don’t lose them
beau maxwell x fem!dilaurentis!reader
summary: months after a drunk photobooth kiss, dean finds the pictures tucked neatly inside beau’s wallet, forcing you to finally confront what that night meant
friends to lovers
warnings: alcohol consumption, mutual pining, dean being a protective older brother, and a lot of yearning<3
word count: 11.4k
a/n: i can’t stop writing for beau someone help me. this ended up longer than i expected lmfao but it’s still a fun one, i hope you guys like it<3
beau maxwell masterlist off campus masterlist
── ᵎᵎ ✦
tonight’s problem was beau after several drinks, when the easy affection he usually kept hidden beneath teasing and casual touches became considerably harder for him to disguise.
you had been friends for long enough to know the difference.
beau was affectionate with everyone he cared about. that was simply part of who he was. he threw arms around shoulders, bumped knees beneath tables, and had never seemed to understand the concept of personal space when he was comfortable with someone. for the first few months of your friendship, you had convinced yourself that the way he behaved with you was no different.
eventually, that argument had become harder to maintain.
you weren’t sure when it had happened. there had been no single moment you could point to, no sudden realization dramatic enough to justify the increasingly inconvenient way your stomach behaved whenever he smiled at you across a crowded room.
it had happened gradually.
somewhere between late-night food runs and afternoons spent studying together, between him walking you home when he was already late to meet someone else and you sitting through football games you barely understood because he always looked for you in the stands afterward, beau had become something slightly more dangerous than a friend.
not that he knew that.
as far as you were concerned, he was never going to know that. besides, your brother would probably kill you both.
you were standing near the kitchen doorway when beau found you that night. the party had been going on for hours by then, though you had lost any reliable sense of time somewhere between your fourth drink and watching your brother attempt to convince allie that he could definitely open a bottle with the edge of a countertop.
he could not.
the resulting argument had lasted considerably longer than the bottle itself had survived.
you had been listening to allie complain about him when an arm suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you backward into a familiar chest. you barely had time to react before beau rested his chin against your shoulder, “found you.”
his voice was warm against your ear, slightly rough from having spent most of the night talking over music that was far too loud.
you hated the immediate response of your body to his proximity. the warmth that spread through you had nothing to do with the alcohol, but you smiled anyway and hoped the crowded room would hide the slight flush creeping into your cheeks, “i wasn’t hiding.”
“still found you.”there was an irritating satisfaction in his voice, as though locating you at a party neither of you had left was some kind of accomplishment.
you turned your head enough to look at him, which was a mistake. his face was far too close to yours, and he was already smiling. his hair had become increasingly messy throughout the night, probably because he had spent the last few hours running his hands through it, and his cheeks were faintly flushed from the alcohol and heat of the crowded house.
there was something loose and content about him when he drank. the usual energy remained, but the sharper edges disappeared. his smiles came more easily, his laughter grew louder, and whatever internal filter usually reminded him that friends did not need to be touching constantly seemed to stop working entirely.
not that it was particularly effective when he was sober. “where have you been?” he asked.
you glanced toward allie, who was standing approximately two feet away and watching the interaction with poorly concealed amusement, “right here.”
beau followed your gaze. when allie lifted her eyebrows at him he looked back at you, apparently unbothered by the silent judgment, “right.”
you laughed, unable to help yourself, “how much have you had to drink?”
his expression became thoughtful, “not that much.”
as you stared at him, his mouth twitched, and before you could question him further, his attention shifted toward something across the room. you watched his eyes narrow slightly before his entire face brightened with sudden interest.
you knew that expression. nothing good ever followed that expression, “what?”
he didn’t answer. instead, the arm around your waist disappeared only for his hand to find yours, “come with me.”
“where?”
beau had already started pulling you through the crowd, and you had little choice but to follow unless you wanted to create a human chain across the middle of the basement.
you stumbled after him, laughing when you nearly walked into somebody carrying a dangerously full cup. beau glanced back immediately and slowed just enough to make sure you were steady before continuing, his fingers tightening around yours.
finally, he stopped in front of a photo booth. it looked like it had been borrowed from somewhere and never returned. the red curtain was slightly crooked, one corner of the screen was cracked, and somebody had taped a handwritten sign above the coin slot informing everyone that the machine was free.
you stared at it. then at him; he was smiling. you immediately shook your head.
“why not?”
“because i know what i look like right now.”
his eyebrows drew together as though the answer was obvious, “you look good.”
the response came too quickly to be flirtatious, which somehow made it worse. you looked away, pretending to inspect the photo booth while your heart made an embarrassing attempt to climb into your throat, “my hair is a mess.”
“looks fine.”
“my makeup probably isn’t even on my face anymore.”
beau leaned closer, examining you with exaggerated concentration. the movement brought him into your space again, close enough that you caught the familiar scent of his cologne beneath the smell of alcohol and somebody’s aggressively sweet candle burning nearby. his teasing expression faded slightly as his eyes moved over your face, “you look pretty.”
your breath caught.
beau didn’t seem to notice what he had done. or maybe he did, because something changed in his expression too, the smile becoming quieter around the edges as the two of you looked at each other.
the moment lasted long enough to become dangerous. then someone shouted from across the basement, a cup hit the floor, and the noise of the party rushed back in around you.
you cleared your throat, “you’re drunk.”
“a little.”
“that explains it.”
beau frowned, “explains what?”
you pulled the curtain aside before he could make you answer, “get in the booth, maxwell.”
his confusion lasted only a second before satisfaction replaced it.
the bench inside was considerably smaller than it had looked from outside, something you suspected beau had known before convincing you to enter. you slid toward one side, pressing yourself against the wall to make room.
it didn’t help.
beau sat beside you and immediately took up most of the available space. your shoulders pressed together, one of his knees knocked against yours, and when he tried to adjust his position, he somehow managed to trap part of your leg beneath his.
you shoved at his shoulder, “move.”
“where?”
“i don’t know. somewhere else.”
he looked around the tiny booth as though genuinely considering his options before settling back into exactly the same position, “there is nowhere else.”
“then become smaller.”
beau laughed, the sound warm and close in the cramped space. you could feel the movement of it where his shoulder pressed against yours, and you suddenly became much too aware of how little room there was between you.
outside the booth, being close to beau was easy to ignore. inside it, there was nowhere else to look.
you reached forward and pressed the large green button beneath the screen before your thoughts could become any less helpful.
a countdown appeared.
five.
four.
beau leaned forward, “wait.”
three.
you looked at him, “what?”
two.
“i wasn’t ready.”
one.
the flash went off.
you blinked at the screen as the first photograph appeared in the corner.
you were looking directly at the camera, though your expression suggested you had been caught somewhere between confusion and laughter.
beau wasn’t looking at the camera at all. he was looking at you.
your amusement faded slightly. you glanced sideways at him, but he was already studying the screen with an expression that gave nothing away.
“you weren’t looking.”
“i know.”
“you ruined the first one.”
“seems fine to me.”
you looked back at the photograph. there was something strangely intimate about seeing the moment from the outside. you were turned toward the camera, completely unaware, while beau’s attention was fixed entirely on you.
you swallowed and looked away, “try looking at the camera this time.”
the countdown had already begun again. beau straightened, arranging his expression into something so absurdly serious that you immediately started laughing, “what are you doing?”
“taking a good picture.”
“you look miserable.”
“i’m concentrating.”
the flash caught him staring sternly into the camera while you were turned toward him, laughing. when the photograph appeared, you covered your mouth with one hand, “you look like you’ve been arrested.”
beau studied it, “i look good.”
“you look like you’re waiting for a lawyer.”
he turned toward you, visibly offended, and the third countdown began before either of you noticed, “you don’t think i look good?”
“not in that picture.”
“that’s very different from what you said earlier.”
“i didn’t say anything earlier.”
“you implied it.”
you stared at him, “when?”
“just then.”
“that makes no sense.”
“you said i only look bad in that picture.”
“that does not mean—”
the flash went off; the third picture caught you halfway through arguing while beau looked at you with an infuriatingly pleased grin.
you stared at the screen, then at him, “we have one picture left.”
“mhmm.”
“can we please take one normal one?”
beau leaned back against the booth, “you’re the one who keeps talking.”
“because you keep annoying me.”
“you started it.”
“i didn’t even want to do this.”
“you’re having fun,” he smirked and you hated that he was right.
the countdown appeared for the final picture.
this time, you faced the camera immediately, determined to get at least one photograph that didn’t capture you looking confused or arguing with him, “just smile normally.”
there was no response as you kept your eyes on the screen.
three.
“beau?”
two.
you turned your head. that was when you realized he was already looking at you. the smile had disappeared from his face and for one strange, suspended second, neither of you moved.
you were suddenly aware of everything at once. his knee pressed against yours, his shoulder warm beside you, the music outside the booth reduced to a dull pulse behind the curtain. your heart seemed to stumble over itself as his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
one.
you could have looked away.
you didn’t.
beau leaned in.
the kiss was soft enough that, for the first second, you almost wondered whether you had imagined it. then his hand came up, fingers settling carefully against the side of your face, and the flash went off behind your closed eyelids.
neither of you moved.
the picture had already been taken, but beau was still kissing you.
there was no cheering crowd to make it into a joke, no one pulling back immediately with a drunken laugh and an excuse. his mouth moved softly against yours, hesitant in a way you had never associated with him, as though he was waiting for you to decide whether this was a mistake.
you should have. because, dean was somewhere in the house and beau was his friend. beau was your friend.
there were a hundred reasons why you should have pulled away. instead, your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
something changed in the kiss. only slightly.
his thumb moved against your cheek, and you tilted your face toward him without thinking, your heart beating so hard you were certain he could feel it in the cramped space between you.
you had thought about kissing beau before. far more often than you were willing to admit, but none of those imagined versions had felt like this.
there was nothing dramatic about it. no sudden certainty or fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. it was warmer than that, and somehow more frightening. it felt familiar when it shouldn’t have. natural in a way that made all the careful boundaries of your friendship seem suddenly ridiculous.
when you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. beau’s hand remained against your face and your fingers were still twisted into his shirt.
for several seconds, the only sound inside the booth was the faint mechanical hum of the machine processing the pictures.
you stared at each other. the alcohol that had made everything seem pleasantly blurred five minutes ago suddenly felt entirely insufficient as an excuse. “well,” you murmured.
beau exhaled a quiet laugh, though he didn’t look particularly amused, “yeah.”
you waited for him to make a joke. he didn’t, which unsettled you more than anything else could have.
his eyes moved over your face, searching for something you weren’t sure how to give him, and the uncertainty in his expression made your chest tighten. you had known beau for long enough to recognize when he was nervous.
he was nervous now.
because he had kissed you. because you had kissed him back. because somewhere outside the booth, reality was waiting.
you were the first to look away, “we should probably get out.”
beau nodded, though neither of you moved immediately. eventually, you untangled yourselves from the tiny space. you stepped out first, grateful for the cooler air outside the booth, while beau followed behind you.
the machine made a mechanical whirring sound before the strip of photographs slowly emerged.
you both looked at it, but neither of you moved.
then beau reached for it. he held the strip between his fingers, his eyes moving over the four photographs. the first three made his mouth twitch faintly.
his expression changed at the last one. you couldn’t read it and you weren’t entirely sure you even wanted to.
“well,” you said again, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.
beau glanced at you, “you said that already.”
“i did.”
“still processing?”
you folded your arms, “are you?”
he looked back at the picture, “maybe.”
your stomach flipped, but before either of you could say anything else, you heard dean calling your name from somewhere across the basement.
both of you froze.
you looked toward the sound, then at beau. his expression was so immediately guilty that a laugh escaped you, “you look terrified.”
“i’m not terrified.”
“you look like my brother just caught us.”
“he didn’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
beau glanced toward the crowd. the fact that he genuinely checked made you laugh again. some of the tension broke. not all of it, but enough for you to breathe normally.
dean called your name again, this time followed by allie telling him to stop shouting when you were clearly only twenty feet away. you started backing toward them, “we should probably…”
“yeah.”
you nodded toward the photo strip, “don’t lose that.”
beau glanced down at it for a second before looking back at you, “i won’t.”
something about the way he said it made you hesitate. but dean was still calling you, allie was threatening to leave without both of you, and you had no idea what you were supposed to say to the boy you had been friends with for months after kissing him in a photo booth.
so you smiled faintly and turned away, telling yourself you would talk about the kiss later.
you didn’t.
not the next morning, when you woke up with a headache and a message from beau asking whether you were alive. the conversation had been painfully normal, beginning with his complaint about the state of his head and ending twenty minutes later with the two of you arguing about whose fault it was that neither of you had eaten anything resembling an actual meal the night before.
neither of you mentioned the photo booth.
you didn’t mention it three days later either, when beau appeared outside one of your classes with coffee because he had been nearby and apparently remembered you complaining that morning about being tired. you had walked across campus together like you always did, shoulders occasionally brushing, conversation easy enough that you could almost convince yourself nothing had changed.
almost.
because things had changed, even if neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge it.
before the party, touching beau had been thoughtless. you had leaned against him during movies and stolen his hoodies when you were cold. he had thrown an arm around your shoulders whenever he felt like it and occasionally rested his head in your lap while complaining about something that had happened at practice. none of it had required thought because you had both understood the boundaries of it.
after the photo booth, every touch seemed to linger in your awareness.
when his hand found the small of your back in a crowded room, you remembered the feeling of his palm against your cheek. when he leaned close to hear you over the noise somewhere, your attention dropped helplessly toward his mouth. when he hugged you goodbye, you became painfully conscious of how long his arms stayed around you and wondered whether he was counting the seconds too.
the worst part was that beau seemed just as confused by the shift as you were.
sometimes, you caught him looking at you. not casually. not in the easy, absent way people looked at friends they had known for a long time. his attention would linger until you noticed it, and then one of you would look away while the other pretended nothing had happened.
once, while studying together in the library, you had looked up from your notes and found him already watching you from across the table, “what?” you had whispered.
beau had blinked, as though you had pulled him from somewhere far away, “nothing.” you had waited and watched him as he had looked down at his textbook, “you had something on your face.”
you hadn’t, you both knew you hadn’t. still, neither of you said anything.
weeks passed that way.
then months.
somewhere along the line, the awkwardness faded enough that your friendship returned to something resembling normal, but the kiss never disappeared completely. it lived somewhere beneath everything else, quiet but present, surfacing in the pauses that occasionally stretched between you or in the moments when beau stood slightly too close and neither of you moved away.
you eventually assumed the photo strip itself had disappeared.
beau lost things constantly. keys, chargers, his phone, water bottles, notes he needed for class. once, he had spent fifteen minutes searching for his sunglasses while they were resting on top of his head.
there was no reason to think the photograph from a drunken party had survived his particular brand of chaos.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ
months later, dean stopped by beau’s place after hockey practice with sore shoulders, damp hair, and the increasingly specific irritation of someone who had sent three unanswered messages over the course of an hour.
by the time beau finally opened the door, dean had already decided he was taking the twenty dollars beau owed him whether beau remembered owing it or not. beau, unsurprisingly, looked entirely unconcerned by the situation. he stood aside to let dean in, barely reacting when the heavy hockey bag was dropped beside his couch with enough force to make something inside it shift noisily.
“you still owe me twenty bucks,” dean said, following beau toward the kitchen.
beau opened the refrigerator and stared into it, “for what?”
“food last week.”
there was a short pause while beau seemed to search his memory. dean watched the back of his head with growing impatience, already knowing there was a good chance beau had absolutely no recollection of the meal in question. eventually, beau gave up trying to remember and gestured vaguely toward the kitchen counter, “wallet’s over there. just take it.”
dean crossed the room while beau disappeared down the hallway in search of a shirt. there was nothing unusual about dean opening his wallet; they had known each other for years, long enough for boundaries surrounding things like borrowed clothes, stolen food, and taking money one of them had explicitly been told to take to become fairly relaxed.
the twenty-dollar bill was tucked behind a collection of old receipts and cards. dean had just pulled it free when a piece of folded glossy paper shifted in one of the inner pockets.
he almost ignored it. almost.
then he noticed the edge of a photograph. that was unusual enough to make him pause. beau didn’t carry photographs around, at least not as far as dean knew, and curiosity won before he could give much thought to whether he was crossing a line.
he pulled the strip free and unfolded it.
the first picture confused him more than anything else.
he recognized you immediately. you were looking directly at the camera with the beginnings of a smile on your face, seemingly unaware that the person beside you had failed entirely to do the same. beau wasn’t looking toward the camera at all. his head was turned slightly in your direction, his attention fixed on you with an expression dean couldn’t immediately read.
dean’s eyebrows pulled together as he moved to the second photograph. that one made considerably more sense. beau looked absurdly serious while you were caught laughing beside him, your face turned toward him instead of the camera. the third showed the two of you in the middle of what looked like an argument, although beau’s grin suggested he was enjoying it far more than you were.
then dean reached the fourth picture.
for several seconds, he didn’t react at all. his mind seemed to reject the image before him, forcing him to look away and then back again as though the photograph might somehow rearrange itself into something less concerning.
it didn’t.
his best friend was kissing his sister.
and judging by the way your hand was curled into the front of beau’s shirt, his sister was very clearly kissing him back.
dean was still staring at the photograph when footsteps sounded behind him, “how was—”
beau stopped speaking and dean slowly raised his head. the change in beau’s expression was immediate. his attention dropped to the photo strip in dean’s hand, and something between recognition and dread crossed his face before he could hide it.
for a few seconds, neither of them spoke. the apartment suddenly felt unusually quiet, and dean became aware of the refrigerator humming behind him and the faint noise of traffic coming through an open window.
he lifted the photo strip slightly, “want to explain this?”
beau’s jaw tightened, “you were supposed to take twenty dollars.”
“i did.”
“then why are you holding that?”
dean looked down at the photograph again, irritation returning now that the initial shock had worn off enough for him to think properly, “because i opened your wallet and found a picture of you kissing my sister.”his eyes returned to the photo strip, moving back over the pictures with a new kind of attention.
the kiss itself was bad enough. what bothered him more, strangely, was everything that came before it.
he looked at the first photograph again.
you were smiling toward the camera while beau was looking at you. not accidentally, either. there was nothing distracted about his expression. dean had known him for years, and even captured in a blurry photo booth picture, there was something unmistakable about the way his attention had settled entirely on you, “when was this?”
beau didn’t answer immediately, and that small hesitation was enough to sharpen dean’s suspicion, “maxwell.”
“a few months ago.”
dean stared at him. he knew exactly which party it had been now. the memory returned in pieces: the crowded basement, allie complaining about the music, the photo booth shoved into one corner. he vaguely remembered you disappearing at some point, although he hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
apparently, he should have. his attention moved from the strip to the wallet still lying open on the counter, “you’ve had this since then?”
beau looked increasingly uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny, “yeah.”
“in your wallet?”
“yeah.”
dean waited for more, but nothing came, “you kissed my sister months ago, neither of you told me, and you’ve been carrying the pictures around ever since?”
beau’s expression hardened slightly, “i don’t remember there being a rule that said i had to report everything to you.”
“she’s my sister.”
“i’m aware.”
“you’re my best friend.”
“also aware.”
dean stared at him, trying to decide which part of the situation he wanted to be angry about first. there were too many options. the fact that the kiss had happened at all was one thing, but the fact that it had apparently happened months ago while he remained completely oblivious was considerably worse.
then another thought occurred to him, “you two aren’t even together.”
something in beau’s face changed. it wasn’t dramatic. his expression didn’t collapse, and he didn’t look away immediately. there was simply a slight shift in his shoulders, a brief tension around his mouth that disappeared almost as soon as dean noticed it.
“no,” beau said. “we’re not.”
dean looked at the photograph again. then back at his friend. the irritation inside him began making room for something more complicated, “why do you still have these?”
beau held out his hand, “give them back.”
“why?”
“because they’re mine.”
dean didn’t move as beau’s hand remained extended between them for another moment before falling back to his side, frustration beginning to show more clearly in his face, “dean.”
“i’m asking a question.”
“and i don’t owe you an answer to that one.”
the words should have made dean angrier. instead, they made him pay closer attention.
he looked down at the photo strip again, noticing details he had missed during the initial shock. the paper had been folded neatly along the blank space between two photographs so none of the pictures themselves were damaged. despite having spent months inside beau’s wallet, the strip was in surprisingly good condition.
that was almost more concerning than the kiss.
dean knew beau. he knew the state of his backpack, his car, and every bedroom he had ever occupied. he had watched him lose important documents within minutes of receiving them and once spent an entire afternoon helping him search for a set of keys that eventually turned up in the pocket of the jeans beau was wearing. yet somehow, this had survived.
dean’s attention lifted slowly, “you like her.”
beau’s face closed immediately, “don’t.”
“i’m not asking.”
“and i’m not talking to you about this.”
dean let out a quiet breath, but the realization had already begun rearranging months of memories in his head.
there had been all those times beau had shown up at their place without any particular reason. all those casual questions about whether you were going somewhere, asked in a tone that had clearly been designed to suggest the answer didn’t matter. the way beau somehow knew your class schedule despite regularly forgetting his own.
then there had been the strange few weeks after the party.
you and beau had still spent time together, but there had been something off about both of you. an unfamiliar carefulness. you had avoided looking at each other for too long, then stared when you thought nobody was paying attention. dean had assumed you had argued about something stupid and would eventually get over it.
he felt profoundly irritated with himself, “how long?”
beau’s expression remained guarded, “it doesn’t matter.”
“it does to me.”
“why?”
“because i’m her brother.”
“and i’m aware of that every single time i think about doing something about it.” the answer came out sharper than beau had probably intended.
both of them went quiet as dean stared at him.
beau looked away first, his jaw tightening as though he regretted saying anything at all. the irritation in dean’s chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted, “doing something about what?”
beau gave him a flat look, “seriously?”
“i want to hear you say it.”
“absolutely not.”
despite himself, dean almost laughed. instead, he looked down at the photo strip again. the whole situation was deeply uncomfortable, and a protective part of him still wanted to be angry simply because anger was easier than whatever else he was beginning to feel.
but this was beau.
dean knew the parts of him other people didn’t always see. he knew how loyal beau was once he cared about someone and how seriously he took the people he considered his. he knew that beneath the easy confidence and constant joking, beau was capable of worrying himself into silence when something genuinely mattered.
looking at him now, dean understood that the problem wasn’t whether beau cared about you. the problem was probably that he cared too much.
dean finally held the photo strip out.
beau took it immediately, his attention dropping toward the pictures as he smoothed one thumb over the fold before carefully closing the strip and sliding it back into the same compartment of his wallet.
dean watched the entire process, “does she know you kept them?”
beau’s hand paused briefly over the wallet, “no.”
“why not?”
beau shut it and placed it back on the counter, “because she doesn’t.”
“very informative.”
“i’m not doing this with you.”
dean leaned back against the counter, studying his friend, “you know, for someone who usually never shuts up, you’re being incredibly difficult.”
“this is different.”
the simplicity of the answer quieted dean. beau looked irritated, but there was something else beneath it now. something that made dean think of all the times he had watched his friend walk confidently into situations that would make other people nervous.
this was not one of those situations.
beau was scared. not of dean, but of getting this wrong. the realization softened something in dean against his will, “you know she likes you too, right?”
beau’s head turned so quickly that dean almost laughed, “what?”
dean felt the corner of his mouth lift.
beau immediately caught himself, suspicion replacing surprise, “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“whatever you’re doing.”
“i’m standing here.”
“you’re enjoying this.”
dean was, a little. he pushed away from the counter and picked up the twenty-dollar bill he had almost forgotten about, “i’m telling her about the pictures.”
beau’s expression changed immediately, “don’t.”
“why?”
“because this is none of your business.”
“you made it my business when you kissed my sister.”
“that logic makes absolutely no sense.”
dean reached for his hockey bag, pulling the strap over his shoulder while beau watched him with growing distrust, “she deserves to know.”
“dean.”
“relax.”
“that sentence has never made anyone relax.”
dean headed toward the door, unable to stop the faint smile pulling at his mouth. behind him, beau muttered something that sounded deeply uncomplimentary.
the blonde ignored it. he was still not thrilled about any of this, but, unfortunately for both of them, he had a sister who had spent the last several months pretending she didn’t look at beau exactly the way beau looked at her.
and dean had never been particularly good at minding his own business.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ
you knew dean wanted something from you within five minutes of sitting down with him for lunch.
he had texted you that morning asking whether you were free between classes, which, on its own, hadn’t been unusual. despite the way he occasionally behaved as though being seen willingly spending time with his sister would destroy his reputation, the two of you got lunch together often enough that you hadn’t thought much of it. he had even offered to pay, and although that should have made you suspicious, you had decided not to question good fortune when it appeared.
now, sitting across from him in a booth near the back of della’s diner, you were beginning to think you should have questioned it immediately.
dean had been acting strange since you arrived. not strange enough that anyone else would have noticed, probably, but you had spent your entire life learning his habits against your will. you knew the difference between dean being quiet because he was tired and dean being quiet because he was waiting to say something. you knew the particular way the corner of his mouth moved when he was trying not to laugh, and you knew that when he repeatedly checked whether you had finished reading the menu despite already knowing your order, there was something occupying his attention.
you let it continue for a while, mostly because you were curious to see how long he would last.
the answer, apparently, was longer than expected.
by the time your food arrived, dean still hadn’t said anything. he had asked about your classes, complained about an early practice, and spent several minutes telling you a story about one of his teammates that you were fairly certain had no point. through all of it, though, you caught him watching you every few minutes with an expression that disappeared the second you noticed.
eventually, you put down the fry you had been about to eat and looked at him, “what do you want?”
dean paused with his drink halfway to his mouth “what makes you think i want something?”
the attempt at innocence was insulting. you leaned back against the booth and folded your arms, taking a moment to study him in exaggerated silence. dean stared back, his expression carefully blank, but you saw the slight shift in his mouth when he realized you weren’t going to answer.
“you asked me to lunch,” you said eventually. “you offered to pay, and you’ve been staring at me for the last fifteen minutes.”
“i haven’t been staring at you.”
“you have.”
“maybe you had something on your face.”
you narrowed your eyes, “you’re so annoying.”
“you came voluntarily.”
“you bribed me.”
“that sounds like a you problem.”
the familiar irritation was almost enough to distract you, but you knew him too well. there was still something beneath the teasing, something he was clearly enjoying keeping from you, and your patience was beginning to disappear.
you reached across the table and stole one of his fries. dean frowned, “you have your own.”
“you have information.”
his expression shifted for half a second. you sat back with the fry, satisfaction warming through you as dean realized he had given himself away, “i knew it.”
“you don’t know anything.”
“you invited me to lunch to tell me something and now you’re dragging it out because you enjoy being irritating.”
dean looked genuinely offended, “that is a terrible thing to say about your brother.”
“is it inaccurate?”
he considered the question while reaching for another fry, “not entirely.”
you lasted another ten seconds before kicking him lightly beneath the table. his knee knocked against the underside with a dull thud, “ow. what the hell?”
“talk.”
he looked at you for a moment, and some of the amusement slowly left his expression. the change was subtle, but it was enough to make you sit a little straighter. whatever you had expected from this conversation, the sudden seriousness in his face made uncertainty curl low in your stomach.
dean leaned back against the booth and ran a hand over his jaw, appearing to reconsider how he wanted to begin, “i went to beau’s place yesterday.”
the reaction to his name was immediate and deeply inconvenient. your attention sharpened before you could stop it, and although you kept your face carefully neutral, you had the uncomfortable suspicion that dean noticed anyway. dean was almost impossible to fool when he was actually paying attention.
you reached for your drink in an attempt to look unaffected, “that’s nice.”
“he owed me money.”
“riveting.”
“you’re being sarcastic.”
“because so far, this story is terrible.”
dean gave you a look before continuing, “he told me to get it out of his wallet.”
your fingers tightened slightly around your glass, “and?”
he hesitated. it wasn’t long, but it was enough for the strange feeling in your stomach to sharpen, “there was something in it.”
you tried to keep your voice light, “money, presumably.”
“besides the money.”
there was no reason for that to mean anything to you. none at all. beau’s wallet was not something you had ever given much thought to, and there were probably a hundred things dean could have found inside it that would be more interesting than anything involving you.
still, your mind went somewhere specific. a cramped photo booth. a flash behind your closed eyelids. beau’s hand warm against your cheek. you pushed the memory away almost as quickly as it appeared.
the pictures were gone.
it had been months since the party, and this was beau you were talking about. he lost things with a consistency that almost seemed intentional.
dean was still watching you.
you remembered the strip emerging slowly from the machine and beau taking it before you could. you remembered telling him not to lose it as you backed away through the crowd. you remembered the way he had looked down at the pictures.
you had never asked about them again.
“what did you find?” you asked as you set down your glass.
dean’s expression changed when he heard your voice. some of the satisfaction he had been carrying since you sat down disappeared, replaced by something more thoughtful. for the first time, you wondered whether he had expected you to react differently, “a photo strip.”
your hand went still beside your plate. the sounds of the diner continued around you. plates clattered somewhere behind the counter, the door opened with a small bell, and someone in the booth behind dean laughed loudly at something you couldn’t heard but you barely noticed any of it, “what photo strip?”
the question was pointless. dean knew it as well as you did. his eyebrows lifted slightly, “you want me to describe it?”
heat immediately climbed into your face as you looked down at your plate, “no.”
dean was silent for a second, “thought so.”
you glared at him, but there wasn’t much force behind it. your thoughts were moving too quickly now, struggling to settle around the only part of the story that seemed to matter, “was it just… in there?”
“it was folded up in one of the inside pockets.”
“folded?”
“carefully,” dean added, and something about his tone made you look at him. he was watching you closely now, all traces of teasing gone, “it wasn’t damaged or anything.”
beau had kept them.
the realization came slowly, even though dean had already told you everything you needed to know. there was something about hearing the details that made it real in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.
the strip hadn’t been forgotten in a drawer. it hadn’t survived by accident beneath the seat of his car or at the bottom of some bag. beau had folded it, put it inside his wallet, and he had kept it there for months.
you looked down before dean could see too much in your face, though you suspected you were already too late.
the memory of that night returned with painful clarity.
you remembered the cramped warmth of the booth and the way beau’s leg had been pressed against yours because there wasn’t enough space. you remembered turning your head during the final countdown and finding him already looking at you.
most of all, you remembered the kiss. you had replayed it often enough afterward to hate yourself for it.
at first, you had expected beau to mention it. every time your phone lit up with his name the next day, your stomach had tightened in anticipation, only for the conversation to remain painfully normal. then you had seen him in person, and the strange carefulness between you had made you think the conversation was coming.
it never did.
eventually, you had begun to wonder whether the kiss simply hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to you. you had hated that possibility, but it was easier than asking.
now, months later, the photographs were still in his wallet, “he kept them,” you said quietly.
you hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
dean’s face softened. it was a small change, one you might not have noticed if you didn’t know him as well as you did. his shoulders relaxed slightly, and the teasing comment you could practically see forming behind his eyes never made it to his mouth. “yeah,” he said. “he did.”
you ran your thumb absently along the edge of your napkin, “did you ask him why?”
dean let out a short breath through his nose, “obviously.”
despite everything happening inside your head, you almost smiled, “of course you did.”
“i had questions.”
“i’m sure you were very calm about it.”
“i was perfectly calm.” you looked at him and he looked back with a small smirk playing on his lips, “mostly.”
you shook your head, but the brief amusement faded quickly. curiosity was beginning to press against you now, uncomfortable in its intensity, “what did he say?”
dean’s gaze dropped briefly toward the table. the hesitation made your stomach twist, “dean.”
“he didn’t really answer.”
disappointment arrived faster than you wanted it to. you looked away, reaching for your drink even though you weren’t thirsty, “oh.”
your brother watched you for a moment, “hey, that doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
you looked at him, “you don’t know what i think it means.”
“i’m your brother. unfortunately, i know what most of your faces mean.”
“that’s not true.”
“you have about six expressions.” you wanted to argue, but dean’s expression remained serious. he leaned back against the booth, his eyes moving briefly toward the window beside you as he seemed to consider how much he wanted to say, “he wanted the pictures back immediately.”
you frowned, “because you took them out of his wallet.”
“yes, thank you, i understand the concept of personal property.” dean paused, “that’s not what i mean.”
you waited as he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck, and for the first time since the conversation began, dean looked genuinely uncomfortable, “i know beau.”
you raised an eyebrow, “very insightful.”
“can you not be annoying for thirty seconds?”
“you’re asking a lot.”
dean ignored you, “i know when he doesn’t care about something. i also know when he does.” he looked down at the table for a moment before continuing, “he cared that i found those pictures.”
you were quiet. there were several questions you wanted to ask, but all of them felt too revealing. dean was your brother, and although there were very few things you genuinely kept from each other, beau had somehow become one of them.
not intentionally. you had simply never found the right way to explain it.
how were you supposed to tell your brother that somewhere along the way, his best friend had become the person you looked for first in every room? that the easiest friendship in your life had somehow turned into the most confusing thing you had ever felt?
you looked down at your hands, “did he say anything else?”
dean was quiet long enough that you looked up again. his expression was conflicted, “he said enough.”
“what does that mean?” you stared at him.
he sighed. for a moment, he looked less like the brother who had spent your entire childhood annoying you for sport and more like the person who knew you better than anyone else in the world, “he’s scared of messing this up.”
you went very still, but dean continued before you could ask, “that’s all i’m saying. the rest is between you and him.”
your heartbeat had become unpleasantly loud, “messing what up?”
dean gave you a tired look, “seriously?”
“i want to know what he said.”
“and i just told you i’m not repeating everything.”
“then why tell me any of it?”the question came out sharper than you intended.
dean didn’t react defensively. instead, he looked at you for a long moment, and you had the uncomfortable feeling that he was deciding whether to say something you might not want to hear, “because you’ve been miserable.”
you blinked, “i have not.”
“you have.”
“dean—”
“not all the time,” he said, cutting you off before you could become properly offended. “but whenever it comes to him, you have. for months.”
you stared at your brother. he shrugged slightly, but there was no humor in his expression, “you think i didn’t notice?”dean sighed, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “i didn’t know what happened. i thought maybe you two had an argument after that party, because you were both acting weird as hell for weeks.”
“we were not.”
“you were. you could barely look at each other, and then whenever one of you wasn’t looking, the other one was staring.”
mortification spread slowly through you, “please stop talking.”
“gladly.”
you covered part of your face with one hand. dean gave you several seconds before continuing, apparently incapable of honoring his own promise, “for what it’s worth, he was worse.”
your hand lowered slightly and dean smiled, “knew that would get your attention.”
“you’re awful.”
“probably.”
you shook your head, but something inside your chest had begun to loosen. the feeling was frightening. you had spent months protecting yourself from it, carefully explaining away every look and touch and moment that seemed to mean more than friendship. it had been easier to assume you were imagining things than risk discovering you weren’t.
now dean had placed the photo strip back in the center of everything. you looked at him, “you really think i should talk to him?”
dean’s face tightened immediately, “i hate this question.”
despite yourself, you smiled, “why?”
“because every instinct i have as your brother is telling me to say no.”
“dramatic.”
“you’re my sister.”
“and he’s your best friend.”
“exactly. it’s a nightmare.”
you laughed softly, and dean shook his head, though his mouth had begun to twitch too. after a moment, his expression settled again, “but yes.”
the answer surprised you with its simplicity. dean looked down at his plate, nudging a fry through a small pool of ketchup as though the movement required his full attention, “you should talk to him.”
you studied him, “you trust him.”
dean’s eyes lifted. for a second, something unreadable moved through his expression. then he leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms, “unfortunately.”
for a few minutes, neither of you spoke. the conversation shifted into the comfortable silence that had always existed between you, one that didn’t need filling simply because you were siblings and had spent most of your lives occupying the same spaces.
your thoughts, however, were nowhere near quiet. you kept thinking about the wallet. about the photographs. about beau.
dean seemed to know where your mind had gone, because after a while, he sighed, “you’re going to see him tonight, aren’t you?”
you looked up, “maybe
“you are.”
“i haven’t decided.”
“you’ve been staring at the same french fry for two minutes.”
you looked down at the french fry squeezed between your fingers before putting it back on the plate, “i might talk to him.”
dean nodded slowly, his expression becoming serious again, “good.”
you raised an eyebrow, “that’s it?”
“what else do you want?”
“i don’t know. some kind of threatening older brother speech?” you raised a brow.
“older by three minutes.”
“you mention it constantly.”
“because those were a very peaceful three minutes.”
you kicked him beneath the table again. this time, dean was ready and moved his leg out of reach, “violent,” he muttered.
you rolled your eyes, but a smile remained on your face. the anxiety was still there, twisting low in your stomach whenever you thought about seeing beau, but it no longer felt impossible. for months, you had wondered whether the photo booth kiss had meant anything to him.
you still didn’t have an answer. not really.
but there was a folded strip of photographs tucked carefully inside beau’s wallet, and for the first time in months, you were beginning to think you might be brave enough to ask him why.
⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ
you found beau that evening. or, more accurately, you spent most of the evening trying to convince yourself to find beau before finally giving in and walking across campus to his frat.
the decision had seemed manageable while you were still sitting across from dean at lunch. even after you had left him and returned to your dorm, there had been a brief period when you felt strangely certain about the whole thing. you would go to beau’s place, ask him about the pictures, and finally have the conversation the two of you should have had months ago. simple enough, at least in theory.
then you had spent almost three hours thinking about it.
by the time you reached beau’s building, every bit of confidence you had managed to collect had been thoroughly dismantled. there were too many possible ways for the conversation to go wrong, and your mind had helpfully supplied you with all of them during the walk over. dean might have misunderstood the entire interaction. beau might have kept the pictures without attaching any particular meaning to them. maybe they had disappeared into his wallet after the party and remained there simply because he had forgotten about them.
you knew that last possibility wasn’t particularly convincing.
still, you clung to it all the way up the stairs.
one of his frat brothers let you in, and you slowed as you approached his door. you had been there countless times before, enough that there was nothing unfamiliar about the faded number or the slight scratch in the paint near the handle. usually, you knocked without thinking. sometimes you let yourself in after texting him first, because beau had long ago stopped treating your presence in his room as something that required permission.
tonight, you stood in front of the door and stared at it.
your hand lifted. then lowered. this was ridiculous.
you had known beau for years. you had fallen asleep on his bed, eaten breakfast with him while both of you were too tired to form complete sentences, and once sat on the floor of his bathroom while he attempted to fix a leaking pipe despite having absolutely no idea what he was doing. there should have been nothing frightening about talking to him.
unfortunately, none of those things had involved asking him why he had kept a photograph of himself kissing you in his wallet for several months.
you lifted your hand again, but the door opened before you could knock.
beau stood on the other side.
the surprise on his face lasted only a second before it softened into the familiar expression he always seemed to have when he saw you unexpectedly. it was small, barely more than a shift around his eyes and the beginning of a smile, but you had noticed it a long time ago.
you tried not to think about that now.
his gaze moved from your face to the hand you still had raised awkwardly between you, “were you planning to knock?”
you lowered it, “i was getting there.”
the corner of his mouth moved, amusement beginning to show in his face, “sure.”
you gave him a look as you walked past.
the exchange was so normal that some of the tension in your shoulders loosened. this was beau. the same beau who annoyed you deliberately because he liked watching you try not to laugh, who knew exactly how you took your coffee and still occasionally pretended to forget, who had become so deeply woven into the ordinary parts of your life that imagining those parts without him had started to feel impossible.
that was part of the problem.
you heard the door close behind you, “you good?”
you turned and saw beau watching you from across the room, the amusement had faded from his expression. he had always been frustratingly good at noticing changes in your mood, even the ones you thought you were hiding well.
“yeah.”
his eyebrows lifted slightly causing you to sigh, “mostly.”
that answer seemed to satisfy him more than the first one had. he walked toward his bed, picking up the television remote he’d probably thrown on there a second ago, and lowering the volume of whatever game had been playing in the background.
you sat down on the edge. the familiarity of it made your stomach twist. there had been so many evenings exactly like this one. you and beau sitting on opposite ends of his bed before inevitably drifting closer as the night went on, your legs ending up across his lap or his shoulder pressed against yours. you had never questioned any of it before the party.
afterward, you had questioned everything.
beau sat beside you, though not as close as he usually did. the small amount of space he left between you felt deliberate, and you found yourself wondering whether it always had been. whether he had been just as aware of every inch between you for the past few months as you had.
he waited for you to speak. you had rehearsed several different ways of beginning the conversation during the walk over. none of them seemed usable anymore. eventually, you looked at him, “i had lunch with dean.”
beau’s expression changed. it was subtle, but immediate. his shoulders dropped slightly as he looked up at the ceiling, and his eyes closed for a brief moment, “right.”
there was something resigned in his voice that almost made you smile, “he told me he saw you yesterday.”
“he did.”
“he also told me why.”
beau opened his eyes and looked toward you. there was no real surprise in his expression, only the mild irritation of someone whose expectations of his best friend had been confirmed in exactly the way he had hoped they wouldn’t be, “how much did he tell you?”
“enough to make me come here.”
that quieted him. for a moment, neither of you spoke. beau looked away first, his attention moving toward the television even though you doubted he was actually watching it.
you studied the side of his face. he looked uncomfortable.
the realization was strangely reassuring. beau was rarely uncomfortable around you. even during the strange weeks immediately after the party, he had managed to hide most of his uncertainty beneath an exaggerated version of his usual behavior.
but you knew him better now. you could see the tension in the way his jaw shifted slightly and the way his fingers tapped once against his knee before becoming still, “he told me about the pictures,” you said.
beau nodded slowly, “figured.”
you waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. you drew one leg beneath you and turned more fully toward him, “you still have them?”
his eyes returned to yours, “yeah.”
the answer came easily, without embarrassment or explanation. somehow, that made your chest tighten more than a longer answer would have, “can i see them?”
beau was quiet for a moment. you watched something uncertain move through his expression before he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet.
your attention dropped to it.
the sight of the worn leather shouldn’t have meant anything. it was just a wallet, something you had probably seen a hundred times before without ever paying attention. now you couldn’t stop looking at it.
beau opened it and reached into one of the inner compartments. his movements were careful, practiced enough that you wondered how many times he had taken the strip out before.
the thought made your heartbeat change.
he unfolded the photographs once and handed them to you. your fingers brushed his as you took them, but neither of you acknowledged it.
the first picture made you smile before you could stop yourself. you remembered the moment immediately, remembered beau complaining that he hadn’t been ready and you accusing him of ruining the picture.
there was something uncomfortable about seeing it now, with everything dean had said still circling your thoughts. beau’s expression wasn’t dramatic. he wasn’t gazing at you like someone in a movie, and there was nothing exaggerated about the photograph.
you moved to the second picture. beau’s expression was painfully serious, while you were turned toward him laughing. the third showed you halfway through saying something, irritation and amusement fighting across your face while beau looked far too pleased with himself.
then you reached the last one.
you had thought about it so many times that seeing it again felt strangely disorienting. the angle was slightly awkward. the flash had caught one side of beau’s face more brightly than the other, and your hand was visible where it had curled into the front of his shirt.
you couldn’t stop looking at it.
the silence beside you became increasingly noticeable. you glanced toward beau to find him already watching you, but his gaze moved away almost immediately when your eyes met.
that small movement gave you enough courage to speak, “why did you keep these?”
beau leaned back, resting on his elbows, “i liked them.”
you looked down at the strip again. it was a reasonable answer even though you had the feeling it was also incomplete, “all of them?”
his mouth moved slightly, “the second one’s not great.”
a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it. some of the tension in the room loosened, “you look like you hate being there.”
“you were making fun of me.”
“because you were taking it too seriously.”
“i was trying to get one decent picture.”
“you failed.”
“clearly.”
you smiled down at the strip, but the amusement faded as your attention returned to the final photograph. beau noticed.
you knew because the room seemed to become quiet again without either of you deliberately changing anything. your thumb moved carefully along the edge of the photograph, “dean said they were folded inside your wallet.”
beau was quiet. you looked at him, “have they been there since the party?”
his eyes held yours for a moment before he nodded, “pretty much.”
the answer settled somewhere beneath your ribs, “why?”
this time, beau didn’t answer immediately. you could feel him watching you, but you kept your attention on the photographs. asking the question while looking directly at him felt impossible.
several seconds passed.
then beau shifted beside you, leaning forward and resting his forearms against his knees, “i don’t know.”
disappointment came quickly, but before it could settle, he continued, “or i do. i just don’t know how to explain it without making this more complicated.”
his gaze remained on his hands. there was something almost unsettling about seeing beau this uncertain. you were used to him filling silence easily, used to the confidence with which he moved through almost every part of his life.
this was different and you thought about what dean had said at lunch.
he’s scared of messing this up.
your grip on the photo strip loosened slightly, “try.”
beau let out a quiet breath and for a while, he said nothing. eventually, he sat back again, although his body remained turned slightly away from you, “i thought we were going to talk about it.”
you swallowed, “the kiss?”
when he nodded you spoke softly, “so did i.”
beau looked at you then, surprise flickering briefly across his face, “you did?”
“for the first few days, yeah.”
“why didn’t you say anything?”
the question wasn’t accusatory. if anything, he sounded genuinely confused. you stared at him, “why didn’t you?”
he looked away again, “fair.”
you almost smiled, but the conversation felt too fragile, “i thought you regretted it.”
beau’s head turned back toward you. the reaction was immediate enough that you knew you had surprised him, “why?”
you shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath his attention, “because you never mentioned it.”
“neither did you.”
“i know.”
“so i thought the same thing.”
you stared at him and beau stared back, the silence stretching. for months, you had imagined dozens of explanations for why he had never mentioned the kiss. some had been reasonable. others had been created late at night when your ability to think rationally was considerably worse.
somehow, it had never occurred to you that beau might have been sitting somewhere having the exact same thoughts. “that’s stupid,” you said eventually.
beau let out a quiet laugh, rubbing one hand over his face, “yeah.”
you felt a laugh building in your own chest. it escaped before you could stop it. months of awkwardness. months of analyzing every interaction. months of lying awake occasionally wondering whether you had imagined the entire shift between you. all because neither of you had been willing to ask a simple question.
beau shook his head, but he was smiling now too, “we could’ve saved ourselves a lot of trouble.”
“you could’ve.”
his eyebrows lifted, “me?”
“you kissed me.”
“you kissed me back.”
you tried to glare at him. it didn’t work particularly well when you were still fighting a smile. beau’s expression softened as he looked at you. the change was gradual, his amusement fading into something quieter.
neither of you looked away.
“i didn’t regret it,” beau said. his voice was quieter now. the words shouldn’t have affected you as much as they did. you had already guessed the answer from the pictures in your hand and from everything dean had told you at lunch.
hearing it from beau was different.
you looked down because holding his gaze suddenly felt too difficult, “then why keep the pictures instead of talking to me?”
beau was silent again. when you finally looked at him, he seemed to be deciding whether he wanted to answer. then his eyes moved toward the photograph in your hand, “because i didn’t know if it was ever going to happen again.” he looked away, rubbing his palm once against his knee, “keeping the picture was easier than asking.”
there was no self-pity in his voice, no attempt to make the admission sound more important than it was.
you had spent so much time thinking of beau as the braver one between you. he seemed fearless in almost everything he did, moving through the world with an ease you sometimes envied, but he had been scared too.
you looked down at the photographs, “i thought about it.”
beau’s attention returned to you.
“the kiss,” you clarified. “afterward.”
something in his expression shifted, “how much?”
you gave him a look causing the faintest trace of amusement to appear in his eyes, “just asking.”
“more than i wanted to.”
at your words his smile faded. you could see him processing the answer, and there was something almost vulnerable about it, “me too.”
you looked at each other for a long time. the space between you suddenly felt more noticeable than it had when you first sat down. beau’s hand rested on the bed, only a few inches from your knee. you had been closer to him hundreds of times, but the distance felt charged now.
you folded the photo strip carefully along its existing crease, “dean thinks we’re idiots.”
“we probably are.”
you smiled, the familiar exchange easing some of your nerves, though not enough to make you forget why you were there. you looked back at him, “what happens now?”
beau’s expression became serious again, “i don’t know.”
you appreciated the honesty. he didn’t turn the question into a joke or pretend to have an easy answer. he simply looked at you, uncertainty visible in a way that felt strangely intimate.
“what do you want to happen?” he asked.
your heartbeat picked up. you could have avoided the question, and to be honest, a few hours ago, you probably would have. instead, you placed the photo strip carefully on the bed behind you, “i don’t want to keep pretending nothing happened.”
beau’s eyes stayed on yours, “neither do i.”
you became suddenly aware of how close you had moved during the conversation. you weren’t sure which of you had done it, but the space beau had deliberately left between you earlier was almost gone.
his knee was touching yours, but neither of you moved.
you looked at his mouth before you could stop yourself. when your eyes returned to his, you knew he had noticed. his expression changed slightly. not smugly or teasingly. he just became very still, “can i kiss you?”
the question was so simple that something inside your chest tightened.
you nodded.
he didn’t move immediately. for one brief second, he seemed to make sure you meant it. his eyes searched your face, and when you didn’t look away, his hand lifted slowly toward you.
his fingers settled against the side of your neck.
the touch brought the memory of the photo booth rushing back. months ago, there had been a countdown. there had been alcohol and loud music and the excuse of a party surrounding you. there had been a camera flash and the possibility of pretending afterward that the whole thing had been an accident.
there was none of that now. just the quiet bedroom and beau sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
his thumb moved lightly against your skin before he leaned in and kissed you.
the first thing you noticed was how familiar it felt. months had passed since the photo booth, but your body seemed to remember him immediately. the angle of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his hand, the quiet breath he released when you moved closer.
your fingers found the front of his shirt; the exact same place as before. you knew beau had noticed because you felt the smallest smile against your mouth, making you smile too and breaking the kiss briefly as a quiet laugh escaped between you.
neither of you moved far. beau’s forehead rested lightly against yours, his hand still warm against your neck.
you opened your eyes to find he was already looking at you. the similarity to the first photograph wasn’t lost on you, “hi,” you murmured.
beau’s mouth curved, “hi.”
you stayed there for another moment, close enough that his breath still warmed your face.
something inside you felt strangely calm. the nervousness hadn’t disappeared completely, but it no longer felt like something you needed to run from.
there had been no dramatic confession. no perfect speech waiting for either of you. just two people sitting on a bed, finally admitting that a kiss had mattered more than either of them had been willing to say.
your eyes drifted toward the photo strip next to you, “so what do we do with those now?”
beau followed your gaze, “i was planning to keep them.”
you looked back at him, “still?”
“yeah.”
something warm spread through your chest. you tried not to show it, but judging by beau’s expression, you failed. his thumb brushed once beneath your ear.
you smiled softly, “you could’ve just asked me for another picture.”
“didn’t want another picture.”
you raised an eyebrow. beau looked toward the strip again, then back at you, “i wanted that one.”
the answer was quiet enough that it took you a second to respond. when you did, you leaned forward and kissed him again.
this time, there was no hesitation from either of you.
beau’s hand moved from your neck to your waist as you shifted closer, and the last remaining distance between you disappeared.
the photographs stayed on the bed. they were still imperfect. the first three were badly timed, and the fourth had captured a kiss neither of you had understood at the time.
but maybe that was why beau had kept them. they belonged to a moment when neither of you had known what would happen next.
now, sitting together in his bedroom with his hand warm against your waist and months of uncertainty finally behind you, the answer felt a little closer. you knew that when beau kissed you again, you didn’t have to wonder whether he would regret it in the morning.
