening between you and Garrett.
âI donât know.â You shrugged.
âYou donât know?â Garrett challenged, dropping his hand from your chin now that he knew he had your attention.
âShe doesnât know.â Dean chimed in, causing Garrett to momentarily shoot dagger eyes at him.
âShut up Dean.â
Garrett didnât look angry or upset.
He just genuinely looked confused at what was going on - like he was missing a central piece of information.
âYou download it by accident?â He asked.
âMaybe.â You shrugged again.
You chanced a look at Dean, who was way too focused on his lap to be acting normal. He clearly felt your gaze on him because the next minute he was trying to hold back a grin, causing you to bite the inside of your cheek to do the same.
âYou know what I think?â Garrett asked, and you turned back to look at him.
âHm?â
âI think youâre both idiots.â
You broke by letting out a burst of laughter, whilst Dean already began to protest.
âUh - What? So you donât think your girlfriendâs cheating?â
Garrett looked at Dean like heâd just said the most ridiculous thing ever.
âNo.â He said matter of factly. No hesitation.
The simple word made your laughter dry up.
You saw the sparkle come back to life in his eyes when he looked at you. He was clearly beginning to understand the lack of seriousness in this situation.
Your hand moved to link through his and you squeezed tight for reassurance.
âBut seriously, why do you have Hinge?â
âIt was a TikTok prank, Iâm sorry.â You said.
âSo the joke was that I had to notice you had Hinge, not that Allie was cheating on Dean?â
âWoah - no-oneâs cheating on anyone, buddy. Itâs a fake profile. My girlfriend is very much obsessed with me.â
âYou two are exhausting.â
âYou love us really.â Dean said.
Your boyfriend sighed and fell back flat on the sofa, covering his eyes with his hands.
You decided to lay down with him - or, on top of him - before he could escape. His hand automatically moved down to cup against your back, despite the complaint heâd made moments before.
âSee?â Dean tried.
âDonât start.â
âBut thatâs love. Right there.â
âDean.â
âIâm just sayingâŠâ
âDean!â
âHow am I the one in trouble? Your girlfriendâs the one with a fake Hinge profile.â
âAnd she will be in trouble later.â You buried yourself into the crux of Garrettâs neck as he spoke, trying to hide the rising blush.
âOkay, at some point thereâs too much love, GâŠâ Dean gagged. Deciding there was only so much affection he could witness in one day, Dean got up and left, leaving you and Garrett alone.
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. Youâre 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 youâre moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk â thank god for your motherâs paranoia â and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
âHello?â Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. âCan anyone hear me?â
A groan from the driverâs side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driverâs 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.
âSir? Sir, can you hear me?â
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. âIâwhat happened? Whereâs-â His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. âBeau! BEAU!â
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. âSir, please donât move. You might be injured-â
âMy son!â He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. âMy son is in the passenger seat!â
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and thatâs 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 whatâs left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
Thereâs so much blood.
âOh god,â you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: âIâm calling 911 right now!â
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
â911, whatâs your emergency?â
âMotor 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-â Youâre moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you canât yet touch. âPossible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.â
âMaâam, are you a medical professional?â
âSecond-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.â
âParamedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?â
âYes.â 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.
âSir, I need you to sit down-â
âThatâs my son.â His voice breaks. âPlease, you have to help him. Please.â
âI will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?â
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 â Beau, his father called him â is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
âOkay,â you mutter to yourself. âOkay, think. C-spine precautions. Donât move him unless heâs in immediate danger.â
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 isnât 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 Beauâs neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
âTalk to me,â you call to the father. âWhatâs his name? Full name?â
âBeau. Beau Maxwell.â The manâs voice is thin with shock. âHeâs twenty-two. Heâs healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. Heâsâgod, heâs the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-â
âOkay, Mr. Maxwell, thatâs good, thatâs helpful.â Youâre assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. âI need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.â
âA deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-â His voice cracks again. âI felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldnât stop it.â
Youâre barely listening now, all your attention on Beauâs arm. Thereâs a shard of glass â thick, wickedly sharp â embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
âFuck,â you breathe. âDispatch, update â patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. Iâm applying a tourniquet now.â
Your coat. Youâre 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 â 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.
Youâre 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 Beauâs chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, itâs 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 itâs hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
âPlease,â Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. âPlease tell me heâs going to be okay.â
You donât answer. You canât. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beauâs face for the first time.
Even like this â pale, covered in blood, unconscious â heâs striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. Thereâs 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 â cold and blood-stained â brushing against his cheek.
âHey,â you whisper. âBeau. I know you canât hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.â
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.
âSix minutes out,â 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.
âMr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?â
âNo. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmotherâs birthday.â The man is crying now, quietly. âI told him Iâd drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-â
âThis wasnât your fault,â you say firmly. âThe deer, the ice â this wasnât your fault.â
You check Beauâs pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries â the list spirals in your mind.
âHis pupils,â Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. âShouldnât you check his pupils?â
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what youâll 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 Beauâs eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his fatherâs, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
âEqual and reactive,â you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. âSluggish but responsive.â
âParamedics are three minutes out,â 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 â still holding. Check his breathing â still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize youâre talking to him, a steady stream of words youâll never remember later.
âTheyâre almost here. Youâre doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.â
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.
âWeâve got him, maâam. Weâve got him.â
But you donât move. Not until one of them â a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair â gently touches your shoulder.
âYou did good,â she says. âReally good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.â
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
âWhat do we have?â the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. âTwenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation â Iâve 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.â
The paramedicâs eyebrows raise slightly. âYou a doctor?â
âMed student. Second year.â
âWell, med student, you probably saved his life.â Sheâs 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.
âWeâre taking him to Mass General,â one of the paramedics calls out. âTrauma one.â
âIâm riding with him,â Mr. Maxwell says, but heâs swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see heâs not as okay as he first appeared.
âSir, you need to be evaluated too,â another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. âWeâll take you both.â
âBut-â
âWeâve got him, sir. Weâve got your son.â
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 itâs 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 â when did the police arrive? â asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwellâs 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.
âMiss?â The officer touches your shoulder. âMiss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?â
âIâm fine,â you hear yourself say. âIâm fine.â
But youâre not fine. Youâre shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beauâs 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. Heâs still asking questions â your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beauâs chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
âYouâre a hero, you know,â the officer says after heâs finished taking your statement. âThat young man â you probably saved his life.â
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasnât enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. Youâre fine. Everything is fine.
Except itâs not.
As you drive home, your hands wonât stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beauâs face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwellâs broken voice. Thatâs 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 youâve 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 someoneâs 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 Universityâs 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 â 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.
âPlease,â you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. âPlease let him be okay.â
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass Generalâs trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback youâve 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. Itâs barely seven in the morning, but heâs already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last nightâs game on the bench press across the room.
âIâm just saying,â Tucker calls over, âif youâd passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-â
âIf Iâd passed to you, you wouldâve whiffed it like you did in the second,â Logan fires back.
âFuck off, I was screened-â
âYou were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-â
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 â probably his mom checking if heâs coming home this weekend â but he ignores it.
Heâs pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means itâs someone from his favorites list.
âDude, your phone,â Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his momâs contact photo. Instead, itâs Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
âThatâs weird,â Dean mutters, answering. âCoach? Everything okay?â
Thereâs a pause. Too long. Deanâs stomach does something uncomfortable.
âDi Laurentis.â Coach Jensenâs voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like heâs handling glass. âWhere are you right now?â
âWeight room. With the guys. Whatâs going on?â
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background â voices, maybe a TV.
âIs Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?â
âYeah, theyâre all here. Coach, what-â
âI need you to sit down, son.â
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesnât sit down.
âWhat happened?â
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. âI 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.â
Deanâs hand tightens on the phone. âOkay?â
âItâs about Beau Maxwell.â
The world tilts slightly. âWhat about him?â
âThere was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, heâs-â Coach Jensenâs voice catches. âHeâs 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 dadâs okay, but Beau-â
Dean doesnât hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like itâs coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words donât make sense. They canât 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.
âDean?â Garrettâs hand is on his shoulder. âDean, whatâs wrong?â
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 heâs spinning, he canât tell.
âShit, heâs going down-â Thatâs 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.
âItâs Beau.â Tuckerâs voice sounds hollow. âHeâsâthere was a car accident. Heâs in critical condition.â
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrettâs hand tightens on Deanâs shoulder. Logan makes a sound like heâs been punched.
Dean still canât breathe right. Canât think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, heâs not going there.
âWe need to go,â Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. âWe need to go to the hospital.â
âDean, maybe we should-â Garrett starts.
âNow.â Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. âWeâre going now.â
âOkay,â Logan says quickly. âOkay, yeah. My carâs out front. Letâs go.â
Dean doesnât remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesnât remember climbing into Loganâs beat-up pickup. One minute heâs in the weight room, and the next heâs 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. âYeah, Wellsy, itâsâyeah, itâs really bad. Weâre going to Mass General now. Can youâyeah. Thanks, baby.â
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.
Theyâre brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.Â
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 Deanâs coffee order and brings him one without being asked when heâs had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesnât know what heâll do if-
No. Stop. Donât think it.
âWeâre here,â 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.
âTrauma wing,â Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. âCoach sent me directions. This way.â
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Deanâs 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 didnât he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beauâs mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beauâs dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beauâs grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beauâs 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 momlâs eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
âDean,â she chokes out, and then sheâs standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
Sheâs shaking. Or maybe heâs shaking. He canât tell anymore.
âIâm so sorry,â sheâs saying into his shoulder. âIâm so sorry, honey, I know you twoâI know-â
Thatâs what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beauâs mom wasnât holding him up, heâd be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
âIâve got you,â she whispers, even though sheâs the one who should be comforted, even though itâs her son in critical condition. âIâve got you, sweetheart.â
Dean can feel his teammates behind him â Loganâs hand on his back, Garrettâs voice saying something he canât 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.
âWhat happened?â He manages to gasp out. âCoach saidâbut he didnâtâwhat happened?â
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. âYou should tell them.â
Beauâs dad turns from the window. He looks like heâs aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
âWe were driving back from dinner,â he says, his voice rough. âIn the city. For my motherâs birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were justâwe were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.â
He stops, his jaw working. Beauâs grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
âThere was a deer,â Beauâs dad continues. âIt came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the roadâthere was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldnâtâI tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driverâs side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.â
Deanâs stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
âI woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-â Beauâs father takes a moment to gather himself. âHe wasnât moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. Sheâd seen the crash and stopped.â
âShe called 911,â Beauâs mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husbandâs. âShe was a medical student. Sheâgod, 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.â
âWhat are his injuries?â Garrett asks quietly. Heâs moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beauâs dad closes his eyes. âCervical 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.â
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
âHe also had a penetrating chest wound,â Beauâs dqd continues. âA tree branch went through the windshield and-â He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. âShe knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.â
âAnd his arm,â Beauâs mom adds, wiping her eyes. âSevere laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.â
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
âIs he going to be okay?â Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
âTheyâve been in surgery for four hours,â Beauâs mom says. âWe donât know yet. They said-â Her voice wavers. âThey 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.â
âNo.â The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesnât realize heâs the one who said it until everyone looks at him. âNo, thatâs notâBeauâs going to be fine. He has to be fine. Heâs-â
He canât finish the sentence. Canât articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Canât.
âWeâre praying, honey,â Beauâs mom says softly. âThatâs all we can do right now.â
Dean wants to scream that prayer isnât 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. Beauâs 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.
âHeâs going to make it,â Logan says quietly. âYou know Beau. Stubborn as hell. Heâs not going anywhere.â
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But heâs seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isnât enough.
âDid you know,â Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, âthat his first word was âballâ? He told me that freshman year. Not âmamaâ or âdada.â âBall.â His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew heâd be an athlete before he could walk.â
âYeah?â Garrettâs voice is soft, encouraging.
âAnd he-â Deanâs throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. âHe 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.â
âThat sounds like Beau,â Logan says.
âHeâs going to do it, too,â Dean insists, looking up. âHeâs going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because thatâs what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.â
âDean-â Garrett starts.
âI mean it.â Deanâs voice cracks. âThatâs who he is. So he canâtâhe has to-â
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.
Beauâs 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.
âMr. and Mrs. Maxwell,â the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
âHow is he?â Beauâs mom asks in barely a whisper. âHowâs my son?â
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
âThe surgery was successful,â the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. âWeâve 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-â
He doesnât finish the sentence. He doesnât have to.
âBut heâs alive?â Beauâs dad asks. âHeâs going to live?â
âHeâs alive,â the surgeon confirms. âHeâs in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. Thereâs 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.â
âCan we see him?â Beauâs mom asks.
âHeâs being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once heâs settled, but heâll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.â
âHis spine,â Beauâs dad says. âWill heâis there paralysis?â
The surgeonâs expression is carefully neutral. âWe wonât know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasnât severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.â
âThe girl,â Beauâs mom says. âThe medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.â
The surgeon shakes his head. âThe paramedics didnât get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.â
âWe have to find her,â Beauâs mom says, turning to her husband. âWe have to-â
âWe will,â Beauâs dad promises. âWe will.â
The surgeon continues, âI need to be clear with you. Your sonâs injuries were catastrophic. The fact that heâs 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.â
âBut heâs alive,â Beauâs mom repeats, like itâs a prayer. âHeâs alive.â
âHeâs alive,â the surgeon confirms. âYou should be very proud of him. Heâs a fighter.â
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first â no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical â but thereâs 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, itâs different. Still scared, still shaken, but thereâs something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
âHe made it,â Logan says, his own voice thick. âHoly shit, he actually made it.â
âSeventy-two hours,â Tucker says. âThatâs what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.â
âHe will,â Garrett says firmly. âYou heard the doc. Beauâs a fighter.â
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesnât care.
âI need to see him,â he says. âI need to see him.â
âFamily only in the ICU, probably,â Logan says gently. âAt least at first.â
âI donât care. I need-â Deanâs voice breaks again. âI need to see him.â
Beauâs mom appears in front of him, crouching down so theyâre at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
âAs soon as they let us bring visitors, youâll be the first,â she promises. âI swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.â
âAnything.â
âI need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up â and he will wake up â heâs going to need you strong. Can you do that?â
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 sheâs asking so little when sheâs going through so much.
âOkay,â he whispers. âOkay, but youâll call me? The second anything changes?â
âThe absolute second,â she promises. âYouâre family, Dean. You know that.â
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beauâs mom into another hug, holding on tight.
âThank you,â he says. âFor calling me. For letting me know.â
âOh honey,â she says, pulling back to look at him. âThere was never a question. Youâre his brother.â
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. Deanâs 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.
Deanâs phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasnât talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesnât answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled âBest Bro.â Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Deanâs 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.
âHeâs going to be okay,â Dean whispers to the photo. âYouâre going to be okay.â
He has to believe it. Because the alternative â a world without Beauâs terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into â is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. Theyâve 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 Iâm 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 isnât watching. Heâs thinking about a girl heâs never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brotherâs life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beauâs neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
âWe have to find her,â he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. âWho?â
âThe girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didnât even leave her name.â
âDude, Boston has like five medical schools,â Logan points out. âThatâs thousands of students.â
âI donât care,â Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. âWeâll check every single one if we have to. But weâre going to find her.â
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, thereâs sound â a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation â something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell â antiseptic, that particular hospital smell thatâs somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
â-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. Weâre going to start decreasing the sedation now-â
Thatâs a voice he doesnât recognize. Professional. Clinical.
âHow long until he wakes up?â That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
âIt varies. Could be a few hours. His bodyâs been through significant trauma, so weâre taking it slow.â
Beau wants to tell them heâs right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth wonât 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 â quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
â-told you, you canât give him solid food yet-â Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
âIâm not giving it to him. Iâm just ⊠having it ready. For when he can.â Dean. Thatâs definitely Dean.
âYou brought Dunkinâ Donuts to a hospital ICU?â
âMunchkins. Theyâre small. It doesnât count.â
Despite everything â the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized â Beau almost smiles.
âBeau?â A different voice. Dad. âBeau, can you hear me?â
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
âOh my god.â Momâs voice cracks. âOh my god, heâsâget the nurse. Get the nurse!â
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.
âBeau?â Momâs face appears above him, and sheâs crying. âOh, baby. Youâre awake. Youâre really awake.â
âHey, Mom.â His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
âDonât try to move, sweetheart. Your neckâthey had to stabilize your neck. Youâre in a brace.â
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
âEasy, easy.â Thatâs a new voice â a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. âWelcome back, Mr. Maxwell. Iâm Theresa. Can you tell me your name?â
âBeau Maxwell.â It hurts to talk, but he manages.
âGood. Do you know where you are?â
âHospital.â Duh.
âDo you remember what happened?â
Beau tries to think. His memory is ⊠foggy. Disjointed. âCar. We were in a car. Dad was driving.â He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. âDad. You okay?â
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. âIâm fine, son. Iâm fine. Youâre the one who-â His voice breaks. âYou scared the hell out of us.â
âLanguage,â Mom chides, but sheâs smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions â what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, âLooking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.â
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 Dunkinâ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
âYou look like shit,â Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. âSays the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.â
âHow long was I out?â
âTwo and a half days,â Mom says, stroking his hand gently. âThey had you heavily sedated while you healed.â
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. âWhat ⊠what are my injuries?â
His parents exchange a look.
âSon,â Dad starts, âyou hadâit was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-â
âAÂ branch?â
âMissed your heart by less than two inches,â Mom says quietly. âAnd your armâthere was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.â
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that heâs alive and apparently mostly functional. âHow am I not dead?â
âBecause someone saved you,â Dad says. âThere 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.â
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but thereâs nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
âThe surgeon said if she hadnât stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-â Mom canât finish the sentence.
âWeâve been trying to find her,â Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. âTo thank her. But she didnât leave her name, and the hospital doesnât have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.â
âI want to thank her too,â Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
âThe police have her contact information from the accident report,â Dad says. âWeâre working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.â
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.
âThe fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,â the doctor says. âBut youâre not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.â
âSo Iâm stuck in this neck brace?â
âFor at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.â
Eight weeks. Beauâs season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
âHey.â Deanâs hand lands on his shoulder. âOne step at a time, yeah? Youâre alive. Thatâs what matters.â
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 arenât allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear âfor morale.â
Dean never leaves. Heâs a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses arenât looking, even though Beau still canât eat solid food.
âDude, stop,â Beau finally says. âYouâre going to get kicked out.â
âWorth it,â Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
Itâs late afternoon on the third day post-accident â technically only a few hours since Beau woke up â when thereâs a knock on the door.
âIf thatâs another neurologist, I swear to god-â Beau starts.
âLanguage,â Mom says automatically, but sheâs already turning toward the door. âCome in!â
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
Sheâs around Beauâs 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.
âIâm sorry,â she says quickly. âI know you probably werenât expecting visitors, but Iâthe reception desk said thatâI 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-â Sheâs rambling, talking faster with each word. âI can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-â
âOh my god.â Dad is on his feet. âYouâre her. Youâre the medical student.â
She nods, looking even more uncertain. âIâmâyes. I was the one whoâI saw the accident, and I-â
She doesnât get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
âThank you,â he says, his voice thick. âThank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-â
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. âIâyouâre welcome. I just did what anyone would-â
âNo.â Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. âNo, what you did â the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadnât stabilized his neck, he wouldnât have made it. You saved our boy.â
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman â the medical student who saved him â looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
âIâm just glad heâs okay,â you manage. âIâve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldnât find anything, and I was worried-â
âHeâs going to be okay,â Mom assures you, finally releasing you. âThanks to you.â
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
âI donât know who you are yet,â Dean says, âbut you saved my brotherâs life, so youâre stuck with me now. Fair warning, Iâm a hugger.â
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. âI can tell.â
âWhatâs your name?â Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
âY/N Y/L/N,â you say. âIâm a second-year at Harvard Med.â
âY/N,â Dad repeats. âThatâs a beautiful name.â
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.
Youâre beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, youâre the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. Thereâs 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.
âHi,â you say softly, moving to his bedside. âHow are you feeling?â
âLike I got hit by a tree,â Beau rasps, then immediately winces. âSorry. That wasâIâm apparently still working on the whole talking thing.â
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. âThe tree definitely won that round. But Iâm so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-â You pause, taking a shaky breath. âI wasnât sure youâd make it. Your injuries were severe.â
âApparently youâre the reason I did make it,â Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. âThank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.â
âOf course.â You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. âI couldnât just drive past.â
âMost people would have,â Dean interjects. Heâs back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. âMost people wouldâve called 911 and kept going.â
âI had training,â you say simply. âAnd someone needed help. It wasnâtâI mean, I just did what needed to be done.â
âYou did a lot more than that,â Dad says. âThe 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.â
You duck your head, embarrassed. âI had an emergency kit in my car. My momâs paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.â
âDid you get it back?â Beau asks. âYour coat?â
âOh.â You blink at him. âNo, IâI assume they had to cut it off you. Itâs fine, though. It was just a coat.â
âJust a coat that saved my life,â Beau says. âAlong with you. So, not really just a coat.â
You smile at him, and Beauâs heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
âHow are you really feeling?â You ask. âPain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?â
âDid you just go into doctor mode?â Dean asks, amused.
âSorry.â You look sheepish. âOccupational hazard. Iâve been worried aboutâI mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared Iâd made the wrong call at the scene-â
âYou made exactly the right call,â Mom assures you. âEvery doctor weâve talked to has said so.â
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression â itâs the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
âHey,â he says, waiting until you look at him. âIâm alive. I can move everything. The doctors say Iâm going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.â
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau canât name but can definitely feel.
âIâm really glad youâre okay,â you finally say, your voice soft.
âMe too,â Beau replies. âThough Iâm pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because thereâs no way someone as beautiful as you is real.â
Thereâs a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. âOh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?â
âItâs not a pickup line if itâs true,â Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
Youâre blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. âI think your brain is working just fine,â you manage.
âThatâs what I said!â Dean crows. âThe boyâs got game even half-dead.â
âDean,â Mom says warningly, but sheâs smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. âI should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to checkâto make sure you were okay.â
âWait,â 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. âAre you okay? Should I get a nurse?â
âNo, Iâm fine. I just-â Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. âCan I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.â
Dean makes a noise thatâs probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
Youâre definitely blushing now, but youâre smiling too. âSure. Thatâyeah. Let me write it down.â
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. âText me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how youâre doing.â
âI will,â 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. âYou know, I have to tell you something.â
âYeah?â
âIâm a Harvard fan,â you say, and thereâs a hint of mischief in your eyes now. âWhich means Iâm technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.â
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. âYou save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?â
âNot a threat,â you say cheerfully. âA promise. Weâre coming for that championship.â
âI love her,â Dean announces. âBeau, I love her. Can we keep her?â
âIâm working on it,â Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
âOkay, I really do need to go,â you say, backing toward the door. âBut it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isnât fun if youâre not playing.â
âYes maâam,â 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.
âDude,â Dean says.
âNot now,â Beau replies.
âYou just flirted with your guardian angel.â
âDean-â
âIn the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.â
âI was perfectly respectful-â
âYou told her she was too beautiful to be real!â Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. âYour game is unreal, man. Iâm actually impressed.â
âYou asked for her number,â Mom says, and she sounds amused too. âThat was certainly ⊠forward of you, sweetheart.â
âI need to thank her properly,â Beau says defensively. âItâs only right.â
âUh-huh,â Dean says. âIs that what weâre calling it?â
âSheâs a Harvard fan,â Beau continues, ignoring him. âWhich means sheâs smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.â
âSomeone being you?â Dad asks, his lips twitching.
âI mean, I feel like I owe her that much.â
Dean is full-on cackling now. âYouâre going to date the girl who saved your life. Thatâs some romance novel shit right there.â
âIâm notâwe just met. Iâm just going to text her. To say thank you.â
âSure,â Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. âJust thank you. Nothing else.â
âDean, I swear-â
âBoys,â Mom interrupts, but sheâs smiling. âBeau needs to rest.â
âIâm fine,â Beau insists, even though heâs exhausted just from the conversation.
âYou nearly died three days ago,â Mom says firmly. âYou need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.â
âYes, Mrs. Maxwell,â Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, itâs just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins heâs been carrying around.
âShe was amazing,â Beau says quietly. âNot justâI mean, yeah, sheâs gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.â
âI know,â Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. âI know, man. We owe her everything.â
âI was so close,â Beau continues. His throat is tight. âDad said my neck ⊠one more movement and that wouldâve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.â
âNot random,â Dean says. âRight place, right time. Some people would call that fate.â
âYou believe in fate?â
âI believe in you,â Dean says simply. âAnd I believe youâre here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.â
Beau thinks about you â 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.
âI think I was saved by an angel,â he says.
âProbably,â Dean agrees.
âAnd I think Iâm in love.â
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. âWhat?â
âIâm in love,â Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But thereâs something â a pull, a connection, something he canât explain.
âBeau, buddy, I say this with love â youâre high as hell on pain meds right now.â
âIâm serious.â
âYou just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.â
âI know what I feel.â
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. âWell, shit. You really mean it.â
âI really mean it.â
âYouâre going to marry the girl who saved your life, arenât you?â
âIf sheâll have me,â Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but heâs smiling. âThis is either the most romantic thing Iâve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. Iâm not sure which.â
âMaybe both,â Beau admits. âBut I donât care. Iâm going to thank her properly. And then Iâm going to get to know her. And then-â
âThen youâre going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?â
âSomething like that.â
âSheâs a Harvard fan,â Dean points out. âYou know thatâs going to be a problem.â
âIâll convert her.â
âShe literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.â
âSheâs competitive. I like that.â
Dean laughs, shaking his head. âYouâre insane. But okay. Iâm here for it. Team Beau and his angel.â
âHer name is Y/N.â
âThat doesnât have the same ring to it.â
Beau doesnât care. Heâs 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 heâs going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
âDean?â He says.
âYeah?â
âHelp me figure out what to text her.â
Dean grins. âNow weâre talking.â
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, theyâve 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 itâs 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.
âFive more, Maxwell,â his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. âYouâve got this.â
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldnât lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldnât walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldnât turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, heâs doing pull-ups.
âOne,â he grunts.
âGood. Keep that form.â
âTwo.â
âBreathe through it.â
âThree.â
âTwo more. Youâve got it.â
âFour.â His arms are shaking.
âLast one. Make it count.â
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 heâs grinning.
âHell yeah!â His PT claps him on the shoulder. âThatâs what Iâm talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if youâd ever play again. Look at you now.â
âSo I can play?â Beau asks hopefully.
âNice try. Thatâs a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically youâre progressing faster than anyone expected.â
Itâs 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:Â How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau:Â Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N:Â Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau:Â I did five pull-ups.
Y/N:Â FIVE? Beau, thatâs amazing! Iâm so proud of you!
Beau:Â Thanks. Couldnât have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N:Â Stop calling me that. Iâm just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau:Â A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N:Â Youâre impossible.
Beau:Â You love it.
Thereâs a pause.
Y/N:Â Maybe a little.
Beauâs 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 youâre studying, claiming heâs helping you prepare for exams when really heâs just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
Youâre funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that heâs in love with you.
The only problem? Youâre 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.
Heâs been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to âjust ask her out already, you coward.â
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 canât turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean:Â Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau:Â Whatâs wrong?
Dean:Â Just get here. Itâs important.
Beauâs heart kicks up. Dean doesnât do âemergencyâ 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 â he doesnât 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.
âSurprise!â Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. âWeâre throwing you a party.â
Beau stares. âYou said it was an emergency.â
âIt is an emergency. Youâve been back on campus for a week and we havenât properly celebrated your return from the dead.â
âI wasnât dead.â
âYou were close enough that it counts.â Dean starts hanging more streamers. âPartyâs tonight. Eight PM. Everyoneâs invited.â
âEveryone?â
âThe team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-â
âDean-â
âAnd Y/N.â
Beau freezes. âWhat?â
Deanâs grin turns shit-eating. âI invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. Sheâll be here around nine.â
âYou invitedâwithout asking me-â
âYouâve been texting her for months and havenât made a move. Iâm helping.â
âBy ambushing me?â
âBy creating the perfect opportunity.â Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. âCome on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again â itâs romantic.â
âItâs manipulative.â
âItâs efficient.â Dean throws an arm around Beauâs shoulders. âTrust me. This is going to be great.â
***
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 doesnât have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
âDude, relax,â Logan says, appearing at his elbow. âSheâll be here.â
âIâm relaxed.â
âYou look like youâre about to throw up.â
âThatâs just my face.â
âThatâs not your face. I know your face. This is your âIâm freaking outâ face.â
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. âIs he doing the thing where he stares at the door?â
âHeâs doing the thing,â Logan confirms.
âI hate both of you,â Beau mutters.
âYou love us,â Garrett says cheerfully. âAnd you love Y/N, which is why youâre doing the door-staring thing.â
âI donâtâweâre friends.â
âRight,â Logan says. âFriends who text every day.â
âFriends who have inside jokes,â Garrett adds.
âFriends who he calls his guardian angel-â
âOkay, yes, fine, I like her.â Beau takes a long pull from his beer. âHappy?â
âEcstatic,â Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. âAnd youâre going to tell her tonight.â
âIâm not-â
âYou 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?â
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
âWhat if she says no?â He asks quietly.
âThen she says no,â Dean says. âBut what if she says yes?â
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
Youâre wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
âSheâs here,â Logan whispers unnecessarily.
âI can see that,â 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.
âGo talk to her,â Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
âI am talking to her.â
âYouâre standing here like a statue. Go.â
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
âHey!â You say, and then youâre hugging him. Itâs brief, casual, but Beauâs heart still does something stupid in his chest. âI canât believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.â
âI can,â Beau says. âSubtlety isnât really his thing.â
âI brought you something.â You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. âI was going to give it to you later, but here.â
Beau takes it, curious. âYou didnât have to get me anything.â
âJust open it.â
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain â 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. âY/N-â
âI know itâs cheesy,â you say quickly. âBut 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-â
âHey.â Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. âThank you. Really. This isâitâs perfect.â
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, itâs just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Deanâs voice booms over the music. âEVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?â
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, whoâs standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
âOh no,â Beau mutters.
âOh no,â you echo, but youâre smiling.
âThree months ago,â Dean announces, âmy 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.â
The crowd is silent, watching.
âY/N Y/L/N,â Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. âStand up. Come on, donât be shy.â
You look mortified. âDean-â
âStand up!â
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
âThis woman,â Dean says, âstopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Couldâve driven past. Couldâve just called 911 and left. But she didnât. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beauâs neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadnât done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.â
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
âSo this party isnât just about Beau living, though thatâs obviously the main event,â Dean continues. âItâs 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 itâs the right thing to do.â
He raises his beer higher. âTo Y/N. Beauâs guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.â
âTO Y/N!â The crowd roars.
Youâre 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.
âI hate your best friend,â you mumble into his shirt.
âI know,â Beau says, grinning. âMe too.â
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
âI donât think this is medically advisable,â you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
âYouâre not on duty,â Dean says. âAnd weâre celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.â
âThatâs not-â
âShots! Shots! Shots!â Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. âWhen in Rome?â
âRome didnât have vodka.â
âRome wouldâve had vodka if theyâd survived a near-death experience.â
You laugh and grab a shot glass. âFine. But Iâm blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.â
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. âTo Beau!â He shouts.
âTo Beau!â Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, youâre 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.
âHaving fun?â He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. âThe most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.â
âDonât tell him that. His ego canât take it.â
âToo late!â Dean calls from across the room. âI heard! She loves me, Beau!â
âYouâre the worst!â Beau calls back.
âYou love me too!â
âDebatable!â
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
âCome on,â he says, taking your hand. âLetâs get some air.â
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.
âThis is nice,â you say, leaning against the railing. âQuieter.â
âYeah.â Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. âYou okay? Dean didnât overwhelm you too much?â
âAre you kidding? That toast was-â Your voice catches. âThat was one of the nicest things anyoneâs ever done for me.â
âYou saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.â
âI was just doing what anyone would do.â
âNo,â Beau says firmly. âYou werenât. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.â
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. âThe rest of your life, huh? Thatâs a long time.â
âNot long enough,â Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether itâs from the alcohol or your proximity, he canât tell. Probably both. âY/N, I-â
âYeah?â
âIâve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.â
You tilt your head, curious. âWhat is it?â
âI-â He stops. Starts again. âDo you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?â
âOf course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.â
âSee, thatâs the thing.â Beau takes a small step closer. âIâve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I donât care.â
âYou donât care about football?â You sound skeptical.
âI donât care that weâre rivals. I donât care that youâre rooting against my team. I donât care about any of it because-â He takes a breath. âBecause I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone whoâs supposed to be playing it cool.â
Your eyes widen slightly. âBeau-â
âI know weâve been friends,â he continues quickly. âAnd if thatâs all you want, Iâll take it. Iâll take whatever youâre 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 Iâve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.â
âReally?â Your voice is soft.
âReally.â He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. âYou 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 wasnât sure I could.â
âI always believed in you,â you whisper.
âI know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough â I felt it.â
Youâre staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. âI like you too,â you say. âI have for months. But I didnâtâyou were recovering, and I didnât want to take advantage-â
âTake advantage?â Beau laughs. âY/N, Iâve 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.â
âYou were on a lot of pain meds.â
âDoesnât make it less true.â
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. âSo what now?â
âNow,â Beau says, stepping even closer, âIâm going to ask you something.â
âOkay.â
âCan I kiss you?â
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile â that brilliant, beautiful smile that heâs dreamed about for months.
âYes,â you breathe. âGod, yes.â
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 heâs been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like youâre precious, which you are. Kisses you like heâs 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. âYES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!â
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
âYour friends are watching,â you mumble.
âDonât care,â Beau says, kissing you again.
âTheyâre cat-calling.â
âStill donât care.â
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.
âThis is really happening?â You ask. âWeâre really doing this?â
âIf you want to,â Beau says. âI mean, I know itâs complicated. The rivalry thing-â
âIs football,â you finish. âJust football. This is more important.â
âYeah?â
âYeah.â You smile. âBesides, itâll make beating you next season even sweeter.â
Beau laughs and kisses you again. âYouâre impossible.â
âYou love it,â you say, echoing your earlier text.
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of âKISS! KISS! KISS!â thatâs quickly spreading through the party.
âWe should probably go back in,â you say, not moving.
âProbably,â 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.
âCome on,â you say. âBefore your best friend has an aneurysm.â
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. âFINALLY! Do you know how hard itâs been watching you pine for four months?â
âGet off me,â Beau laughs, shoving him away.
âIâm the best wingman ever. Admit it.â
âYouâre the worst.â
âBut Iâm your worst,â Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. âWelcome to the family, Y/N. Youâre stuck with us now.â
âI can think of worse fates,â you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
âSo,â Logan says. âAre you guys like, official? Is this a thing?â
Beau looks at you. You look back.
âItâs a thing,â you say.
âItâs definitely a thing,â Beau confirms.
âWell fuck,â Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. âBecause Hannah bet me twenty bucks youâd get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.â
âMy pleasure,â 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 itâs just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
âTo second chances,â he says.
âTo guardian angels,â Tucker adds.
âTo love,â Hannah says, making everyone groan.
âTo football rivalries,â you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
âTo all of it,â Beau says, looking at you. âTo whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.â
You lean your head on his shoulder. âTo fate,â you say softly.
âTo fate,â 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 canât help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And heâs 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.
âCome on, Maxwell, one more set!â Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. âOr are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?â
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. âSheâs not trying to out-lift me. Sheâs doing cardio.â
âI can hear you both,â you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. âAnd I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.â
âOh, fighting words!â Dean sits up, grinning. âBeau, you gonna take that?â
âYes,â Beau says immediately. âHave you seen her deadlift? Itâs terrifying and hot.â
âItâs medical student grip strength,â you explain, not breaking stride. âYears of studying have given me callouses of steel.â
âAnd here I thought it was just natural perfection,â Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. âYou two are disgusting. Itâs been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.â
âNever,â 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 youâre 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.
Itâs been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that heâs no longer the most important person in Beauâs life. But watching Beau now â healthy, happy, whole â Dean canât begrudge it.
Especially because youâre pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. âOkay, whatâs next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.â
âJust long,â you say, stretching your arms over your head. âTwenty-hour shifts donât leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why Iâm here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.â
âItâs the endorphins,â Dean says knowingly. âYouâre chasing that dopamine high.â
âExactly,â you agree quickly. âPurely scientific. Nothing to do with-â
âWith wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?â Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. âIâthatâs notâI mean-â
âNothing wrong with that,â Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. âI am pretty great to look at.â
âYour ego is showing,â you mutter, but youâre definitely staring.
Dean laughs. âOkay, lovebirds, letâs actually work out. Beau, youâve got full medical clearance now, right?â
âAs of last week,â Beau confirms, and thereâs an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. Itâs the same excitement thatâs been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. âCoach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.â
âWhich is three weeks,â Dean adds. âSo weâve got to get you whipped into shape.â
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you â some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. Itâs like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
âDid you just say-â you start.
âWhipped into shape?â Beau finishes.
âOh no,â Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. âNo. Whatever youâre thinking-â
But itâs 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.
âWhere did you evenâwhen did you-â Dean sputters.
âShhh,â you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. âLet us have this.â
âHave what?â Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly youâre both jumping rope and singing.
âI WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!â You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
âWHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY âHOW HIGH?ââ 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.
âYOU KNOW YOUâRE DOING IT RIGHT,â you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
âWHEN YOU START TO CRY!â Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
âIF YOU DONâT LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,â you both sing together now, jumping in sync, âYOUâVE GOT TO-â
âWHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!â
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like youâve just won Olympic gold.
Thereâs a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
âWhat,â Dean says slowly, âthe actual fuck was that?â
âLegally Blonde: The Musical,â you gasp out between giggles. âBrooke Wyndham is an icon.â
âAnd when you said whipped into shape-â
âWe just had to,â you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. âYou two are insane.â
âProbably,â Beau agrees, still grinning.
âDefinitely,â you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but heâs smiling now. âI donât know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.â
âBe impressed,â Beau says. âWe also know the choreography to âOmigod You Guys.ââ
âWe do NOT need to see that,â Dean says quickly.
âYour loss,â you say cheerfully. âItâs iconic.â
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like itâs the most normal thing in the world. Like youâve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean âŠ
Dean has a moment.
Heâs been Beauâs 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 ⊠itâs different.
Itâs in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. Itâs in the way you know what heâs thinking before he says it. Itâs 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.
Itâs 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 youâre soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. Heâs never believed in soulmates before â always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he canât think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February â the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment â it wasnât 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 wouldnât? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
âDean?â Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. âYou okay? You look weird.â
âIâm fine,â Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. âJust thinking.â
âDangerous,â Beau jokes, but heâs looking at Dean with concern now. âSeriously, man, whatâs up?â
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
âI just-â He stops. Tries again. âYou two are it for each other, arenât you?â
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again â that silent communication that Deanâs starting to understand is just how you two operate.
âYeah,â Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. âYeah, we are.â
âI love him,â you add simply. âLike, scary amount. Forever amount.â
âIâm going to marry her,â Beau says, like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. âProbably not today, because I think sheâd kill me if I proposed in a gym-â
âI absolutely would,â you confirm.
â-but someday. Definitely someday.â
Dean feels his throat get tight. âGood,â he manages. âThatâs good.â
âAre you crying?â You ask, peering at him.
âNo,â Dean says. Heâs definitely about to cry. âShut up.â
âOh my god, you are!â Beau looks delighted. âDean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!â
âIâm not crying. Itâs allergies.â
âThatâs not-â
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. âIâm really glad you didnât die,â he tells Beau.
âMe too, man,â Beau says, returning the hug. âMe too.â
âAnd Iâm really glad you stopped,â Dean says to you. âThat night. Iâm really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I donât know what I wouldâve done if-â His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. âIâm glad I stopped too.â
âYouâre stuck with us now,â Dean continues. âYou know that, right?â
âI can live with that,â 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. âOkay, enough emotions. Weâre supposed to be working out.â
âRight,â you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. âWorking out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.â
âDonât,â Dean warns.
âWeâve got to-â
âNo-â
âWHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!â You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
âI hate you both,â Dean says, but heâs grinning.
âNo you donât,â Beau says, slinging an arm around Deanâs shoulders.
âYou love us,â you add, linking your arm through Deanâs other arm.
âUnfortunately,â Dean admits. âNow come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.â
âIâm in great shape,â Beau protests.
âYouâre in good shape,â you correct. âGreat shape requires more work. Doctorâs orders.â
âYouâre not my doctor.â
âI could be. Want me to check your reflexes?â
âThat sounds like innuendo.â
âIt wasnât, but I like where your headâs at.â
Dean makes a strangled sound. âI did NOT need that mental image.â
âThen stop listening to our conversations,â Beau says reasonably.
âYouâre having them three feet away from me!â
âSounds like a you problem,â you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. Thereâs 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 Beauâs 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 thatâs probably too long for a public gym but that no oneâs around to complain about.
And someday â maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head â heâs going to tell this story.
Heâs 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.
Heâs going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And heâs 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 break up with Tucker because you are tired of being a secret, but when another guy hits on you at Malone's, he snaps and publicly claims you in front of his entire team.
Angst to fluff? But definitely Angst
Warnings: spoiler alert if you didn't read the books!, cursing, violence
A/N: Well, this would probably fit book Tucker rather than TV Show Tucker, buuuut. Truth is we didn't really see much of Tuck this season. Anyway, I hope you like it. Feedback is much appreciated! Take care of yourselves xx also, @airgoddess maybe you can enjoy this in the meantime
Words: 2.6k
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It was never supposed to be this fucking complicated.
John Tucker, Briar U's laidback forward was the kind of guy who took everything in stride. He had a heart of gold, infinite patience, and a Texas drawl that could melt the panties off a saint. But his life had recently become a massive, tangled wreck. Earlier in the year, a brief hookup with Sabrina James had resulted in an unexpected pregnancy. Tucker, being the thoroughly decent, stand-up guy he was, stepped up immediately, vowing to support Sabrina and the baby every step of the way.
But then, he fell in love with you.
Because of the fragile situation with Sabrina, you and Tucker had decided to keep your relationship off the radar. You didnât want to add to her panic, nor did you want to deal with the relentless, vicious gossip of the Briar campus. But what started as a temporary protective measure had morphed into a heavy, suffocating weight. You were sick of hiding. Sick of slipping out the back door of the hockey house before his roommates could catch you doing the walk of shame. You were tired of feeling like a dirty little secret, and the brutal strain had caused a constant, underlying friction between you two.
Which led to the explosive argument in his bedroom just hours before the teamâs victory party.
You were pacing the length of his floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest, while he sat on the edge of his neatly made bed. He was watching you with those heavy-lidded, deep brown eyes, his large hands resting loosely on his spread knees. His unnatural stillness only fueled the anxious, clawing fire burning in your chest.
"I can't do this anymore, Tuck," you said, your voice trembling as you snatched your jacket off his desk chair. "I'm fucking done. We're done."
He went utterly, terrifyingly still.
"Come here, darlin'," Tucker commanded, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that usually turned your knees to absolute water.
"No." You zipped up your jacket with shaking fingers, refusing to look at him because you knew if you met his gaze, your resolve would snap in half. "I mean it this time. I am so fucking exhausted. I feel like a ghost in my own relationship."
Tucker pushed himself off the bed. His massive, muscular frame seemed to swallow the small space of the room as he stepped directly in front of his closed door, effectively trapping you inside. His dark auburn hair was a messy halo, and beneath his calm exterior, his warm brown eyes were flashing with a dangerous mix of panic and pure, unadulterated male stubbornness.
"We are not doing this, Y/N," he said slowly, his Texas drawl thick with absolute refusal. "We are not breaking up."
"I am the goddamn side piece in my own relationship!" you yelled, the frustration boiling over as hot tears finally spilled down your cheeks. "I know you have to be there for Sabrina and the baby. I want you to be there for them. You're a good man, Tuck, the best I know. But I can't be your hidden fuck-buddy anymore. I can't watch you rush out of the room to take her calls, or drop my hand the second we step outside because someone might see us. It hurts too much. It's tearing me apart."
A muscle feathered in his tight jaw. Tucker closed the distance between you in two long strides. You tried to step back, but his large, callused hands gripped your shoulders, hauling you gently but firmly against the hard wall of his chest. You were instantly grounded in his signature scent of sandalwood and citrus, a scent that felt so much like home it made a broken sob rip from your throat.
"You listen to me," he rasped, his voice vibrating against your collarbone as he lowered his head to look you dead in the eye. "You are not second place. You are never second place. You are everything to me."
"Tuck, pleaseâ"
"No, you're going to let me speak." He brought one of his large hands up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb catching a tear before it could fall. "I know it's hard. I know I'm asking a hell of a lot of you to wait for me to sort this mess out. I hate that I'm the goddamn reason you're crying right now. But I am a patient man, Y/N. I will wait out any storm to keep you."
You squeezed your eyes shut, shaking your head as you pressed your hands against his chest, trying to physically push away the one thing you wanted most in the world. Beneath your palms, his heart was hammering wildly against his ribs.
"You have to," you whispered, your voice cracking. "Go figure out your life. Be a dad. Do what you have to do without worrying about keeping me happy in the shadows."
You pulled out of his grip, intentionally ignoring the raw, devastated look that flashed across his handsome face. You reached around him, your hand wrapping tightly around the cool metal of the doorknob.
"I'm going to be at Malone's tonight," you said, your voice remarkably steady despite the fact that your heart was breaking into a million jagged pieces. "I promised Allie and Hannah I'd celebrate the win with them. But don't look for me, I need space."
You slipped past him, yanking the door open. You left him standing there in the middle of his bedroom, his jaw clenched tight and his broad chest heaving, his heart full of absolute, uncompromising refusal to accept that this was the end.
By the time you pushed your way into Malone's, your hands were still shaking.
And the absolute worst part of being best friends with Allie and Hannah? It meant you were automatically dragged into the Briar hockey team's inner circle.
They had commandeered the massive, wraparound leather booth in the back corner, and you were squished right into the middle of the loud, rowdy chaos. Garrett, Dean, Logan, and Fitzy were practically shouting over the music, toasting their shutout win and passing around pitchers of beer.
And sitting directly across the wooden table from you was John Tucker.
He hadn't said a single word since you sat down. He just sat rigidly on the cracked vinyl cushion, a half-empty bottle of Miller gripped in his large hand. For Tucker, the booming bass of the jukebox and the chaotic crowd seemed to fade entirely into white noise. The only thing in sharp focus was you. Every time you dared to glance up, those heavy-lidded, dark brown eyes were already locked on you, burning with a heavy, volatile intensity that made it impossible for you to draw a full breath.
You felt like you were bleeding out invisibly. Youâd done it. Youâd looked him in the eye, told him you were done being his dirty little secret, and walked away. Now, forced to sit so close to him, it felt like youâd carved out your own heart with a dull knife.
Hannah nudged your shoulder, shoving a shot of cheap tequila into your hand. "Drink up! You look like you're at a funeral, Y/N/N, not a party."
Allie leaned in over Dean's shoulder, her blonde hair catching the harsh neon light. "Seriously, what's going on with you? You've been miserable all week."
You forced a smile that didn't reach your eyes and downed the shot. The liquor clawed down your throat, "Just tired. Let's go dance."
You dragged them out of the booth and shoved your way onto the small, packed dance floor near the jukebox. The music was deafening, the heavy bass vibrating through the soles of your shoes and rattling your ribs. You squeezed your eyes shut, letting yourself get lost in the chaotic, grinding rhythm of the crowd. You laughed loudly with Allie and Hannah, desperately trying to project the image of a girl having the time of her life. But all you were really doing was trying to ignore the heavy, scorching gaze you could feel burning into your skin from across the room.
Tucker was watching you.
Usually, he was the anchor of his friend groupâobservant, laidback, the quiet guy who kept his head and his temper when everyone else lost theirs. Tonight, he felt like a coiled spring pulled back so tight it was about to snap.
Every breath he took felt like inhaling broken glass. Youâd told him you were done. Youâd looked at him with tears in your beautiful eyes and told him you couldn't be his second-place secret anymore. And the worst, most agonizing part? He knew you were absolutely right.
His eyes tracked your every movement through the strobe lights. You looked fucking breathtakingâflushed, wild, and utterly out of his reachâand he wasn't the only one who noticed.
A tall guy from the lacrosse team slid up behind you on the dance floor, his hands hovering dangerously close to your hips. Another guy, some frat bro in a backward cap, was trying to catch your eye, shouting some garbage pickup line over the loud music.
Tuckerâs jaw locked so hard his teeth ground together. A dark, ugly possessiveness flared in his chest, incinerating every ounce of his southern patience.
They saw a beautiful, single girl looking to get wrecked and have a good time. They didn't know you belonged to him. They didn't know the soft, needy sounds you made when he sucked marks into your neck, or how perfectly your body bowed up to meet his. And it was his own damn fault they didn't know. He had kept you in the shadows to protect Sabrina's privacy and manage the baby drama, but in doing so, he had left you completely unprotected. Heâd made you feel like you didn't matter. He'd practically served you up on a silver platter to every thirsty dirtbag in Malone's.
He watched, every thick muscle in his massive frame going violently tense, as the lacrosse player leaned in, his mouth entirely too close to your ear. Tucker saw you politely step back, your posture stiffening in clear discomfort, but the guy persisted. The asshole actually closed the distance again, flashing a cocky grin and reaching out to boldly wrap a hand around your waist.
That was it. Patience was officially dead.
Tuckerâs grip on his beer bottle tightened until his knuckles turned stark white, the thick glass groaning dangerously under the pressure. With a harsh, ragged exhale, he slammed the bottle down on the sticky wooden table so hard the remaining liquid foamed over the top.
"Whoa, Tuck, where are you going?" Garrett asked, looking completely startled by the sudden, aggressive movement from the calmest guy on the roster.
Tucker didn't answer. He didn't even look at his captain. He was already moving, his broad shoulders cutting through the crowded bar, his dark eyes locked dead on the man touching what was his.
He parted the sweaty, grinding crowd like Moses parting the Red Sea, his massive frame shoving through the bodies without a single apology. The rational, endlessly patient part of his brainâthe part that always played the long game, the part that had agreed to keep this relationship off the radar to deal with Sabrina's baby dramaâwas dead and buried.
Fuck the secret. Fuck the gossip. Tucker didn't care about the whispers, the rumors, or the stares that were bound to follow. He only cared about the fact that the woman he was completely, irrevocably in love with was slipping through his fingers, and half the bar was trying to swoop in and take his place.
You spun around, desperate to step away from the persistent lacrosse player whose hands were getting way too bold, but before you could tell the guy to back off, a blur of black and silver stepped into your line of vision.
You gasped as the lacrosse player was suddenly violently ripped away from you.
Tuckerâs massive, callused hand was fisted in the collar of the guyâs shirt, lifting him nearly off his feet.
"Hey, what the hell, man?" the lacrosse player sputtered, throwing his hands up. He puffed out his chest, trying to look tough.
The words had barely left the guy's mouth before Tuckerâs fist cracked across his jaw.
The sickening thud cut through the immediate vicinity of the dance floor. The lacrosse player stumbled backward, crashing into a nearby table and taking a couple of empty beer bottles down with him. The crowd gasped, forming an immediate, wide circle around you, but Tucker didn't even flinch. He stood over the groaning guy, his broad chest heaving, his fists clenched tight at his sides.
"Stay the fuck away from my girl," Tucker growled, his voice dropping to a low, lethal vibration.
The guy scrambled back, holding his bleeding jaw, and frantically nodded before disappearing into the crowd.
Tucker didn't spare him a second glance. He turned to you, the violence in his frame immediately shifting into a raw, desperate need. Large, familiar hands instantly gripped your hips, hauling you flush against his hard chest.
"Tuckâ" you breathed, your heart doing a wild, violent somersault against your ribs.
"Mine," he murmured fiercely.
He pulled you seamlessly into the heavy rhythm of the music. His hands slid from your hips to trail possessively up your spine, sending a shiver of blistering heat straight to your core. He spun you around, pressing your back flat against his broad chest, his thick arms wrapping securely around your waist as he swayed with you.
He could feel you trembling, feel the exact moment the adrenaline bled out of your muscles and you melted against him. This was where you belonged. Not hiding in the shadows. Not sneaking out the back door of the hockey house. It was an undeniably intimate, blatantly sexual claim, loud and clear for the entire fucking bar to see.
Over by the booths, the reaction was instantaneous. Deanâs jaw practically unhinged, his drink freezing halfway to his mouth. Garrett actually choked on his beer, coughing violently while Logan thumped him on the back. Hannah and Allie exchanged wide-eyed, completely stunned looks. John Tucker, the quietest, most reserved guy on the roster, had just knocked a guy out and put on a very public, very unapologetic show.
Tucker spun you back around to face him, completely oblivious to the shocked stares of his teammates. He brought one hand up to cup your cheek, his rough thumb brushing over your trembling bottom lip, parting it slightly.
"I don't care who sees," Tucker said, his voice fierce, unwavering, and laced with absolute certainty. "I don't care how complicated it is. I am not hiding you anymore, Y/N. And I am sure as hell not letting you break up with me."
Before you could formulate a responseâbefore your brain could even process the magnitude of what he had just doneâhe dipped his head and captured your lips in a searing, breathless kiss.
It wasn't a gentle, hidden kiss in the dark. It was a bold, desperate, world-stopping declaration. He kissed you like a starving man, his tongue parting your lips and claiming your mouth with a consuming, dominant heat that made your knees buckle. He caught your weight effortlessly, pulling your hips flush against the hard ridge of his arousal, showing his teammates, your friends, and everyone else in Malone's exactly who you belonged to.
When he finally pulled back, you were both breathless, your chests heaving together in the smoky air.
"You're my girl," he whispered fiercely, resting his forehead against yours. His brown eyes locked onto yours to make sure you understood every single word. "And nobody is going to steal you away from me."
should i watch off campus or should i notđ€đ€đ€ like im not a big fan of romance but i've been seeing so many posts/reposts of the movie's gifs collections
hi anon !!!! you should watch off campus !!! itâs not the best best youâll watch, but itâs rlly entertaining. the whole series is romance-heavy but the actual appeal is the dynamic all characters have w one another. apart from the romance, itâs really the characters and the chaos that makes ppl hooked
so i say you should give it a shot !! itâs either going to be ur personality for two weeks or might be the corniest thing uâve watched in ur entire life
update me as well if u ever get a chance to watch and tell me what u think abt it :))
hi, can write you something about driver!reader imagine, has Sebastian Vettel as her manager or mentor (like Oscar Piastri and Mark Webber)
lewyn this, totoyn that, what about sebyn???
Sebastian Vettel had promised himself he was done with Formula 1.
Done with politics. Done with the cameras. Done with the constant noise that came with being Sebastian Vettel.
When he retired, people thought he would disappear completely. And for a while, he did.
No paddock appearances. No interviews. No rumors about a comeback. Just silence.
Which was why the entire F1 world losts its mind the first time he walked back into a paddock.
Not in team kit. Not in FIA gear. Not even as a commentator.
Just him. Just Sebastian. Basball cap pulled low, coffee in hand, walking through the paddock like he'd never left.
Questions started before he even reached the Mercedes garage.
"Sebastian, are you consulting for Mercedes?"
"Are you returning?"
"Why are you here?"
And Sebastian just smiled slightly and said, "I'm here for someone."
Nobody expected "someone" to be YN LN.
The rookie. The ex-MotoGP rider the entire paddock had spent months doubting before she even touched an F1 car completely.
But then people started noticing things.
How Sebastian watched every one of her sessions from the garage. How he stood behind the engineers during debriefs without speaking unless necessary. How she unconciously searched for him after every run.
And the biggest thing is that YN listened to him.
Not to be polite. Not to be professional. But because she trusted him. Which said everything.
The truth came out during an interview after qualifying. She'd just dragged the car to P3 in mixed conditions, still flushed from adrenaline when a reporter asked:
"So how much has Sebastian Vettel been helping you?"
"A lot," she said quietly. "I wouldn't really be where I am now without him."
The room went silent.
Because Sebastian Vettel didn't do this. He didn't mentor publicly. He didn't attach himself to drivers. He barely came back to the sport at all.
And yet here he was. For YN LN.
What people eventually learned was that Sebastian had first met her years earlier in MotoGP. Back before F1 was even a possibility for her.
YN was younger then. Faster than every expected. Angry at the world in the way prodigies often are.
Sebastian saw it immediately. Not just the talent, but the pressure. The loneliness of being exceptional too early.
He recognized because he'd lived it.
Four world championships before thirty years old. A media microscope before adulthood had even settled. An entire sport deciding who he was for him.
So when it was announced YN was driving for Mercedes, Sebastian was one of the very few people who didn't laugh.
Instead, he called her. And according to paddock gossip, the conversation lasted four hours.
The media loved painting YN as fearless, but Sebastian knew better.
He knew about the nights she called him after testing because she thought that maybe everyone was right about her. He knew about the articles she pretended not to read, He knew her hands shook before press conferences even though she walked in looking completely composed.
The was one night where the pressure finally cracked through. YN had a terrible sim session after FP2. Tiny mistakes piling up into frustration until eventually she just sat on the floor staring at the telemetry with glassy eyes.
Most people had already left. The mechanics kept pretending not to notice.
Sebastian walked in quietly, took one look at her, and sat beside her on the floor without saying anything.
Then, "You know what your problem is?"
YN sighed tiredly. "This should be good."
"You think you need to prove you belong here every second."
She didn't answer because he was right.
"They have you here for a reason," he said. "Stop driving like they're about to change their minds."
That stayed with her.
The paddock slowly started understanding what this actually meant to Sebastian too.
Because he wasn't just visiting. He was returning to a world he walked away from. And F1 had not been kind to heam near the end.
There were easier things he could've done with retirement than emotionally adopt a rookie under the brightest spotlight in motorsport.
But somehow, with YN, the sport looked softer around him again.
And fans noticed all of that. Sebastian was smiling more. Laughing during clips. Standing by pit walls with that old intensity back in his eyes.
summary: logan runs into you at a new year's party months after you broke up. second chance romance. angsty with happy ending! john logan being the biggest yearner in america! requested!
Logan has no business staring at you from across the room. Still, tonight he seems to be in the mood for torturing himself at this Briar U Alumni New Yearâs Party, and he spends a few good minutes hiding behind walls and pillars to get a good look from you in the distance.
You look beautiful, he thinks, though your hair looks different, and he wonders if itâs just a low lighting trick or if you got a haircut somewhere in between those few months since heâs last seen you.Â
He remembers overhearing Allie say once, âMy mom would always tell me to cut my hair after a heartbreak. Itâs tradition, you know?â He recalls her chatting with Hannah over some iced tea as their boyfriends and his teammates (himself included) had lunch, âSays it gets rid of the past for good.â
He feels stupid for hoping you haven't changed your hair yet.
âAre you planning on hiding all night?â Garrettâs voice breaks him out of trance, to which he sighs.
âYes, actually.â He nods in your direction. Garrett follows Loganâs vision tunnel til heâs staring at you too.Â
âShit. First time seeing her after the breakup?â Logan nods, and Garrett hands him the whiskey he had been holding, âTake it. You need it more than I do.âÂ
âThanks.â Logan takes a sip, scrunching his face at the bitter taste.
âCome on, dude.â Garrett takes him by the shoulders, hand pulling him from behind the pillar and pushing him in the opposite direction, âLetâs get your mind somewhere else, yeah? Partyâs just starting.â
â
Just after the clock hits eleven, Logan says a half-assed apology to his friends before ditching the party.Â
Truth is, he wasnât enjoying himself at all, visions of you having taken place into his head now, occluding every other thought. All the memories he kept trying to push down, redirecting every single one of them into more training, more handywork, more car engines and tv screens and radio sets to be fixed every time he dared to think of you and how much he mustâve hurt you when he decided to break things off.
Logan had tried convincing himself it was for the best. That his love for you was making him turn away from all the other things he still had to fight for, spiraling over his future. That in the end, it got him where he wanted to be.
Still, he misses the days where all the glory he truly had was you trying to comfort him, soft kisses on his face as you murmured, âDonât get too in your head.â
He wonât bother trying to push these memories down now â Logan welcomes your pretty face into his mind as he puts down a cigarette, throwing its butt on the floor of the Briar U Theater rooftop. If he canât find a place you wonât haunt, he might as well go to the place he remembers you the most.
âYouâre smoking now?âÂ
Logan turns around on his heels to find your figure at the door. He wonders if his memory is fucking with him, until you start walking in his direction, âThought I saw you downstairs.â
Logan opens his mouth to answer, âUh, noâ Not really, itâsâ Only when I drink.â
You hum, âHeard the Bruins signed you. Congratulations.â
âThank you.â he answers, then after a beat, âI wanted to call. To tell you about it.â
You shrug, âI guess I wouldâve known either way.â
âYeah, but still.â Logan gulps. How can he begin to say that he hates that the only way for you to hear of him is through the news? That he wants to tell you these things himself? God, he misses you. Itâs not so easy to pretend he didnât when youâre right in front of him.Â
âAnd howâs that?â You speak again, a tiny, hurt smile on your face, âEverything you wished for?â
Not even close, he thinks in an instant, and the certainty almost surprises himself. Logan realised, through time, that even though he had finally secured his place on the NHL, you were still the only thought in the forefront of his mind. That no amount of time, prestige or money would take place of the thing he dreamed about the most, day and night.
âI miss you.â He says, wincing ces as you slightly recoil in surprise.
âLoganâŠâ
âNo, listen.â He takes a step closer, watching to see if you step back and nervously chuckling when you stay in place. âIâmâ Iâm really sorry I havenât said anything sooner, or triedâ I donât know, tried to make it right before. But, oh my God, I miss you so much.â
You look at him for a moment, then drag your eyes around the place youâre both standing. âDo you remember this place?â
Logan scoffs, âOf course I do.â He looks around, âThe only calm place in the building. Youâd come here after rehearsals just for the silence.â
âAnd the view.â you completed, a smile on your face, âI liked watching the full moon from up here.â
He hums, âI liked watching you under the moonlight,â you look back at him, âStill do.â
You giggle, and Logan feels his heart jump.
A commotion on the ground floor picks your attention, and you look down to find people shrieking and laughing as they leave the Theater building. Thereâs sparklers in everyoneâs hands, and they start chanting a countdown.
You move closer to him, head resting on his shoulder now.
âI missed you too.â you say, your voice so low it almost gets drowned by everyone elseâs screams, âI was so hurt back then. When you thought you wanted to end things, I mean.â
Loganâs eyebrows scrunch, face twisted in embarrassment, âIâm sorry.â
You shake your head, âDonât be, I think I understand. You were just tooââ
âToo in my head.â He finishes, âYouâd always say that. You were right.â
You nod, smirk on your lips, âI know.â
Eighteen, seventeen, sixteen, fiveteenâ
âI donât think I can just, you know, forget all that happened.â
He prepares himself for a rejection.
âAnd weâre gonna have to really talk things out.â
Loganâs head snaps in your direction, eyes wide, âWhat?â
Thirteen, twelve, eleven, tenâ
âIs that not what you want?â
âOf course it is.â He rushes to say, âItâs all I want, butâ You saidââ
âItâs what I want too,â you say, âI donât wanna get rid of our past, Logan. I just want us to make it work. For good, this time.â
Six, five, fourâ
âThank you.â He takes your hand in his, bringing it up to his chest. You feel his heart beating, and your other hand travel to behind his neck, âDo I get to kiss you at midnight?â
Three, two, oneâ
You laugh, hands moving to his face as you pull him closer, lips sealing together as cheers erupt from the ground and fireworks decorate the sky. He kisses you once, twice, three times, then moves to pull you in a tight, sealing embrace.Â
âHappy new year.â He whispers, and itâs like heâs wishing a happy new beginning.
âHappy new year, Logan.â You whisper back to him.
notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3
summary: john logan was your best friend and the guys, allie, and hannah were your family. everyone knows that you had liked logan for forever but you knew that he didn't feel the same way about you. logan was with grace and you respected it. you couldn't even hate her for it - she's perfect and she's perfect for him. it's okay though, your family's got you.
warnings: nothing really - but angst, sad!!! and yearning!! smoking, drinking? swearing
author's note: i love off campus!!! its too good, already on my 3rd re-watch and i just felt inspired to write :) pls be nice lol also garrett is a protector for sure and i love their friendships so much! also no, nothing is going on with yn and garrett - he's very much so in love with hannah wells, as he should because she's such a cutie i love her so much
________________
The music in the hockey house was way too fucking loud, the laughter too easy, and the air just a little too warm. It was a typical Friday night house party where there were so many people you literally didn't know except for your friends even though the guys lived here. There was yelling, beer pong, people making out and it was just a messy. Classic Friday night around here. You were over it though.
I sat on the arm of the couch, a half-empty solo cup in my hand, watching the room. My eyes, entirely against my own willpower, kept drifting to the kitchen counter.
To Logan.
Everyone called him Logan, but to me, the name always felt different in my mouth. It wasnât a sharp syllable thrown across a crowded room; it was a quiet rhythm. I loved the way it sounded when I said it, loved the stupid, effortless way heâd look up and grin whenever I used it. I had been in love with him for months, a slow-burning ache that I kept tucked away behind easy banter and casual shoulder bumps.
But tonight, the ache was sharp.
Grace was standing next to him. She said something, her hand resting lightly on his forearm, and Logan threw his head back, laughing that rich, infectious laugh that usually made my chest ache. Tonight, it just made it tight. He looked down at her, his expression softening in a way that had nothing to do with friendship. He reached up, his fingers gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
It was a tiny gesture. She had every right.
It was completely devastating.
I forced a swallow of my drink, the burning liquid doing nothing to wash down the lump in my throat. I knew Grace was amazing. I liked her. Everyone did. That was the worst partâyou couldnât even be mad at her. But watching the way Loganâs gaze lingered on her face, the way his body naturally leaned into her space... it felt like watching a door quietly click shut right in front of me.
"You're going to burn a hole right through his jacket if you keep staring like that."
The quiet, low voice right beside me made me jump. I spilled a few drops of my drink onto my hand.
Garrett was standing there, leaning against the wall with his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He wasn't looking at Logan and Grace; he was looking straight at me.
Garrett was like a brother to me. He was the anchor of our chaotic groupâthe guy who noticed when someoneâs drink was empty, when someone was too quiet, or, in this case, when someone's heart was breaking in real-time. He was entirely too observant for my own good.
"I-I'm not staring," I lied, my voice a little too high, a little too quick. I wiped my wet hand on my jeans. "Just... zoning out. Tired."
Garrett didn't say anything right away. He just stepped closer, shifting his weight so he blocked my view of the kitchen counter. It was a small, protective movement, shielding me from the exact thing that was hurting.
"Yeah," Garrett said softly, his eyes full of a quiet, heavy sympathy that made me want to cry. "You look terrible. Have you been sleeping at all?"
I swallowed hard, looking down at my shoes. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to me," Garrett murmured, bumping his shoulder against mine. "Because I know you. And I know how you say his name."
A breathy, humorless laugh escaped my lips. I looked up at Garrett, my eyes stinging. "I really thought I was hiding it better."
"You're okay," he lied gently, offering a small, sad smile. "Come on. Let's go out on the balcony and get some air. It's fucking suffocating in here."
I glanced past Garrett's broad shoulders one last time. Logan was still talking to Grace, his hand now resting casually on the small of her back. He looked happy. He looked completely oblivious.
"Yeah," I whispered, letting Garrett guide me away from the noise and into the cool, quiet night. "Okay."
The cool night air hit my skin, making me shiver instantly. I grabbed a stray hoodie off the back of the kitchen chair on our way outâjudging by the faint scent of laundry detergent and old spice, it belonged to one of the guysâand threw it over my tiny tank top and short skirt. It engulfed me, the hem reaching nearly to the bottom of my skirt, but it was exactly the shield I needed.
Garrett pulled open the heavy glass door, and we stepped out onto the porch. The chatter of the party instantly muffled into a low, thumping hum.
We sank into the two faded wooden deck chairs in the corner. The ones you'd see at overnight camp. Some of the boys stole it from somewhere - you don't even really know where. They're mismatched but they're your favourite. You pulled out a pack, tapping a cigarette loose and offering it to him first before lighting your own. He took a long, slow drag, the orange cherry glowing in the dark, before letting out a quiet puff of smoke. Heâd only take a few hits tonight; he had a brutal practice tomorrow, and he never messed with his lungs before a training day. It was just a ritual to give his hands something to do. To give me some company. You tap the ashes on the little tray on the ground.
I took a drag of my own, staring out at the dark backyard, letting the silence stretch between us until the tightness in my chest loosened just a fraction.
âSheâs literally perfect,â I said suddenly, the words tumbling out before I could stop them. I let out a breathless, self-deprecating laugh, shaking my head. âEven I love her so much. I'd be in love with her too, seriously. That's the worst part.â
Garrett didnât interrupt, he rolled his eyes slightly. Grace was whatever to him, don't get him wrong - he liked her, he was fine with her around - he just hated how down you get because of some idiot oblivious guy to your feelings. He just exhaled another small puff of smoke, watching me intently.
"She's kind, she's funny, she's gorgeous," I continued, pulling the oversized sleeves of the hoodie down over my hands. "Grace is perfectâand I know that. I can't even be mad at him because his taste is flawless." You slurred your words as you sipped your drink again.
It sucked. It sucked so entirely, because Logan and I weren't just standard friendsâwe were best friends. For over a year, I had fought so hard to prove the stereotype wrong. I wanted so badly to be the living proof that a guy and a girl could be fiercely loyal, incredibly close, and completely platonic. I had prided myself on it. I had built a wall of "just friends" logic around us, telling myself that what we had was rarer and better than a stupid crush.
But somewhere along the line, the foundation had cracked. And while I was busy trying to prove a point to the world, I went and fell completely, irreversibly in love with him.
"You tried really hard," Garrett said quietly, his voice cutting through my spiraling thoughts. He flicked a bit of ash over the railing. "To keep it just friends. I watched you do it."
"I failed miserably," I whispered, leaning my head back against the cold plastic of the chair.
"What? The fuck. You didn't fail," Garrett countered softly, bumping his sneaker against mine. "You just humaned, rules-be-damned. You can't logic your way out of how you feel about Logan. Especially not when he's... well, Logan."
I looked over at Garrett, grateful for the dark masking the hot tears threatening to spill over my lashes. "What am I supposed to do now?"
Garrett took his last puff, stubbing the cigarette out entirely against the wooden arm rest before tossing it in the tray. He looked at me, his expression fiercely protective. "Y/N -seriously. Fuck him - who cares, Logan is my best friend but he's also an idiot. We sit out here, you wear that giant hoodie, and get to be sad." You sighed and gave a slight smile to him making fun of Logan for the sake of making you feel better. Garrett was a protector - you knew that. "For the record-" he said quickly, "You're the prize okay. Stop this self deprecating bullshit. State champ cheerleader, miss top of your class, makes us stop at the side of the road to help stray cats get to safety even when you make me fucking late to things. He's a loser for not seeing you but expects you to be there for him. Seriously pisses me off," Garrett spat. He gets annoyed at Logan because it's almost like he uses you. "Just drop it, it's okay," you say as you take another hit. You didn't want him to get worked up anymore or else he'll actually might go fight him or something.
Garret was right. He always was when it came to reading people, and right now, his quiet solidarity was exactly the anchor I needed.
We sat out there for a while, the initial heavy silence giving way to a comfortable, familiar rhythm. We split a couple of beers, the cold aluminum freezing my hands inside the giant sleeves of the hoodie. I smoked, and Garrett just leaned back, keeping me company and occasionally knocking his sneaker against mine to remind me he was there. Slowly, the tight knot in my chest began to loosen, replaced by the easy, comforting warmth of a friendship that didn't require me to pretend.
The heavy glass door slid open again, letting out a brief burst of the partyâs bass before it clicked shut.
"Oh, look at this. The secret patio smoking society," Tuckerâs voice boomed, completely shattering the quiet.
"And they didn't invite us. How cruel," Dean teased, shaking his head with mock offense as he stepped out right behind him.
Tucker was already holding two fresh cans of beer, and Dean had a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand. Without asking, Tucker practically threw himself into the empty space between our chairs, dropping onto the deck floor and leaning his back against my legs. Dean grabbed a plastic crate from the corner, flipped it upside down, and claimed it as his throne with a satisfied sigh.
"Give me a hit of that," Dean said, nodding toward my cigarette. I handed it over, watching him take a drag before passing it back.
"What are you guys even doing out here? It's freezing," Tucker muttered, though he made absolutely no move to go back inside. Instead, he reached up and yanked the oversized hood of my jacket down over my eyes, laughing when I shoved his hand away.
"Getting away from your loud mouth, mostly," Garrett replied smoothly, a faint, genuine smirk finally touching his lips.
"Hey, my mouth is a national treasure," Tucker shot back, cracking open a beer and handing it up to me. "Drink. You look like you're drowning in that hoodie. Whose is that anyway? Is that Wellsy's?"
"Think it's mine, actually," Dean said, squinting at the faded logo in the dark. "Keep it. It looks better on you anyway."
Sitting there, surrounded by them, a sudden wave of fierce affection washed over me. The sharp, bitter ache in my chest from earlier didn't magically disappear, but it dulled into something manageable. Logan was inside, falling for Grace, and my heart was still a little broken about itâthere was no denying that. But looking at Garrett, Tucker, and Dean, I realized I wasn't alone.
We were a little family. A messy, loud, fiercely loyal family built on hockey road trips, shared apartments, and unsaid understandings. They were my boys, and I was their girl. Logan was a part of this family too, but tonight, these three were holding the perimeter for me, keeping the cold at bay without even realizing they were doing it.
I took the beer from Tucker, took a long sip, and laughed out loud at some stupid joke Dean made about their coach. Out here on the porch, wrapped in a friend's oversized hoodie with my brothers around me, I knew I was going to be okay.
It really was the most beautiful, unspoken thing about them.
As the night wore on and the beer cans started piling up on the deck floor, it hit me with a sudden, warm wave of clarity. They all knew.
It wasn't just Garrett. Tucker might have acted like a loud, oblivious golden retriever, and Dean might have been focused on his pizza, but they weren't stupid. They had seen the way I looked at Logan when he wasn't paying attention. They had noticed how my voice softened when I called his name, and they had absolutely noticed the quiet, devastating shift in my posture the second Grace walked into the room tonight.
But the incredible thing about these boys was that they never made me feel pathetic for it. There were no pitying glances, no awkward silences, and absolutely no unsolicited advice. In total, fierce solidarity, they completely locked it down. They drew a protective line around me, ensuring that whatever heartbreak I was nursing stayed out here on the dark porch, completely safe from the rest of the party.
"Hey," Tucker said, nudging my shin with his elbow from where he was sitting on the floor. "You're getting that look on your face again. The 'I'm thinking too hard' look. Stop it."
"I'm not thinking too hard," I laughed, reaching down to shove his shoulder.
"She is," Dean pointed out, blowing a smoke ring into the crisp air. "She's definitely doing the deep-dive brain thing. Don't make me go inside and get the karaoke mic to distract you, because I will, and it will be terrible for everyone involved."
"Jeez, please don't," Garrett murmured, a rare, relaxed grin breaking across his face. "None of us deserve to hear your rendition of Shania Twain again."
"It's a crowd-pleaser and you know it, Gar," Dean shot back, gesturing with his beer.
I looked at the three of them, my heart swelling so much it almost eclipsed the ache from earlier. They were actively keeping the vibe light, throwing up a shield of stupid jokes and easy banter so I wouldn't drown in my own head. They knew Logan was inside with Grace right now. They knew he was probably holding her hand or leaning in close to hear her over the music. But out here, they made sure none of that existed. Out here, I was just their girl, wrapped in Deanâs oversized hoodie, being looked after by the best brothers anyone could ask for.
"Thanks, guys," I said softly, the words slipping out before I could think better of it.
Tucker looked up at me over his shoulder, his expression uncharacteristically soft for a split second before his usual grin returned. He reached up, taking a sip of his beer. "For what? Being incredibly handsome? You're welcome."
"For being tolerable," Garrett corrected smoothly, giving my shoe another gentle tap with his own.
I smiled, leaning my head back against the chair and looking up at the faint stars above the campus. The pain of loving Logan wasn't goneâit would probably be there for a long timeâbut with this little family around me, I didn't feel so heavy anymore. I felt protected.
summery: you didnât meant to send nudes to the cute guy in your business class, obviously.
content: 18+ smau
â â  â â â  â â â  â â â 
imessage
josh đšâ
Pls yn, letâs talk
I promise iâll change
Shes nothing like you
âcan you believe the nerve of this guy?â hannah asks, handing back your phone after reading through the messages.
allie just sips her juice. sheâs back on that âweird and greenâ liquid diet again. âsounds exactly like sean. itâs not even worth it, babeâ
you sigh, adjusting your bag. âiâm not going back to him, aj. i just wanted to show you guys in case he totally bombards us on the way to class and you don't know what to sayâ
âheâd actually do that?â hannah asks, her eyes wide.
âoh, theyâll do that and moreâ allie chimes in, setting her green juice down.
âwell, i have to get to my business classâ you stand up from the couch and head toward the door, pausing just before you grab the handle.
âoh, wait! can one of you swing by my dorm later? see if those dresses by my bed fit either of you. i might need to retake your measurements, han, i think i lost the old onesâ
âyeah, i can totally do thatâ hannah reassures you.
you shout a quick goodbye and slip out the door.
instagram
yourusername
yourusername lil catch up :)
comments
user so stunning
user lovee
summer.d my girllll
user fashion major girlyyy
hannahwells very needed talk
âł yourusername veryy
tap to load more
imessages
my girls !!
aj
movie night tn?
you
yess
han
canât, tutoring
ava (roomie) <3
who?? bruh, cancel rn
aj
garrett graham đ„”đ„”
han
sigh
you
WHAT
ava (roomie) <3
WHAT
instagram
yourusername
yourusername digicam hardlaunching hanâs..idk
comments
user waitttt teaaaa
alliehayes thanks 4 the coffee
âł yourusername anything 4 u ;)
user wait i love them tg
graham44 send me that pic
tap to load more
imessages
han :)
garrett is friends w that cute guy in ur business class
you
đ€š ?
han :)
i could totally put in a good word for u
you
HAHAH i love u but no
han :)
whyy donât get stuck on josh now
you
itâs not that LOL but like we are classmates, wouldnât it be awk?
han :)
ur not classmates forever
you
the rest of the semester is long enough
plus if i rlly wanted him, i already have his #
han :)
well, text him !!
you
so adamant
why
han :)
đ€·ââïž u need to get laid?
you
HA, bye han
han :)
think abt it
think about it? of course you have! youâve done more than just think about it â just not out loud.
well, maybe a little out loud. you mentioned it, very briefly, to hannah and allie, but that was back when the semester had just started and hannah wasnât all buddy-buddy with the whole hockey team.
plus, jocks werenât really your type anyway.
instagram
yourusername
yourusername donât remember last night but ;)
comments
user cuteee
joshuaap đ so hot
user what camera ??!!
alliehayes donât drink ever again
âł yourusername iâm scared
âł alliehayes no, ur screwed
tap to load more
* @j.logan started to follow you *
you donât really remember how it happened.
you were at the bar, building up the courage to finally talk to the cute guy from your business class â john logan, youâd remembered his name. hannah and allie were both there, hyping buying shots you up and pushing you to just go for it. but the exact second garrett, hannahâs new (and totally fake) boyfriend, showed up, your courage completely plummeted. you couldnât believe you had actually been about to walk over there.
it wasnât just the loud, unmistakably energy garrett brought with him everywhere he went, but the sudden realization that every other athlete on the team probably pulled that exact same level of attention. and you werenât exactly wrong. by the time you downed your thirdâ and what you had hoped to be your last â shot, logan was already chatting up a cute redhead. her hand was resting on his arm, and she was leaning in, giggling at whatever he was saying.
your disappointment didnât last long, though. a few quick texts to josh, and you were out of the bar, hooking up in the back of his car.
which brings you to right now, a couple of days later.
you're standing here in a black, incredibly skimpy lingerie set. maybe itâs just your hormones, or maybe itâs the fact that ever since that night, the one you still can't fully piece together, logan has actually been making an effort to strike up small talk with you.
your head can handle it just fine. you can keep the conversation easy and casual. your heart, though, not so much. so, you pushed it away.
you snap another picture, your hair tossed messily to the side, framing your body perfectly. that makes three photos in total. josh will like them, of course he will. theyâre simple and direct, and what guy wouldn't? you're horny, josh is a guy, and heâs easy. heâll drop whatever plans he has to come over, satisfy you, and leave.
no strings, no effort. thatâs what you wanted.
you open your contacts and type 'j' into the search bar. you donât even hesitate, automatically assuming joshâs name will pop up first because he was the most recent. you hit send without a second thought, tossing your phone aside to change back into your cotton shorts and pj shirt.
imessage
you
*attachment: 3 images*
need you so bad
come over pls ;)
you understand he might be busy, but in josh time, twenty five minutes of silence after receiving nudes is crazy.
maybe heâs jerking off? whatever.
you open your phone again to look through the pictures you sent. there was the one on the bed, back arched and boobs pressed up. another one, taken through your computer's webcam, showing off all your curves. the last one is what youâd consider the most revealing, in the mirror, legs open, your fingers playing with your own arousal.
as you go to exit the chat, your eyes catch the icon at the top of the conversation, and you feel like you might actually go into cardiac arrest.
you freeze in bed, then slowly sit up. you might honestly have to erase yourself from planet earth, because there is absolutely no way this is happening to you. in the mindless, stupid, totally checked out state you were in, you didn't just send those pictures to the wrong person, you sent them to someone who makes you want to end either your own life or his.
fuck.
meanwhile, those exact images were popping up on john loganâs screen just as he was wrapping up practice.
heâd noticed your name flash on his phone earlier, which was weird since the cute girl from his business class had never texted him before. he figured maybe you just needed the lecture notes. but the second practice ended, his sweaty, bruised body won the debate, and he decided to hit the showers before checking his messages.
only ten minutes had passed since you sent them. half the team was already out of the locker room, and the few guys who remained were packing up to leave. it had been a genuinely shitty practice, with coach oâshea forcing the d-men to stay late for extra drills. but the moment logan actually opened your message, every ounce of that exhaustion completely vanished from his mind and body.
holy fucking smokes.
he blew a heavy breath out of his mouth and leaned back against his locker cubicle, his eyes locked onto the screen, unable to look away for even a second.
his dick seemed to work a hell of a lot faster than his brain did, because before he could even process what he was looking at, he was already sporting a semi.
he couldnât tell if ten seconds or ten minutes had flown by, but he finally snapped out of the million racing thoughts in his head, one louder than all the rest.
this wasnât meant for him. no way.
sure, heâd received plenty of unprovoked nudes from girls before, but you just didnât seem like the type to do that.
fuck. he knew for a fact those pictures werenât meant for him, but he couldn't simply just look away, andâ
before his thoughts could spiral any further, another text from you flashed across the screen.
imessage
you
omg wrong person!!!
donât look at those, or save them
not for u obvi
fuck, iâm sorry
john logan (business class)
sure, but only if u tell me who were they for?
because iâm pretty sure your pretty little pussy isnât going to take care of itself.
you
???????????
just forget abt this pls
john logan (business class)
i canât, baby
*attachment: 1 image*
you donât understand anything anymore.
one second you are dying of total embarrassment, practically booking a one way flight to antarctica while begging john logan to forget about your... completely indecent, completely accidental pictures. the next, your airway almost entirely shuts down at the sight of his text, showing a clear image of logan gripping his dick right through his sweatpants.
oh my gosh. this cannot actually be happening to you right now.
you're usually the good one at texting. your friends always come to you when they need the perfect reply written for them, but you never, in a million years, thought youâd find yourself in a position like this.
you
thanks ?????
thanks? you truly are an idiot.
meanwhile, logan chuckles. yep, you definitely donât do this very often, or ever, by the looks of it.
based on the last text he sent, he had been hoping for something a little more than your dry, unintentionally funny response.
he had already walked out of the arena by now and was sitting in his car. logan isn't blind, he obviously finds you extremely attractive. jumping from simple classmates to a quick, accidental hookup doesnât sound like a bad idea at all to him. he knows you arenât usually the type for that kind of thing, but maybe he can sweet talk you into it.
john logan (business class)
câmon, donât u need someone to take of u?
iâll make it worth ur while, i promise
he almost gives up when five minutes pass and thereâs nothing but a 'read' receipt under his message.
almost, though.
john logan (business class)
pls, baby
want u so bad
his dick twitches in his pants when he reads the message that comes through.
you
đ bristol house, door #67
he smiles at your text and immediately turns on his engine. before pulling out, he sends a quick reply.
john logan (business class)
good girl, iâm omw
i rlly like the set but im sure iâll like u better without it so donât bother having it on when i get there.
instagram
j.logan
j.logan thanks for letting borrow the cam, babeâ€ïž
comments
deandilaurentis pussy whippeddddd đ€Ł
âł beaumaxwell @alliehayes
âł alliehayes pls đ
user so cute
hannahwells i recognize that camera anywhere đ§
âł yourusername đ€
j.tucker as long u donât bring her around my kitchen anymore
summary: the rules are strictâyou must date for two months, you must act convincingly in public, and whoever catches feelings first automatically loses.
pairing: john logan (off campus) x fem!reader
warnings/tags: 18+ content (read responsibly!) fake dating trope, enemies to lovers if you squint, mild swearing, emotional constipation, sexual tension/suggestive banter, basically the deal but make it john logan with a few changes (requested by anon who asked for a fake dating trope)
The bass vibrating through the floorboards of the hockey house felt less like a party and more like a localized seismic event.
Standing in the corner of the living room, a red plastic cup of lukeward beer held loosely in your hand, you observed the chaos with the detached scrutiny you usually reserved for your political science seminars.
It was only eleven on a Friday night, but the house was already operating at maximum capacity. Bodies pressed together in the dim ligthing, moving to a track that threated to shatter the windows.
"You're doing the thing again," Hannah said, appearing at your shoulder. She smelled like expensive vanilla and whatever fruity drink Garrett had given her.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," you replied.
"That glare," Hannah clarified, bumping her shoulder against yours. "The one where you look at this party like it's something worth writing a thesis on. Relax, babe. It's Friday. Your debate briefs are done, just have fun."
"I am having fun," you said midly. "I just watched a guy try to open a beer bottle with his teeth and fail."
Hannah sighed, shaking her head, though a fond smile played on her lips. At the age of twenty, Hannah Wells was one of the few people at Briar you genuinely liked.
She was grounded, observant, and possessed the patience of a saintâwhich she needed, considering she was dating Garrett Graham, a man who took up entire too much oxygen in any given room.
Speaking of, your eyes tracked Garrett as he navigated through the sea of drunk undergraduates, making a beeline straight for Hannah.
"Hey, beautiful," Garrett said, sliding an arm around Hannah's waist and pressing a kiss to her temple that was too domestic for a frat party.
He looked over her head at you. "Thrilled as always to see you radiating sunshine."
"I try to keep the moral high, Graham," you replied dryly.
"Where's the rest of your circus?" Hannah asked, leaning comfortably against Garrett's chest.
"Dean is currently trying to convince two freshmen that he's investigating the economics of the campus weed supply for school purposes," Garrett said, sounding entirely unbothered.
"Tucker's in the kitchen making a charcuterie board out of Ritz crackers. And Logan's somewhere. Probably flirting his way into a girl's pants."
Logan.
That name alone felt like a minor inconvenience. He was perpetually restless, hiding an objective sharp mind beneath layers of obnoxious frat-boy humor.
He was the kind of guy who couldn't stop movingâtapping cups, spinning cups, drumming his fingers against tables. His main flaw, as far as you could tell, was his absolute refusal to be genuine for more than three seconds.
"Don't tell me he's right behind me," you said, detecting a sudden shift in the air behind your back.
"He's right behind you," a voice drawled near your ear.
The heat radiating off his chest was immediate, creeping through the thin fabric of your top. You turn slowly, tilting your head back to meet Logan's eyes.
He was tall, his broad shoulders practically blocking the strobe lights from the makeshift dance floor.
"Sweetheart," Logan said, a lazy, infuriating smirk curving his mouth. "You're at my house. Drinking my cheap beer. Looking aggressively judgmental. It's like my birthday came early."
"If it were your birthday, I would've brought a gift," you shot back. "Like a dictionary. Or perhaps a book on basic social etiquette."
Garrett snorted loudly, burrying his face in Hannah's neck to muffle his laughter.
Logan didn't flinch. Instead, he took half a step closer. He did this all the timeâinvaded personal space, trying to rattle people with his presence. He smelled like beer and an underlying male musk that was very distracting.
"A dictionary?" Logan feigned hurt, placing a hand over his heart. "I passed my comms paper last week. Got a B-plus. Care to issue an apology for implying I'm illiterate?"
"A B-plus?" You arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. The prompt was a three-page analysis of team dynamics, and you just described the plot of The Mighty Ducks."
Logan's eyes darkened, a flash of genuine amusement sparking in the dim light. "First of all, it was Miracle. Have some respect for the classics. Second of all, my work was flawless. You're just mad because you actually study for that class and I can bullshit my way into the same bracket."
"You don't bullshit, Logan, you distract," you corrected, your voice dropping an octave as you leaned in just a fraction. Two could play this game.
"Your arguments have zero structural integrity. You win debates by being loud and charming, forcing the opposition to give up out of sheer exhaustion. It's a cheap tactic."
"If it works, it's not cheap," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your mouth for a split second before returning to your eyes. "It's effective. You'd know that if you didn't argue like a politician who hates people."
"I don't hate people," you replied smoothly. "I just set high standards."
"Oh, snap!" A new voice interjected cheerfully.
You glanced sideways to see Dean materializing out of nowhere, dragging a very tired-looking Tucker behind him.
"Look who it is," Dean grinned, tossing an arm around Logan's shoulders and gesturing wildly at you with a solo cup. "Briar's premier academic terror."
"Hello, Dean. Did you solve the economic crisis of the campus weed supply?"
Dean blinked, genuinely taken aback, before pointing a finger at Garrett. "You told her? That was supposed to be a covert op, Graham!"
"You were shouting it at two freshmen in the kitchen!" Tucker sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He looked at you apologetically. "Good to see you. Sorry about... all of this."
Logan let out a low huff of laughter, stepping closer again. His arms brushed yours, sending an unbidden, sharp thrill of heat straight up your spine.
"So what are we aggressively debating tonight?" Dean asked eagerly, looking back and forth between Logan and you like you were a tennis match.
"Last week it was the geopolitical implications of Batman. Which for the record, you won. Logan sounded like an idiot."
"I was making a valid point about vigilante infrastructure," Logan protested loudly. "And I'm not doing this again. I was just pointing out that she hates fun. She thinks sports superstitions are dumb."
"I didn't say they were dumb," you corrected, turning your body fully toward Logan. "I said they were pathetic. Tapping a hockey stick against the post does not appease the 'hockey gods.' It's just you, a grown man, relying on magic because you can't shoulder the burden of a random outcome."
The entire circle went dead silent.
Even the thumping bass of the track seemed to fade into the background as Garrett, Dean, and Tucker all stared at you in horror. Superstitions in a hockey house were effectively a religion.
You had basically just walked into the Vatican and insulted the Pope.
Hannah covered her face with her hands. "Oh, God."
Logan didn't look mad. If anything, the smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth grew sharper.
"Say that again," he dared you, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that sent a flush of heat creeping up your neck.
"I don't repeat myself for the stubbornly ignorant," you whispered back, holding his gaze fiercely.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Logan was overwhelming up close, the scent of his cologne curling into your lungs. He was staring at you like you were a puzzle he firmly intended to break apart.
The physical awareness between you was suddenly deafening. The rise and fall of his chest, the slight flex of his jaw, the way his thumb rubbed absently against the seam of his jeans.
It was heavy, heated, and entirely inappropriate considering you were fundamentally incompatible.
"You guys flirt like divorced parents," Dean announced loudly, shattering the tension.
You stepped back instantly. "I'd rather die, Di Laurentis."
"Seriously," Garrett chimed in, leaning against the wall with a delighted grin. "The sexual tension is ruining my high. Just make out already so Logan stops acting like a rabid dog every time you walk into a room."
"I do not act like a rabid dog," Logan snapped. He glanced at Garrett before shooting a defensive look at you. "And for the record, I don't flirt with her. Having a civil conversation with her is like trying to pet a cactus."
"A cactus?" You crossed your arms. "Your metaphors are weak as shit."
Logan stepped into your space again. "My metaphors are elite. You couldn't handle dating me anyway. I'm exhausting."
"Please," you scoffed. "I'd win."
Logan blinked, momentarily thrown off-balance. "You'd... win dating me? That doesn't even make sense."
"It means," you said, stepping right up into his space. "That if we dated, I would be completely unbothered. You, on the other hand, would crack in a week. You need vaildation too much. The moment I didn't laugh at your stupid jokes, your ego would implode."
"Is that right?" he asked, his voice dropping into a dangerously smooth register.
"That's a hypothesis," you whispered, holding his stare. "Backed by evidence."
"Alright, that's it," Garrett shouted, clapping his hands together like a referee ending a play. "Bet."
You tore your eyes away from Logan to look at Garrett. "What?"
"I'm calling the bluff," Garrett announced, stepping into the center of the circle. "Two months."
"Garrett, no," Hannah warned, grabbing his arm. "This is such a bad idea. They'll kill each other."
"No, let him speak," Logan interrupted, his eyes never leaving your face. There was a reckless, arrogant light in his gaze now. "What are you proposing, G?"
"A fake relationship," Garrett declared grandly. "Two months. Exclusive. Here are the terms: You two have to publicly pretended to be wildly, obnoxiously in love. You go to parties together. You sit in the cafeteria. You do all the gross couple shit."
"Absolutely not. You're the one to talk about fake relationships, Graham," you said immediately.
"Let him finish," Dean rubbed his hands together like a villain. "This is getting good."
"If you quit early, you lose," Garrett continued, counting on his fingers. "If you make it obvious to anyone outside this circle that it's fake, you lose. And the most important rule: whoever catches feelings first, loses."
Logan let out a bark of laughter. "Catch feelings? For her? I'd rather drink bleach."
"The feeling is mutual," you shot back smoothly.
"Excellent," Tucker said mildly, folding his arms. "Then this should be effortless for the both of you."
"If you both survive two months without losing," Dean added hastily, clearly inventing the stakes on the spot, "the three of us will cover Logan's share of the rent for the semester. And for the lady... we'll pay for your prep courses for the LSAT."
You froze. LSAT prep courses were expensive. You had been working extra shifts at the campus library just to save up for the basic packages.
Your secret, the one you closely guarded beneath your tailored clothes and sharp remarks, was that you constantly, exhaustingly stressed about money. Your parents weren't footing your tuition like the rest of the kids in this house.
You glanced at Logan.
He looked entirely unbothered, practically vibrating with the arrogant certainty that he could beat you. He probably thought it would be easy money. He probably thought he could charm his way through two months of fake dates, annoy you into quitting, and walk away victorious.
"Two months," you verified. "Exclusive public dating. Must appear convincing. Catching feelings results to an automatic forfeit."
"Those are the terms," Garrett confirmed, looking far too pleased with himself.
"Babe," Hannah whispered, leaning into your ear. "Do not do this. Logan is an idiot, but he's a very aggressively charming idiot. You're voluntarily putting yourself in the line of fire."
"Hannah," you murmured back, eyes fixed on Logan. "I'm going to ruin his life."
You stepped forward, extending your hand toward Logan.
"Deal."
Logan looked at your outstretched hand for a moment. A muscle ticked in his jaw. Then, slowly, he reached out and wrapped his calloused hand around yours. His palm was warm, rough from years of handling a hockey stick, and the sheer size of his grip swallowed your hand completely.
The moment your skin made contact, a violent, unexpected jolt of heat shot straight up your arm, setting low and heavy in your stomach. Logan's eyes snapped up to yours, widening just a fraction as if he had felt the same shock.
"Two months," Logan murmured, his voice suddenly sounding lower, rougher than it had a moment ago. "Try not to fall in love with me."
"Don't worry, Logan," you said, stepping back, desperately ignoring the tingling warmth still radiating across your skin. "I prefer men with actual reading comprehension skills."
As you turned away, dragging Hannah toward the kitchen to refill your beer, your mind was racing. You had a 3.9 GPA. You had destroyed professors in debates. You were composed, rational, and immune to college boy bullshit.
What are you doing with your life?
What happens after you agree to a fake-dating bet with John Logan is not a smooth, cinematic transition into romance. It is a controlled massacre of your entire existence.
By Monday morning, Briar University had done what Briar always did with total campus chaos: it weaponized it into gossip.
The exact moment you knew your carefully, ordered, highly academic life had collapsed was when you walked into your first class. Three people you had never seen before in your life turned in perfect, horrifying unision said, "Hey, Logan's girlfriend."
You didn't correct them. Not because it was true, but because correcting them would imply that you cared enough to use your vocal cords. And you absolutely refused to give the entire hockey house the satisfaction of knowing they've got you riled up.
Logan was waiting outside the lecture hall. As soon as he saw you, he pushed the wall with a lazy smirk. "Morning, sweetheart."
"Don't call me that in daylight. I feel like I'm being slaughtered."
"That's the whole point," he replied easily, not missing a beat.
Before you could step past him, he moved directly into your personal space. Logan didn't understand the concept of a normal human boundary.
Or, more accurately, he understood it perfectly and just liked seeing you try to calculate the physics of how much trouble you'd get into for shoving him into the nearest trash can.
He held out a coffee cup. You paused. "...Is that for me?"
"No, it's an experiment. I'm conducting a study on what happens when your cold, robotic, cynical heart accepts a basic act of human kindess. Do you melt? Do you hiss? I need to know."
You snatched it from his hand with a glare. You took a sip, fully prepared to criticize his taste, but stopped mid-swallow. It was exactly how you liked it.
You hated that he knew that. You hated that he had apparently paid attention to your order exactly once three weeks ago and cataloged it away.
By noon, your little arrangement has entered phase two.
When you sat down in the crowded dining hall with your laptop open, ready to get some actual work done, Logan didn't take the empty seat across from you.
He slid right onto the bench next to you. His thigh pressed casually against yours, the heat of his body radiating through his jacket. He acted like it was completely accidental, totally ignoring the fact that your entire nervous system was actively trying to exit your body through your ears.
Dean slid into the seat across from you a second later, immediately grinning like a hyena. "Oh, this absolute disgusting. Look at you two. You're doing the couple lean already. My stomach is turning, I love it."
"We're not leaning," you said, stiffening your posture until you were straight as an ironing board.
Logan immediately leaned his entire upper body weight into your shoulder, resting his chin almost directly on your collarbone to look at your laptop screen.
"What are we studying, baby?"
You shifted away, your face burning.
He followed.
You shifted back toward the edge of the bench.
He followed again, nudging his shoulder against yours with a quiet chuckle that vibrated right against your side.
"If you don't move three inches to the left," you whispered to Logan, "I'm going to stick this fork in your knee."
"Threatening me with bodily harm?" Logan beamed, completely unbothered. "Write that down, G. It's out one-week anniversary."
By the second week, the cracks in your defense strategy started small. Annoyingly, frustratingly small.
The real issue was Logan remembering things. Not grand, cinematic, romantic things. That would've been easy to ignore. It was worse. It was the mundane, everyday things.
On Tuesday, a freak afternoon thunderstorm hit right as your statistics seminar let out. You stood in the lobby of the building, staring gloomily at the pouring rain, fully prepared to ruin your favorite shoes and your mood.
Then the heavy glass doors swung open, bringing in a gust of cold air, and there was Logan. He was soaking wet, his hair blasted blasted by the wind, holding out a massive umbrella.
"What are you doing here?" you asked. "Don't you have practice?"
"Canceled," he lied smoothly, though you knew for a fact hockey practice was never canceled unless the arena literally froze over from the outside.
"C'mon, I'm not letting your stuff get damaged. I'd never hear the end of it."
On Thursday, after you spent six straight hours in the computer lab and forgot that human beings require food to stay alive, he casually walked past your desk.
Without saying a word, he dropped a bag of chips, a sandwich, and a protein bar right on top of your keyboard. He didn't even linger for a thank you; he just flashed you a smile and kept walking.
Then he started walking you home from the campus library. Every single night.
"You don't have to do this, you know," you told him one chilly night. "I'm perfectly capable of walking without security."
"I know," he replied simply, his hands shoved deep into his pockets.
That was it. No cocky comeback. No punchline to ease the tension. Just complete, unbothered certainty. And that was the exact problem. John Logan didn't do anything without intent.
Later that weekend, the hockey house threw a massive party that you were forced to attend to 'keep up the act.' You were standing with Logan by the crowded kitchen island when Dean loudly announced to a group of girls.
"Just so you all know, Logan hasn't even looked at anyone's way ever since she came. The man is practically a monk."
The girls laughed, looking at Logan expectantly, waiting for him to play along or make a joke.
Logan didn't deny it. He didn't even laugh. He just took a slow sip of his cup and said, "No time. I've been busy."
And he looked directly, intensely at you when he said it.
The heat in his gaze made your face feel like it was on fire. You came very, very close to throwing your cup of beer straight at his beautiful, stupid forehead. Almost.
By week three, the rest of the house began to notice that something was seriously off with the atmosphere.
It wasn't that you were acting like a couple in public (That was the literal objective of the bet). The actual problem was much worse: it was starting to look real when absolutely no one was watching.
Hannah cornered you in the kitchen on a Sunday afternoon while you were trying to make tea.
"You're aware you're softening, right?" she asked, leaning her hip against the counter and eyeing you.
"I am not softening," you said keeping your voice entirely flat and monotone.
Hannah gave you a long, knowing look that made you want to crawl under the floor. "You're not losing the bet," she said quietly, her tone softening. "But something's happening."
She patted your shoulder in a way that felt entirely too sympathetic and walked away before you could come up with a brilliant counterargument to save face.
The following week was the week everything completely shifted, because Logan stopped performing.
The flirting didn't disappear, but it changed into something unrecognizable. There was less showmanship, less playing to the crowd. He stopped making the rest of the campus his audience.
Instead, he started making you his sole focus.
One chilly Friday night, he walked you back to your dorm after a grueling study session that had left you wishing for a quick death.
"You don't have to come up to the door," you said. "I have my keys anyway."
"I know."
But he didn't move. He just stood there, his breath turning to white mist in the cold night air. His dark hair was slightly messy from the wind, and he looked incredibly human.
The silence stretched between you, growing longer and heavier by the second. Usually, this was the part where he'd make a sarcastic comment, flash his signature grin, or try to steal a fake kiss to get a reaction out of you so he could tease you about it.
But he just looked at you.
Then quieter than you'd ever heard him speak, Logan said, "You ever think about what happens after this?"
You frowned, "We win. Obviously. You and I get the satisfaction of annoying the boys and not pay for anything. Life continues exactly as it did before we started this."
"That's not what I meant."
You studied his face. The streetlights threw sharp shadows across his jawline. He wasn't smirking, or teasing, he looked incredibly still. It made your stomach tighten in a way that you really, really did not appreciate.
"I don't think about the after," you said carefully, your voice barely above a whisper.
Logan nodded once. Like that was a completely acceptable answer. Like it was for now.
"Goodnight," he said softly, turning to walk down the path toward his car.
Naturally, the first real breakdown happened during a completely stupid, unromantic moment.
It was a Thursday night in the absolute deepest basement of the campus library. It was past 2:00 AM. Your notes looked like ancient hieroglyphics, your brain felt like wet cement, and your very last remaining nerve was hanging on by a single, fraying thread of caffeine.
Out of nowhere, a familiar shadow fell over your messy desk. Logan slid into the wooden chair directly across from you. He looked entirely too awake for two in the morning.
âYou look like youâre about to commit a felony,â he said, eye-level with your massive stack of textbooks.
âI am studying.â
âThatâs worse.â
You pinched the bridge of your nose, feeling a massive headache blooming behind your eyes. âWhy are you even here, Logan? Don't you sleep?â
He reached out and lightly tapped the edge of your open laptop. âBecause Hannah told me you havenât eaten anything since lunch. And because youâre stubborn.â
âIâm fine.â
âYour hands are shaking.â
âIâm just highly focused. Itâs an adrenaline rush.â
âYouâre going to pass out on a public desk and some freshman is going to steal your notes.â
âI said Iâmââ
The words caught in your throat. Logan reached across the table, his large hand wrapping around the top edge of your laptop, and gently but firmly closed it shut.
âCome on,â he said.
It wasn't a command. He wasn't teasing your or trying to be funny. His voice was just filled with a quiet, undeniable certainty that completely disarmed me.
You stared at him, your stubbornness trying to flare up one last time. âIâm not done.â
âYou are for tonight,â he said. He paused, looking at you with an expression that was so soft, so genuinely sweet, it scared me more than any test ever could. Quieter, he added, âIâm not asking.â
And for some horrific reason, that was what broke you. It wasn't him trying to control the situation; it was the fact that he was disguising genuine, protective care as control. My throat felt tight.
Once you got outside into the cool, crisp night air, he pulled a warm, wrapped breakfast sandwich out of his jacket pocketâhe must have gone to the 24-hour diner down the streetâand handed it to you.
âYouâre really not supposed to be good at this,â you whispered, your voice cracking slightly.
âAt what?â
âWhatever this is. Being nice. Taking care of me. Itâs messing with everythingâ
Logan leaned his back against the brick wall of the library, looking down at you with a soft, steady expression. âIâm not trying.â
And that, right there, was the ultimate problem. He wasn't trying to act like a good boyfriend for the bet. He just was.
By week six, Garrett called an emergency house meeting. In the hockey house, a formal house meeting meant disaster was not just imminentâit had already arrived, unpacked its bags, and moved into the guest room.
âYou guys are failing,â Garrett announced, pointing a finger at you and Logan from across the living room coffee table like a disappointed coach.
âWe are literally not failing,â you shot back instantly, crossing your arms defensively. âEveryone on campus thinks weâve been dating for a month and a half. The dean literally asked me how Logan was doing yesterday.â
âYouâre not winning, though,â Dean corrected, leaning over the back of the couch with a piece of leftover pizza in his hand.
Tucker nodded from the armchair, not looking up from his phone. âThere is a distinct difference between surviving and winning.â
Logan leaned back in his seat, looking completely unbothered as he stretched his long legs out across the rug. âWeâre fine. The bet is intact. No one doubts us.â
Hannah didnât speak at all. She just sat in the corner armchair, watching the two of you with a look that made you incredibly nervous.
Garrett stood up and started pacing, pointing between the two of you. âYouâre supposed to be acting. That was the deal. Fake dating. But right now, Logan looks like heâs thinking way too much about what he's doing, and she looks like sheâs actively trying not to look at him. Itâs weird. The vibe is off.â
âI donât think,â Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes. âItâs against my brand.â
Without thinking, your brain completely bypassing your filters, you blurted out, âHe absolutely thinks. He thinks more than all of you combined. Heâs incredibly observant, and just because he doesn't shout his thoughts doesn't mean he's empty-headed.â
The entire room went dead silent. Garrett stopped mid-pace. Dean froze with the pizza halfway to his mouth.
They all stared at you. Then you realized what you had just done: you had just fiercely, reflexively, passionately defended Logan Johnâs honor in front of his best friends.
That was entirely new. That was not in the script. You hated myself a little bit in that moment, your cheeks burning a bright, undeniable crimson.
It was exactly eleven forty-five on a Friday night, which meant there were fifteen minutes left on the clock.
Fifteen minutes until the wager expired. Sixty days of holding hands in public corridors, sixty days of leaning close enough to share breath but never a kiss, and sixty days of you telling yourself you were fundamentally immune to John Logan.
The bass of the off-campus house party rattled through the worn wooden floorboards, vibrating against the soles of your boots. Red and purple strobe lights sliced through the humid, crowded room, illuminating the exact moment Logan broke through the throng of sweaty bodies.
He moved with that infuriating, effortless grace he always possessedâbroad shoulders easily parting the crowd, his dark leather jacket slipping past red plastic cups and uninhibited dancers.
His eyes were locked on you from across the room. There was no trademark smirk tonight. No lazy, arrogant tilt to his jaw. He looked deadly serious.
Your heart did a violent, terrifying stutter against your ribs. Don't lose your nerve.Â
The bet had been simple: fake date for two months to get your respective meddling friends off your backs, and whoever caught feelingsâwhoever tapped out firstâlost. It was an exercise in ego. A test of pure, stubborn willpower.
He knew exactly where to touch your lower back to make your breath hitch. You knew exactly how to angle your neck when he whispered in your ear so that he would lose his train of thought. It was mutually assured destruction disguised as a joke.
But as he stopped right in front of you, the joke was violently dead.
He took your hand, wrapping his large, warm fingers around your wrist, and pulled you out of the kitchen. You followed blindly, letting him navigate you down a narrow, shadowed hallway away from the crush of the party. The noise muffled slightly, swallowed by the heavy coats piled on a nearby bench.
Logan turned to face you. The shadows carved sharp angles into his cheekbones. His chest was rising and falling a little too fast, his dark eyes entirely devoid of their usual playful challenge. He took a single step into your space, trapping the air between you.
"Time's almost up," he murmured, his voice a low, rough scrape against the thrumming music from the other room.
"I know," you breathed. Your throat felt incredibly dry. You fought the urge to step back, but the wall was already pressing against my shoulder blades. "You ready to concede?"
"No," he said flatly. Then, his gaze dragged down to your mouth, heavy and dark and starving. "I'm ready to change the rules."
Your logical brain told you that you should find a flaw in this plan. Your old survival instinct told you to run away before you got hurt.
But instead, you looked up into his eyes and said, âThis is probably going to ruin our entire reputation for being sensible.â
Logan smiled, that beautiful, real smile that didn't have a hint of a smirk in it, his eyes wrinkling at the corners. âProbably.â
He squeezed your hand tightly, pulling you just an inch closer until your chest was pressed against his jacket. âWorth it?â
You looked at him. Really, truly looked at himâthe boy who brought you umbrellas in the rain and remembered how you took your coffee.
You ignored the loud music behind him, the crazy bet behind you, and all the overthinking in your own head. For the first time in two solid months of calculating every move, you didnât care about the outcome.
ââŠYeah,â you whispered, reaching your free hand up to grip the lapel of his jacket. âDefinitely worth it.â
Logan exhaled a massive breath, like heâd been holding it underwater for weeks, a look of pure relief washing over his face. âGood,â he said.
And this time, when he stepped closer and leaned his head down, you didnât move away at allâyou reached up to meet him halfway.
The second your lips touched, a violent, desperate shockwave tore through you. It wasnât a soft, exploratory first kiss. It was an absolute collision.
Logan groaned, a deep, helpless sound in the back of his throat, and immediately dropped his hands to your hips, hauling you flush against his hard body.
He kissed you like he was starving. Like the last two months had been a physical torture he was finally allowed to end. His tongue swept into your mouth, possessive and hot, tasting every corner while his hands gripped your waist tight enough to bruise.
"Baby," he breathed raggedly against your lips, peppering hot, frantic kisses down the corner of your mouth to your jaw. "Christ, I've wanted to do this since week one."
"Then why didn't you?" you gasped, letting your head fall back against the wall as his lips dragged down your neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin.
"Because you're stubborn as hell," he growled, biting lightly at your collarbone. "And I needed you to be sure. Let's get out of here. Now."
There was no conversation. No goodbye to your friends. You practically sprinted out the back door, stumbling into the sharp chill of the autumn night. His hand was locked in yours, pulling you toward his car parked down the block.
The entire drive to your apartment was a blur of thick, agonizing tension. Logan kept one hand on the steering wheel, his knuckles white, while his right hand rested heavily on your thigh.
His thumb dragged slow, torturous circles against the denim of your jeans, sending jolts of heat pooling directly between your legs.
By the time you shoved your way through your front door, the final remnants of restraint shattered.
The heavy wooden door hadn't even clicked shut before Logan pinned you against it. His mouth crashed down on yours again, deeper and dirtier this time.
He tasted like desperation. Your hands scrambled at the zipper of his jacket, shoving the cool leather off his broad shoulders so it dropped uselessly to the floor.
"Fuck, baby," he mumbled roughly, his hands already sliding up under the hem of your sweater. His large, warm palms met the bare skin of your stomach, and you threw your head back with a sharp gasp. "Tell me to stop if this is just the adrenaline."
"Logan," you said, your voice shaking with pure need. "If you stop right now, I'll never forgive you."
He let out a low, feral sound that sent a shiver straight down your spine. In one fluid motion, he grabbed the hem of your sweater and pulled it over your head, tossing it aside.
You stood before him in a bra, chest heaving, entirely exposed to the searing heat of his gaze. Every muscle in his jaw feathered as his eyes took you in.
"You have no idea," he whispered, his voice thick, his hands trailing down your sides. "You have no fucking idea what it's been like. Pretending I wasn't obsessing over you. Holding your hand and having to let it go."
"Show me, then," you challenged softly, your fingers reaching for the buttons of his shirt.
He didn't need to be told twice. He stripped off his shirt with brutal efficiency, revealing a broad chest and a torso cut with hard lines of muscle.
You barely had a second to appreciate the view before he was backing you down the short hallway into yout bedroom. The mattress hit the backs of your knees, and you tumbled down into the comforter, Logan following you down instantly.
His weight settled over you, caging you in, heavily masculine and exquisitely overwhelming. He kissed you again, his thigh parting your legs as his hips pressed flush against you.
Even through the layers of denim between you, you could feel exactly how hard and thick he was for.
A desperate, wet heat flooded your panties. You arched blindly against him, seeking friction, and he groaned into your mouth.
"Fuck, you feel so good," he rasped, his warm breath fanning over your collarbone.
His hands moved with practiced, urgent purpose. He unclasped your bra in a single deft motion, sweeping the lace aside to expose you.
The cool air hit your flushed skin for only a second before Logan lowered his head. His mouth closed over one hard peak, hot and wet, his tongue laving the sensitive center while his teeth scraped lightly.
A loud, embarrassing whimper tore out of your throat. Your hands dove into his hair, gripping tightly as a heavy, twisting coil of pleasure tightened deep in your belly.
He suckled you unapologetically, drawing hard enough to make stars burst behind your eyes, while his hand moved lower, fumbling with the button of your jeans.
You tore at each otherâs remaining clothes. It wasn't graceful; it was chaotic, driven by two solid months of pent-up starvation.
"You're perfect," he breathed, tracing a path down your stomach with one long finger. He followed the trail with a string of open-mouthed kisses, lower and lower, until he reached the juncture of your thighs.
Before you could brace yourself, he settled between your legs, hooking your knees over his shoulders.
"Loganâ" you gasped, reaching for him, but he just smirkedâa dark, wicked version of his usual smile.
"I have two months of making up to do," he murmured against you. "Keep your hands in the sheets, baby.â
And then his mouth was on you. He found my clit instantly, his tongue sweeping over the sensitive bundle of nerves in a long, relentless drag.
Your back arched completely off the mattress. You screamed his name, your fingers twisting violently into the heavy fabric of the sheets as he devoured you.
He knew exactly what he was doing. He was thorough, patient, and ruinously skilled. He alternated between deep, rhythmic laps and tight, focused flicks of his tongue, teasing you right to the edge and then backing off just enough to make you beg.
"Please," you sobbed out, thrashing helplessly against his mouth. "Logan, please baby, I needâ"
"I know," he soothed, sliding two thick fingers deep inside you while his mouth continued its assault.
you were completely dripping for him, embarrassingly slick, but he only seemed emboldened by how wrecked you were.
The orgasm hit you like a freight train. It ripped through your body in violent, shivering waves. You cried out, legs clamped tightly over his shoulders as you broke apart under his mouth.
You were still gasping for breath, chest heaving, when Logan rose over you. His face was flushed, his jaw tight, his dark eyes dilated with pure, predatory need.
He settled his weight back between your thighs, propping himself up on his forearms. He nudged the blunt, hot head of his length against your heat, stopping right on the verge.
He looked down at you, his expression softening into an aching vulnerability that made your heart hammer in your throat.
"I need you to know," he said, his voice entirely wrecked in the quiet room. "Before I do this. You have to know it wasn't a game to me. Not for a single goddamn second."
Tears stung the corners of your eyes at the raw sincerity in his tone. "I know. It wasn't a game to me either."
He let out a broken breath, leaning down to press a deep, bruising kiss to your mouth. As your lips locked, he drove his hips forward, burying himself fully inside you.
You both cried out. He was massive, thick and blazingly hot, stretching you open and filling every empty ache you hadn't let yourself acknowledge.
"Okay?" he whispered, his hips instinctively trembling against yours.
"Don't wait," you begged him, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist to lock his hips to you. âDon't hold back anymore."
That was the only permission he needed. Logan began to move, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in to the hilt with a heavy, wet slap of skin on skin.
He established a deep, punishing rhythm. Every thrust was accompanied by a harsh grunt, his hips snapping forward to hit the deepest, sweetest spot inside you over and over.
Your nails dug half-moons into his back, your hips rising off the mattress to meet him halfway, desperate for deeper friction.
"Fuck," he ground out, the pace accelerating. The bed frame let out a heavy rhythmic squeak, echoing the wet sounds of your bodies colliding. "You feelâgod, you feel better than I imagined."
"John⊠babyâŠâ you whimpered, the syllables falling from your lips entirely broken.
He shifted his grip, sliding one hand under your hips to angle you perfectly against him, while his other hand reached between your bodies. His thick thumb found your swollen clit, pressing down right as he drove deep inside.
The pleasure was too dense, too sudden. You let out a sharp cry, your head thrashing on the pillows as the second orgasm rushed up your spine.
"That's it," he praised hoarsely, his grip tightening violently on your hips. "Come for me. Let go."
You shattered around him, your walls clenching tightly over his cock. The sensation tipped him right over his own edge.
Logan let out a deep, guttural shout, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he drove completely to the hilt. His entire body went rigid, cording with strain as he pulsed deep inside you.
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the ragged tear of your breathing. Your heart was pounding so hard you could feel the vibration echoing in his chest, pressed completely flush against yours.
Slowly, the adrenaline ebbed, leaving a sprawling warmth in its wake. Logan pressed a soft, damp kiss to the side of your neck before gently rolling to the side, pulling me flush against his side.
He wrapped a thick arm around your waist, tucking your head securely under his chin. His hand smoothed down the messy tangle of your hair, his thumb beginning a slow, possessive stroke along your spine.
"So," he murmured, his voice rumbling pleasantly beneath your ear. The tension was gone from his shoulders, replaced by a profound, immovable contentment. "I tap out. You win."
You tilted your head up, resting your chin on his bare chest to look at him. His dark hair was a ruined mess, his lips were swollen, and his eyes were soft and incredibly bright in the dim light of the bedroom.
The smug arrogance of his fake dating persona was completely burned away, leaving only the real boy underneath. The one you were hopelessly, irrevocably in love with.
"I don't think either of us actually lost, Logan," you said softly, tracing the line of his jaw.
A lazy, brilliant smile finally spread across his face, lighting up the corners of his eyes. "Yeah," he whispered, pressing his lips firmly against your forehead. "I think you're right."
You lay there in the quiet aftermath of the storm, the neon digits on his nightstand clock finally flipping past midnight.
Day sixty was officially over. The wager was dead and buried. And as his fingers gently laced with yours in the dark, tying your hand to his, you realized the terrifying truth.
The fake romance was easy. Now you had to wake up tomorrow, walk out into the real world, and start playing for keeps.
