Fanfic Reblogs

I reblog some of my favorite fics 21

[pucksandpower]

half a heartbeat

Dean Di Laurentis x Maxwell!Reader

Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down

Warnings: you’re going to need tissues

Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.

He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.

“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”

He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.

“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.

“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”

Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.

Dead.

The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.

“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.

Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.

“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.

Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”

“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.

His chest tightens at the thought of you.

You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.

Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.

***

“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s

“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”

“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”

“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.

“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”

“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”

“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.

“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.

“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.

***

The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.

Dean turns.

You are walking down the center aisle.

His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.

Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.

He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.

You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.

The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.

“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”

Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.

You stand up.

A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.

You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.

You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.

“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.

You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.

“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”

You stop, swallowing hard.

“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”

A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.

“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”

You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.

Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.

“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”

You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.

“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house. 

“My dad was driving,” you say softly.

Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.

“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”

You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.

“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.

“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”

You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.

“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”

“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.

“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”

Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.

“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”

Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.

“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.

“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”

“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.

“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”

You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.

You collapse.

You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.

“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.

But Dean is faster.

He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.

“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”

Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.

“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”

You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”

“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”

“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”

Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.

“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”

“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”

“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”

“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”

Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.

“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”

Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”

“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.

“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.

You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.

“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”

***

Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.

He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.

It makes him sick to his stomach.

How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.

Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.

He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.

Empty.

Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.

“Hey, Dean?”

Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.

“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.

“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”

“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”

“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”

“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.

“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”

He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.

The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.

His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.

He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.

“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”

Silence.

He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”

Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.

Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.

Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.

The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.

“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.

He flips the light switch.

You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.

Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?

“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”

He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.

Your eyes are open.

A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.

“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”

But you don’t respond.

Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.

Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.

“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.

Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.

But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.

Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.

“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”

You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.

“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”

He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.

“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”

You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.

Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.

“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”

He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.

Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”

He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.

“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”

He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.

“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”

He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.

He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.

Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.

Dean freezes.

It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.

Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.

He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.

“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”

You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.

A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.

Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.

“Let’s go,” he says softly.

He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.

***

Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.

The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.

Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.

“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”

“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.

Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.

“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”

You don’t respond.

A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.

Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.

The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.

Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”

The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.

Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.

The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.

“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says.

You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.

“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.

Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.

“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”

You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.

Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”

You take a small sip.

They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.

“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.

Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.

“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”

“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”

“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”

“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”

And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.

***

The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.

It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.

“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.

The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.

“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.

“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.

The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.

“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.

You blink at it. “What is that?”

“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”

Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.

“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.

“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”

“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”

“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”

“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.

“No, you’re not.”

Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.

“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.

You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.

“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”

“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.

“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”

You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.

“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”

“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”

***

The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.

Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.

You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.

“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”

Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.

“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”

Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.

Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.

“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”

The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.

Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.

Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.

Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.

Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.

“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”

The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.

“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”

Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.

“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”

The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.

You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.

Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.

***

When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.

Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.

“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.

“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.

“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.

“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”

“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.

“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”

You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.

Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.

“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.

“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.

Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.

They all stop when you walk in.

There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.

But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”

“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.

“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”

“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”

“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”

“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”

“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.

Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”

The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.

Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.

After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.

“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.

“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.

“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”

“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”

“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.

“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.

He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.

The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.

“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”

“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”

“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”

“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.

You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.

You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.

Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.

As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.

The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.

Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.

Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.

***

Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.

The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.

He looks down.

You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.

Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.

He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.

You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.

“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.

He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.

He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.

Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.

But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.

Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.

He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.

He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.

About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.

Dean turns his head.

You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.

Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.

But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.

A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.

He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.

***

You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.

For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.

Then, the fourth second hits.

The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.

Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.

You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.

And now, you are in Dean’s bed.

You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.

The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.

You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.

But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.

He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.

You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.

“Dean,” you whisper.

The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.

You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.

“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.

His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.

“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”

“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.

“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”

You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.

Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.

“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”

Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.

“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”

“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.

“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”

“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You open your wet eyes.

Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.

“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”

You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.

“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”

“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.

“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”

“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.

“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”

“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”

“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”

The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.

You break.

You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.

And Dean breaks right along with you.

The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.

You hold him, and he holds you.

You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.

You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.

You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.

The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.

“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”

You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”

“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”

“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”

“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”

You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.

Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”

You look into his eyes, inches from your own.

“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”

The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.

Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.

You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.

“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.

The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.

But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.

“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.

“Never,” Dean replies instantly.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.

For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.

***

Grief is not a straight line.

It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.

But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.

Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.

The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.

You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.

He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.

A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.

“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.

“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.

Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”

“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.

“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”

You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”

“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”

You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.

Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.

You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.

The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.

So, you quit.

It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.

***

“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.

“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”

“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”

You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”

“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.

***

He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.

The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.

You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.

Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.

“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”

“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”

Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”

“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.

“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”

You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.

The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.

“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.

“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.

“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”

You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.

“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.

“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”

“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”

“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.

“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”

“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”

You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.

You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.

You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.

Hours later, the house finally quiets down.

Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.

You and Dean are left alone in the living room.

The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.

“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.

“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”

Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.

Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.

“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”

Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”

“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”

His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”

“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”

“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.

The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.

You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.

“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.

Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”

“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”

Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.

The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.

“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”

“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.

“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.

Your breath catches in your throat.

The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.

“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.

He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”

“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”

You stare at him, completely paralyzed.

For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.

But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.

“Then kiss me,” you whisper.

Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.

He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.

The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.

Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.

You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.

It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.

When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.

Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.

“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.

Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.

But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.

“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”

You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”

Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”

You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.

“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”

Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.

“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.

You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.

“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”

A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.

“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”

Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”

You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”

“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.

He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.

“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”

“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.

“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.

He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.

For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.

You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.

***

“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”

Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.

“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”

Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”

“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”

“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”

You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”

The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.

“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.

Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.

“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”

“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.

“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.

He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.

“Hey,” you whisper back.

“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.

Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.

“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”

Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”

***

The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.

You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.

The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.

You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.

Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.

“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”

Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.

“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”

A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.

“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”

The crowd erupts into applause.

It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.

You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.

“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.

You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.

You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.

He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”

“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.

You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.

Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.

Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.

A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.

You walk down the opposite set of stairs.

You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.

He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.

“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”

***

The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.

You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.

“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.

Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.

“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.

Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.

Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.

You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.

“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”

You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.

***

Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.

Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.

“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”

Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”

“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.

“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.

“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.

You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.

Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.

“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.

Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”

“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”

Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”

“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.

“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.

“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”

Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”

Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.

The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.

“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”

“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.

You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.

***

By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.

You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.

Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.

“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.

“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”

“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”

You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.

“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”

“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”

Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”

Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.

The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.

You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.

It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.

The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.

“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.

“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”

Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”

“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”

Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”

As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.

“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”

“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”

“You were very bossy.”

“And you loved it.”

You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”

The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.

The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.

Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.

He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.

He holds it up to your mouth.

“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.

You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”

“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”

“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”

You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.

“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.

Your breath hitches.

Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.

He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.

When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.

“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.

You freeze.

Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.

Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.

“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”

The air completely leaves your lungs.

You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.

“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”

Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.

You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.

You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.

And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.

The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.

***

The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.

You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.

“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”

You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.

It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.

You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.

You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.

Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.

“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.

Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.

“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”

“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”

“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”

You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”

“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”

Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.

The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.

He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.

“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”

Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”

“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”

***

The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.

You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.

“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.

She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.

“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.

You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.

A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.

Your breath completely catches in your throat.

“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”

“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.

“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.

The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.

Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.

He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”

“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”

A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.

“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”

You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.

“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”

“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.

She hands the envelope to Dean.

Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.

“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.

“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”

***

The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.

The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.

Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.

“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.

“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”

“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.

“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”

“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.

Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.

“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”

You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”

“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.

He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.

He hands it to you.

“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.

You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.

Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.

You look down at the envelope in your lap.

“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.

“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.

“On three,” you say.

“One,” Dean counts.

“Two,” you whisper.

“Three.”

Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.

There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.

It’s a boy!

The world completely stops spinning.

You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.

Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.

“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.

“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.

Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.

“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”

You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.

When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.

He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.

“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.

You look at him.

For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.

But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.

There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.

“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.

Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.

Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.

“Beau,” Dean whispers.

Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.

“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.

Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.

“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”

“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.

“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”

“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.

“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”

You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.

When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.

He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.

“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.

“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”

Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.

“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”

He pauses, taking a deep breath.

“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”

A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.

“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”

Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.

“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”

He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.

You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.

The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.

But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.

It continued.

It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.

You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.

“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.

Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.

“I love you too,” he says softly. “Both of you.”

[shadeofpeach]

A fall, a cut and an angry Abbot

Pairing: Dr. Jack Abbot x wife!reader (ft Michael Robinavitch) Warnings: bloody angst, hurt, domestic accident, falling down stairs, blood, facial injuries, medical procedures, angry Abbot. Summary: A routine task like doing laundry turns into a nightmare when a sudden slip makes you trip on the stairs. With a deep cut on your face and an injured knee, you try to downplay your clumsiness, but for your husband, Jack, the accident is anything but funny.

🎀 based on this request 🎀 Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.

You were trying to balance a mountain of folded laundry in your arms, hurrying to get back downstairs before the timers on the kitchen stove went off.

Jack’s voice always echoed in your mind in these moments—“Stop running on the stairs, please.”

But you rushed anyway.

Your foot caught the edge of the third step. The laundry flew from your grip, sending sheets and towels flying as your weight shifted violently forward.

You launched. Your knee slammed hard against one step, and before you could even register the ache there, the sharp edge another one scraped violently across your cheekbone.

For a second, the world just went completely quiet. You were crumpled on the steps, the breath knocked clear out of your lungs, staring down. The pain in your knee was loud and throbbing, and your face felt… numb.

"Doll, what happened? Are you okay?"

Jack’s voice broke the silence. You looked at him, his gaze sweeping over the scene. Because of his leg, he couldn't just drop to his knees or rush up the stairs to scoop you up; he had to take each step deliberately. The frustration of his own physical limitations was already written in the tight line of his jaw.

"I'm fine!" you managed, your voice sounding small. "Just... dropped the towels. And added another bruise to the collection." You tried to laugh, pulling yourself up to sit straight.

Jack reached the step just below you. "Don't move. Stay exactly where you are."

His tone was rigid. Stripped of all warmth.

"Jack, seriously, it’s just a scrape—"

"I said, don't move," he snapped, his fingers gently but firmly clamping onto your chin to tilt your face upward into the dim stairwell light.

That was when you felt it. A strange trickling sensation creeping down your cheek. Something dripped past your jawline. You reached up to touch it, but Jack caught your wrist mid air, holding it tightly away from your face.

But your fingers were already stained red.

"Oh," you whispered, the adrenaline suddenly spiking. "That's... blood." You tried to deflect with a nervous laugh. "Does the cut matches the bruise on my knee? A matching set for the collection. I'm keeping you in business, Doc."

Jack didn't laugh. He didn't even smile.

"Shut up," he said. "Don't make a joke out of this."

"Jack, I'm just trying to—"

"I don't care what you're trying to do." He snapped, letting go of your chin. He pulled a clean handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it firmly against your cheek. "Apply pressure. Hold it there."

You took over, pressing the cloth to your face, the sting finally waking up beneath the numbness. "Don't talk to me like that. I just tripped."

"Because you were running! How many times do I have to ask you to slow down?" Jack’s hands were trembling slightly. "You treat your own safety like it’s a punchline. 'Another bruise to the collection.' Do you have any idea what it’s like for me to hear a crash and know I can't run down there to catch you? Do you know what went through my head when I saw you lying here?"

His voice cut through your defense mechanism. You looked at him, he was angry and terrified. And, you knew, he was trapped by a body that wouldn't let him be the protector he desperately wanted to be.

"I wasn't trying to minimize it," you said softly. "I joke because I'm embarrassed, Jack. I'm clumsy, and I hate that I make you worry."

"I don't care about being worried," Jack replied. "I care about you being safe. I spend all day at the hospital patching up people who didn't see the accident coming. And you... you're rushing through our own home like you're invincible. And I can't... if something happens to you, I can't get to you fast enough. You know that."

The silence returned, heavier this time.

Jack gently reached out, taking your hand away from the handkerchief to check the bleeding. The edge of the cut was clean, but it was deep enough that it would probably need a few butterflies, if not a stitch or two.

"It needs to be cleaned properly," he murmured. "Can you stand?"

"Yeah," you whispered, wincing as you shifted your weight onto your bruised knee. "I can stand."

"Good." Jack took a deep breath. Once he was stable on his good leg, he offered you his hand. "Let's go fix you up. No more jokes."

"Okay. No more jokes," you agreed, letting him pull you up into the kitchen.

Jack guided you to a stool by the kitchen island. Without a word, he moved around, pulling a first-aid kit from the cabinet and grabbing a damp washcloth from the sink.

"Keep pressure on it," he ordered softly, setting the kit down.

When he turned back to you, he pulled up another stool, carefully positioning his stiff leg out to the side so he could sit close enough to work.

"Okay, take the cloth away. Let me look."

You pulled the blood soaked handkerchief from your cheek. Almost instantly, a fresh crimson stream welled up from the split in your skin, tracing a rapid path down your jaw and dripping onto your collarbone.

Jack’s brow furrowed. He took the damp washcloth and gently tapped around the wound, trying to clear the area to see the actual depth of the laceration. "Hold still. I know it hurts."

The cold water hit the raw nerves, and you gasped, leaning back instinctively. "It stings—god, Jack."

"I know, I know. Don't pull away from me." His hand was firm on the back of your neck, holding you in place. But as he wiped a fresh layer of blood away, the wound immediately filled again, spilling over. The edge of the step had sliced deep, right over the prominent curve of your cheekbone where the skin was tight.

He waited a beat, pressing a clean piece of sterile gauze against it, counting silently under his breath. One minute. Two minutes. When he pulled it back to check, the blood welled up just as fast. It wasn't clotting. The edge of the cut was jagged, grinning open in a way that made his stomach do a sick flip.

Jack let out a frustrated breath. He didn't say anything, but the professional shift in his posture told you everything.

His ER doctor self had completely taken over.

"I-Is it bad?" you asked, your voice trembling.

"It’s deep," Jack said, his voice felt cold. "It tore right through the dermal layer. It’s too wide for butterflies, and because of the location on your face, it’s going to keep opening every time you talk or blink. I can't close this here. It needs a layered suture, and it won't stop bleeding until it gets one."

He packed a thick stack of sterile gauze against your cheek, taking your hand and forcing your fingers to hold it there with heavy pressure.

"We're going to the hospital," he said, already standing up. The sudden movement made his brace click sharply.

"Jack, can't you just do it? You have a kit, you're a doctor—"

"I don't have a local anesthetic or the proper fine gauge monofilament sutures in the kitchen cabinet," he snapped, his voice cracking with sudden panic. He grabbed his car keys and his and your jacket from the hook by the door. "If I try to patch this up with what I have here, you’re going to end up with a massive scar on your face. We’re going to the hospital. Now."

The drive was quiet. He kept his hand firmly on the steering wheel, his eyes locked on the road, while you sat in the passenger seat, pressing the now heavy gauze to your face.

You looked over at his profile, his jaw was clenched so tightly a muscle was jumping in his cheek.

"Jack," you whispered, the movement pulling painfully at the cut. "I'm sorry."

He didn't look at you, but his grip on the steering wheel tightened. "Just keep pressure on the wound, please. We're almost there."

-

The doors of The Pitt hissed open, swallowing you both into the familiar air of the emergency department.

Tonight, you were the intake.

"Jack? What the hell happened?"

Robby said from behind the central desk, his eyes darting instantly from Jack’s tense face down to you. He saw the blood soaked gauze you were holding tightly against your cheek and the dark stain on your collar.

"She took a fall on the stairs," Jack said, sounding entirely professional, though the tight grip he kept on your elbow betrayed him. "Laceration to the zygomatic arch. It’s deep. It’s been bleeding consistently for minutes. I couldn’t get it to clot at home."

"Alright, let's get her into Room 4, it's empty," Robby said, immediately stepping into gear, stepping beside you. "Can you walk okay? Did you hit your head? Lose consciousness?"

"My knee is a little banged up, but my head is fine," you muttered around the cloth, feeling a flush of embarrassment as a couple of nurses glanced your way. "Just... really clumsy."

Robby guided you onto the examination bed. "Let’s take a look."

You layed down and slowly pulled the gauzes away. Without the constant pressure, a fresh bead of dark blood immediately welled up. Robby leaned in, using a piece of sterile gauze to gently dab the edges of the wound. He winced slightly, assessing the deep split over the bone.

"Yeah, you really did a number on this," Robby murmured. "It’s a clean tear but it’s deep. It’s definitely going to need a few sutures. I'll get the lidocaine and—"

"I'll do it," Jack interrupted.

Robby paused, looking up at Jack, who was standing at the foot of the bed.

"Brother, you know the protocol," Robby said softly. "You don't treat family. Let me handle it. I'll make the lines clean, I promise."

"It’s my wife, Robby." Jack said, he stepped closer to the bedside, his eyes locked on the wound. "I’m doing the stitches. I need to do them."

The two doctors locked eyes for a long moment. Robby knew Jack, he knew his friend's frustrations, he knew how much Jack hated feeling helpless.

Letting Jack treat you wasn't standard, but Robby knew that forcing Jack to stand by and watch someone else patch you up would be worse.

Robby sighed, stepping back. "Fine. But I'm staying in the room to assist. And if your hands shake even a millimeter, I'm taking the needle."

"They won't shake," Jack said.

He moved to the side of the bed, carefully adjusting the stool so his rigid leg could extend comfortably.

Jack snap on a pair of sterile gloves, and when he pulled the tray of instruments closer, where a nurse put all the necessary.

"Look at me," Jack murmured softly. He picked up the syringe of lidocaine. "This is going to burn. A lot. Hold my knee if you need to. My good one."

You reached out, gripping his good knee tightly. He didn't flinch as your fingernails dug into his skin. "Okay, you're going to feel a little pinch."

The needle pierced the edge of the cut, and a sharp burning sensation flared across your cheek. You squeezed your eyes shut, gasping as the medicine flooded the tissue. Jack’s was completely steady as he repositioned the needle to numb the entire perimeter of the wound.

Within a minute, the burning subsided into a heavy weight.

Jack worked in absolute silence. He used a small suction tip to clear the pooling blood, exposing the deep layer of tissue beneath. With a needle driver, he began the meticulous process of closing the deep dermal layer first.

You only could feel the gentle tugging of the thread as he pulled the edges of your skin back together. You watched his face. His brow was furrowed, his eyes entirely locked on the millimeters of flesh he was mending. The anger from the stairwell was gone, completely replaced by an aching tenderness.

Every movement of his hands was incredibly precise, deliberate, and gentle.

Robby stood by, cutting the sutures as Jack tied off each knot. "Nice tension," Robby commented quietly, validating his friend's work. "That's going to heal beautifully."

Jack didn't reply. He just kept sewing, treating your face like the most fragile and precious thing in the world.

By the time he tied off the final knot, the wound was closed, reduced to a thin black line across your cheekbone.

Before Jack could even reach for the dressing supplies, Robby quietly stepped into his line of sight, a non adherent telfa pad and a strip of medical tape already in his gloved hands. "I've got the dressing, Jack. Step back for a second."

Jack blinked, the sharp medical tunnel vision breaking as he looked up at his friend.

He didn't argue.

His hands were just starting to develop a microscopic tremor from the adrenaline crash, and he knew it.

Robby offered you a warm smile as he leaned over the bed. He placed the small protective gauze pad directly over the neat row of black stitches, securing it firmly to your cheek with the clear tape. "There you go. That’ll keep it clean and protected. Excellent handiwork, by the way. You won't even be able to see the scar in a few months."

Jack dropped the instruments onto the tray. He pulled off his gloves, tossing them into the bin, and took a deep breath.

"All done, baby," he said softly. "You're okay."

"Thank you," you murmured, with an uncomfortable feeling in your chest.

The ride back home was calm. The dashboard clock glowed a late hour as Jack pulled the car into the driveway and cut the engine.

For a moment, neither of you moved.

"Let's get you inside," Jack said softly. He had the night off.

He got out of the car and walked around to the passenger side. He opened the door and offered you his hand. As you stood up, your leg wobbled, and Jack immediately caught you. He held you close, bearing your weight as he carefully guided you into the house.

He led you straight to the living room, easing you down onto the couch. He disappeared for a few minutes, and when he returned, he was carrying a plush blanket, a fresh ice pack, and a glass of water.

He carefully lowered his weight onto the couch beside you and draped the blanket over your lap, then gently held the ice pack against your bruised knee.

Looking at him, seeing the dark circles of exhaustion, the faint smear of dried blood on his forearm that he hadn't fully washed off, and his unconditional care, the dam broke.

Tears slipped down your cheeks.

"Hey," Jack murmured, his brow furrowing as he set the ice pack down and instantly reached for your face. "Hey, what’s wrong? Is the local anesthetic wearing off? Is it hurting?"

"No," you choked out, your voice thick and trembling. You shook your head, immediately regretting it as the movement pulled at the tight stitches. "No, it doesn't hurt. Jack, I'm so sorry."

"Sweetheart, you don't need to-"

"I do," you interrupted, a sob catching in your throat. You reached out, taking his hand and squeezing it tightly. "I'm so, so sorry. I know I make a joke out of being clumsy, but I hate that I frightened you. I hate that I made you feel... helpless. I know how much you want to protect me, and I was careless. I didn't think about how it would affect you to hear me fall and not be able to just run down there. I'm so sorry for being reckless with myself."

Jack stared at you, his eyes softening.

He reached out, his thumb gently catching the tears on your cheek, careful not to touch your wound. He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you and holding you close. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, breathing in the comforting scent of his cologne.

"Thank you for being honest with me" Jack whispered into your hair, his hand gently stroking your back. "But you don't have to carry that guilt. I was angry because I was terrified. When I'm at work, I can control things. I have a team. But when it’s you... here... Seeing you hurt, and knowing my own body slows me down from getting to you... it scares me, baby."

He pulled back to look into your eyes.

"I know accidents happen," he said softly. "But I just need you to take care of yourself, because you are the most precious thing in my life. Okay?"

"Okay," you sniffled, wiping your nose with the edge of the blanket. "No more running on the stairs. I promise. I'll take them like a snail."

A smirk broke across Jack’s face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was the first time he had smiled all night. "A snail might be a bit too slow, but I'll take it."

He leaned in, carefully placing a kiss on the uninjured side of your face, then another on the tip of your nose. "I love you, doll."

"I love you, my Jackie."

"Lay back, you need rest," he commanded gently, helping you settle on the couch. He placed the ice pack back on your knee and tucked the blanket securely around you. He picked up the TV remote and settled back against the cushions next to you.

As the soft sounds of a night time program filled the air, Jack's fingers gently stroked your head, lulling you to relax and close your eyes.

After a few seconds, you drifted off to sleep, feeling completely safe and secure in the tranquility of home.

⋆｡˚☤🩺✧˖°.｡⋆💉

the pitt masterlist

[faiology]

⊹₊⟡⋆ hideaway with carl baby (18+)

the vibe in the villa was still buzzing long after the cake challenge ended. people were still picking bits of cake out of their hair and laughing about the mess, but that quickly changed as yall heard the infamous text tone.

everybody froze. zach pulled out his phone, his eyes widening as he read the screen. “islanders, the hideaway is now open!”

the villa erupted into screams and cheers as you and carl were the obvious vote. carl’s face broke into that signature, blinding smile of his. he didn’t even look at the rest; his eyes locked onto yours immediately, dark and hungry, like he’d been waiting for this moment since the second you walked into the villa.

you felt the heat rise to your cheeks, a mix of nerves and pure electric excitement buzzing under your skin. the girls immediately swarmed you, grabbing your hands and practically dragging you toward the dressing room before you could even process it.

“this is it, girl!” trinity squealed, already scanning your suitcase for the perfect look. “you need to look hot as fuck.”

the dressing room became a sanctuary of girl talk and excitement. you felt like you were back your college dorm, getting ready for a night out. you settled on a set of deep emerald silk lingerie that made your skin glow—the straps were delicate, the lace intricate, and it hugged you in all the right places.

as you slipped it on, the girls helped you with the finishing touches. they touched up your makeup, adding a little extra gloss to your lips and dusting a bit of gold highlight over your collarbones. they were hyping you up, reminding you just how lucky carl was to have you.

“he’s not gonna be able to keep his eyes off you,” one of the girls teased, zipping up your robe. “go get your man.”

the walk to the hideaway felt like a blur of nerves and anticipation. the villa was quiet, the moon hanging low over the pool, and every step felt deliberate. your heart was hammering against your ribs.

you knew you and carl were infatuated with such other, but being alone? away from the prying eyes of the other islanders and the cameras that were always hovering? that felt different. and honestly, you were glad. because you needed to be fucked. badly.

when you reached the door, you took a deep breath, smoothing down your robe. you pushed the door open, the room dimly lit with soft, romantic lighting and a bottle of bubbly already chilling on the table.

carl was already there, deciding that’d he’d surprise you instead of you walking together.

he was standing by the bed, his back to the door, but he turned around the second he heard you. the air in the room seemed to shift, getting heavy and thick with the tension that had been building between you for weeks. he didn't say a word at first. he just let his eyes travel slowly from your toes up to your face, his jaw clenching as he took you in.

the heavy wooden door of the hideaway clicked shut behind you, sealing out the rest of the villa and leaving nothing but the hum of the air conditioner and the soft, pink glow of the neon lights.

“wow,” he finally breathed out, his voice a low, raspy whisper that did things to your stomach. he took a step toward you, not breaking eye contact. “you look… damn, you look amazing.”

he reached out, his warm fingers brushing against your arm, and the contact sent a shiver straight down your spine. being in the villa was one thing, but being in this space, just the two of you? it felt like the rest of the world—and the rest of the island—had completely ceased to exist.

“i’ve been thinking about you all day,” he murmured, stepping into your space and wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “ever since the challenge. seeing you like that… i couldn't wait to get you in bed and have you all to myself.”

you looked up at him, your hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady, thumping beat of his heart under your palms.

he leaned down, his lips brushing against your ear. “tonight is just about us. no challenges, no games, just you and me.”

he tilted your chin up, his eyes softening as he stared down at you with so much adoration it almost knocked the wind out of you. he pressed a soft, slow kiss to your lips, sealing the deal on the night. you knew, standing there in the quiet of the hideaway, that the next few hours were going to be everything you’d been dreaming of.

carl didn’t waste a single second. the moment you stepped towards him, his hands were on you. they weren't rushed, but they were incredibly firm, the movement against your lower back made your breath hitch. he guided you backward until your spine met the cool surface of the door, his large frame completely trapping you in his shadow.

“let me look at you,” he murmured, his voice a low, commanding gravel that vibrated straight through your chest.

his fingers found the satin tie of your robe. he didn't rip it open; instead, he untied it with a slow, agonizing deliberation, parting the silk to reveal the emerald lace underneath. his jaw clenched, a dark, heavy hunger flaring in his eyes as he took in every single inch of your body. he looked at you like you were something precious he had finally earned the right to possess.

“damn,” he whispered, his large hands coming up to cup your face. his thumbs brushed gently over your cheekbones, his touch so incredibly tender it contrasted sharply with the intense, dominant heat in his gaze. “you are so beautiful. you know you're mine, right? after today, after everything… there's no way you don't know that.”

you could only nod, your heart hammering wildly against your ribs.

carl smiled, a slow, satisfied smirk, and leaned down to claim your mouth. the kiss started out soft, his lips tasting yours with a gentle, worshipful slow pace that made your knees feel weak. but the moment you let out a soft sigh into his mouth, his dominance took over.

his grip shifted from your face to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your head back, deepening the kiss into something deep, heavy, and possessive.

he parted from your lips just enough to trail his mouth down your jawline, pressing hot, lingering bites against the sensitive skin of your neck. you gasped, your hands gripping his broad shoulders for balance as your head fell back against the door.

“carl,” you breathed out.

“i’ve got you, baby. i’ve got you,” he whispered against your skin, his voice soothing but his actions completely in control.

without warning, his hands slid down to your thighs, and with a single, effortless lift, he hoisted you up. your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your arms locking around his neck. carl carried you across the room like you weighed nothing at all, his grip on your thighs unyielding, showing off that raw strength you'd watched him use during the challenges.

when he reached the massive bed, he didn't just drop you. he crawled over you, pinning you down beneath his body while supporting his own weight on his forearms so he wouldn't crush you. his large hands reached up, pinning your wrists gently but firmly above your head against the pillows.

“look at me,” he commanded softly.

you met his gaze, finding a breathtaking mix of fierce dominance and pure, unadulterated adoration staring back at you. he held your hands trapped, proving he was completely in charge of the night, yet he leaned down and kissed your forehead, then the tip of your nose, and finally your lips with the gentlest care.

“tonight is entirely about you,” carl murmured, his thumbs caressing the backs of your pinned hands. “i’m going to take my time with every single part of you. you just need to relax and let me take care of everything.”

“yes, baby,” you moaned in agreement, throwing your head back against the sheets so he could further attack your neck.

the weight of his body over yours felt incredible, a warm, solid pressure that made you feel completely secure yet entirely helpless beneath him. carl didn’t release your wrists right away. he liked having you right where he wanted you, taking a few quiet seconds just to listen to the sound of your ragged breathing filling the quiet room.

“you’re so pretty,” he whispered, his deep voice sending a pleasant ache through your core.

he slowly let go of your hands, but before you could move, his large palms slid down your arms, smoothing over your shoulders and resting heavily on your ribs. his fingers trailed along the edge of the emerald lace, tracing the curves of your body with a steady, worshipful pace. he was worshipping you, making sure you felt every single ounce of the hunger that had been building inside him for weeks.

but just as you began to melt into the gentle touch, carl shifted his weight, his grip tightening on your hips as he pulled you up flush against him. the sudden movement made a soft gasp escape your lips.

“shh, just let me guide you,” he murmured.

he leaned down, his lips finding that sweet spot right once more where your neck met your shoulder. carl sucked gently on the skin, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs, pulling your legs wider around his waist. you arched into him, your fingers tangling into his short hair, pulling him closer as the friction between your bodies grew hotter.

“carl, please,” you whispered, your voice thick with anticipation, your eyes begging him to close the final distance between you. “please fuck me, baby.”

he looked down at you, his eyes dark, heavy, and completely blown out with desire. a soft, incredibly tender smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he saw how desperate you were for him. he leaned down, pressing a slow, deep kiss to your lips that tasted like a promise.

“i’ve got you, angel,” he whispered against your mouth, his hands locking your hips securely in place beneath him.

his fingers hooked into the inside your thong. he peeled the fabric down your thighs, down your calves, over your ankles, and tossed the scrap of lace aside without looking where it fell.

“eyes on me,” he says. “want you watching.”

you lift your head. your gaze meets his, and the eye contact so intense you feel your throat tighten. you’re bare except for the bra, and the sudden cool air makes everything contract.

he lowers his mouth, and this time he does kiss you. not your lips, but the skin where thigh meets hip.

his tongue traces a path downward, and then you watch just as he told you to. he doesn’t start where you expect. instead, he kisses the outer folds first, one side and then the other, slow, deliberate.

you’re shaved smooth in preparation for tonight, the skin soft and bare. he parts you with two fingers, spreading you open, and when his tongue finally, finally licks a flat stripe from your entrance to your clit, the sound you make isn’t a moan.

it’s a sob. a wet, broken sound that you’d be embarrassed about if you had room for anything but the heat of his mouth. you hadn’t been touched the right way in months. this was pure bliss.

carl’s tongue circles your clit earning another moan from you. he draws it between his lips and sucks once, a slow pull that makes your vision white out at the edges. your hand flies to his hair, fingers threading through the dark curls.

he hums approval against you, and the vibration ripples through you.

“taste so good,” he murmurs, pulling back just far enough to speak. his lips shine with you. “i could do this all night.”

your chest heaves. the bra straps have slipped down your shoulders. you fumble for the clasp yourself, needing it off, needing him against bare skin, nothing between you but his hand catches yours.

“i said,” he reminds you, “i’m taking care of you.”

he reaches behind you and unhooks the bra with one pinch. the cups loosen, and he draws the straps down your arms slowly. your breasts fall free, and his eyes drop to them immediately.

“fuck.” the word is soft, almost reverent. his thumb traces your nipple, watching it tighten under his touch, and then he takes it into his mouth and your back arches so sharply you nearly slide off the bed.

but he doesn’t let you fall. his forearm locks around your hips, pinning you in place while his tongue works your breast—licking, sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp—and his other hand slides back between your legs.

one finger enters you. just one, middle finger, curling upward inside your slick heat. he moves it slowly, finding that soft, ridged spot on your inner wall.

“carl.” his name comes out cracked. “baby.”

“yes, my love?” he mouth is at your ear now, his body having shifted upward. his finger still moves inside you, steady and unhurried.

“please, fuck me.” you cried once more.

he pulls his finger out bringing it to his mouth and sucking it clean while looking you dead in your eyes. then he stands, untying his shorts, letting them fall.

your jaw slightly drops at the thickness. the head flushed a deep rose. curving slightly upward, and when his hand wraps around the base, you watch a bead of pre-cum gather at the tip.

the sheets are rumpled now, warm beneath your bare back. carl climbs over you, his weight settling on his forearms, and you reach down to guide him, your fingers wrapping around his shaft, putting the tip at your entrance.

he pushes.

not fast. not hard. a slow thrust that opens you inch by inch until you’re full—so full you can’t breathe, can’t think, can only feel the stretch of him inside you, the way your pussy clenches around him.

his forehead drops to yours.

“oh baby,” he breathes. “there you are. been waiting all summer to feel you like this.”

he begins to move. a slow, rolling rhythm. and somewhere in the back of your mind you remember the cameras, the red lights, the eyes on the other side.

but you don’t care.

your legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back, and you pull him deeper.

your orgasm crashes through you, a wave that tears a cry from your throat, your walls clenching around him as he follows, groaning your name against your neck, his body shuddering above you.

he stays there, pressed against you, breathing ragged, his forehead resting on yours. "told you id take care of you," he whispers, a smile in his voice.

his eyes meet yours. hips haven’t moved. neither have you.

“your turn,” you say, before flipping the two of you over.

[belli5]

CHERRY PIEᵎᵎ CM

╰ Synopsis You loved ending long villa days wrapped in Caleb’s arms. After sweet kisses turned passionate, you two found yourselves somewhere for the first time in the villa. The next morning the girls tease you about what happened last night.

tags/contains Caleb McDaniel x fem!reader. Fluff, smut, 18+, NSFW, fingering, lots of kissing, teasing, porn without plot(?), use of y/n, pet names used, 1.6k words, requested 2.

➺ from Sera, to you📨. I already miss him on my screen 😭😔 also the next fic I might do from requests is angst, bec I’m hungry for some angst.

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!

If there was one thing you loved after a long day in the villa, it was getting into bed with Caleb. In fact, it was easily your favorite part of every single day.

No matter how much fun you had, nothing ever compared to the moment the lights went off. There was just something comforting about ending the day together.

Sometimes you’d lie there talking for what felt like hours, replaying everything that had happened that day until one of you drifted off. Other nights, a sleepy smile, fingers intertwined beneath the duvet, gentle forehead kisses, or a kiss goodnight were enough to remind you how lucky you were.

Tonight, you took your time getting ready for bed. The dressing room was buzzing with the girls’ chatter as you sat in front of your mirror, carefully curling your lashes.

You slipped into your soft pink and white striped top paired with the matching shorts. With one last glance in the mirror, you told the girls you’re heading to the bedroom and padded barefoot to the shared bedroom.

A few of the guys were lounging against the headboards and talking while they waited for their own girls. Caleb was among them, arms crossed casually over his chest, smile on his face as he listened to one of the boys.

You climbed into your shared bed, pulling the covers over your legs, and Caleb turned fully toward you when he noticed you. “Finally. Took you long enough.” He teased.

You laughed quietly, settling beside him. “Sorry, I wasn’t rushing tonight.”

When the lights finally turned off, you two talked in whispers for the next half hour. You replayed moments from today, laughing quietly whenever Caleb said something funny. Eventually, his hand found yours under the covers, thumb brushing gently over your knuckles. “You know, I think I feel really close to you. Even closer than I’ve felt with anyone in here. I don’t think it feels right to explore anyone else anymore..”

Your heart fluttered. You moved closer, resting your forearms over his chest, as you rested your chin on your arms. You draped one leg comfortably over his, tangling together under the sheets. “I feel the same.” You whispered back, smiling into the dark. “I don’t want anyone else either.”

Caleb’s arm wrapped around your waist, as he gently pulled you higher up against his body. Your forearms pressed firmer into his chest for balance, and suddenly his lips met yours in the dark. You smiled into the kiss, warmth blooming in your chest, and you felt the familiar curve of his mouth.

He tilted his head slightly, capturing your lips again with more intent. His free hand continued tracing lazy patterns along your back, fingertips slipping just beneath the hem of your top. The cool touch of his skin against your warm back made you yelp softly into his mouth.

Caleb chuckled lowly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “Sorry, baby.” He whispered against your lips, though he didn’t sound sorry at all. He pulled you flush right against him, eliminating any space between your bodies, his hand now splayed warmly across your lower back under the fabric.

The kiss deepened, he pushed his tongue forward gently, asking for entrance, and you gladly opened for him. Your tongues met and danced together in a intimate rhythm.

The taste of him was addictive, it was familiar from daytime kisses but it is so much better like this, tangled under the covers with no one watching.

You pulled back just enough to lick along his bottom lip with the tip of your tongue. Caleb’s breath hitched. Encouraged, you leaned in again, sucking gently on his lower lip before kissing him fully once more. He responded with a groan, his hand pressing you even closer as if he couldn’t get enough.

Caleb eventually slowed the kisses, pressing a few softer ones to the corner of your mouth. “Turn on your back for me?” he asked softly.

You nodded, and he lifted his arm, draping it across the pillow beside him like an invitation. You shifted obediently, settling onto his forearm so your head rested comfortably in the crook of his arm. He continued pressing sweet kisses to your cheek.

His free hand slid down to your waist, rubbing soothing circles over the fabric of your top. His fingers drifted lower, brushing over the tied waistband of your shorts. He toyed with the little bow for a few seconds, tracing the edge teasingly.“Can I?” he whispered against your ear, seeking permission.

You nodded again. With your consent, his hand slipped beneath the waistband of your shorts. It didn’t take long for him to realize you weren’t wearing anything underneath. Appreciative sound rumbled in his chest as his fingers ran through your folds, discovering just how wet you already were for him.

The first touch made you moan a little too loud for the shared bedroom. Caleb reacted instantly, pressing his lips firmly against yours to swallow the sound. He kissed you deeply as if to remind you that those sounds were only for him.

He obviously loved hearing you, in fact, he craved it and he’d do anything to do more to hear you, but not here where the others could hear. “Shh, baby.”He murmured against your mouth when he finally pulled back.

His fingers returned to your center, circling your clit with the perfect pressure. You bit down hard on your bottom lip, trying desperately to stay quiet as pleasure sparked through you. The feeling was intense in the dark, heightened by the need for silence and the way his strong arm cradled you close.

You managed to stay somewhat quiet, until he pushed two fingers inside you at once. The stretch drew a sharper gasp from your throat. Quickly, you slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes squeezing shut as pleasure rolled through you. When his fingers curled just right, hitting that perfect spot, you removed your hand, grabbed the back of his neck, and pulled him down into a hungry kiss instead.

He understood the silent plea immediately. His fingers began pumping in and out of you in a steady rhythm, curling with every thrust. The wet sounds were faint beneath the covers, but they felt deafening in your ears.

“Oh, Caleb..” you moaned softly into his mouth.

“Shh, baby..” he whispered, lips brushing yours. “You’re doing so good being quiet for me.” His fingers never stopped their delicious pace. “Can you stay quiet just a little longer?”

You nodded frantically, burying your face against his neck. The pressure in your stomach built fast, tight, coiling heat that made your thighs tremble. Caleb kept whispering praise against your skin, his thumb occasionally brushing your clit while his fingers worked you closer and closer to the edge.

It hit you suddenly, your whole body tensed as waves of pleasure crashed over you, coming hard around his fingers. You pressed your face into his shoulder to muffle the sound, trembling in his arms. Caleb gently pumped his fingers through every pulse, helping you ride out the orgasm until the waves slowly subsided and your body melted boneless against him.

When you finally relaxed, he eased his fingers out of you slowly. And when your heavy breathing finally slowed, you turned onto your side, back pressed against Caleb’s chest.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and without a word, he wrapped his arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. His hand splayed warmly over your stomach as he tucked you closer.

The next morning in the dressing room, you sat at the vanity, carefully blending concealer under your eyes. The girls were scattered around, doing their makeup and hair, the usual lively chatter filling the air.

“Yo, which one of y’all was getting french fries last night?” Trinity suddenly spoke up, loud and teasing.

You quietly laughed to yourself but stayed focused on your reflection, blending the product smoothly into your skin. The other girls immediately started denying it with giggles.

Trinity’s gaze landed on you. She noticed the small, telling smile you couldn’t hide. “Y/n.. was that you?”

You looked up, shrugging with a grin still playing on your lips. “It was!” Trinity yelled, pointing dramatically. “It was so fucking loud I knew damn well that wasn’t just kissing!”

The other girls erupted into excited cheers and laughter, crowding closer with wide eyes. Your face warmed, but the energy in the room was supportive. “Okay, okay, it was me.” You admitted with a laugh, setting down your brush.

Melanie leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “How did that even happen?”

You hummed, thinking back to the night before. “I don’t know.. we were just talking about how we really don’t want anyone else, but we didn’t close things off yet” you quickly added. “We were cuddling and kissing and, it just happened.”

Kayda grinned. “Ouhh, was it good?”

You looked straight at her, deadpan. “Bitch, is the grass green?”

The room filled with laughter as Trinity shook her head. “Sure it was good, she was barely staying quiet over there.”

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door. “Come in!” the girls called out in unison.

The door opened and Caleb stepped inside, holding a plate of fresh fruit and toast in one hand and a mug in the other. He scanned the room until his eyes found you. “Oh, look, there’s the chef of french fries..” Trinity teased loudly.

Caleb blinked, confused, glancing between you and the girls. “What?”

You stood up quickly, smiling as you walked over to him. “They’re just joking around.” You reassured him softly. Rising onto your toes, you gave him a sweet peck on the lips. “Thank you for breakfast. This is really sweet.”

[bedsyszn77]

Lost in the night - GM72

Gavin McKenna x fem!reader

my masterlist

Summary: A storm has your flight delayed and you missing one of the most important moments of your boyfriend’s life—getting drafted to the nhl. Somehow, you make it to Buffalo just in time to surprise him in his hotel room, getting one night together before he has to leave for dev camp.

Warnings/contents: Established relationship, showering together briefly, cussing, slightly suggestive for a second? Not proofread, no real plot that I stuck to.

Authors note: I hope people like this bc I’m lowkey scared to post it for some reason

You let out a breath of relief when the uber pulled up to the hotel. One delayed flight later and you were finally in Buffalo. You had missed Gavin getting drafted, a storm keeping you in an airport with no idea of when or if your flight would be back on schedule. Thankfully, it was one of the only flights delayed a few hours instead of completely cancelled. Unfortunately, it also meant that you missed your boyfriend getting drafted. 

You were sick to your stomach about it. This was such an important moment in Gavins life and you couldn’t even be there for him because of the fucking weather. You had texted his mom about it, asking her to tell him. Not wanting to burden him with the knowledge of your flight getting delayed through the phone. He had ended up texting you anyway. A simple Mom told me about your flight. Please don't stress about it. Seriously. I know you'd be right here next to me if  you could. I love you so much!! 

Five hours and too many energy drinks later, you watched from the horrible plain wifi as your boyfriend got drafted to Toronto. You told his mom that your flight was back on, and that you’d land in Buffalo around nine that night. She hadn't told Gavin that you would be there that night, wanting to give him a little surprise to come back to.

Walking into the lobby you spotted his mom and his sister. “You made it.” His mom smiled, bringing you into a hug. 

You inhaled shakily. “I can't believe I missed it. I’m sick over it.” You admitted, voice wavering.

“It's okay.” She whispered, pressing a comforting kiss to the top of your head. “It’s okay. He understands.”

“I was able to watch it from the plane.” You said, pulling back. “I was crying next to some old man. I think he thought I was insane.”

The old man had sent you a particularly dirty look when the tears started streaming down your face. But in your defense, the camera panned to Gavin on the phone right before he was selected. You had been unable to control your emotions, the day finally catching up to you.

She laughed softly, reaching into her purse. “Heres a spare room key, he's got his own room. He’ll probably be back in about an hour. Do you want one of us to stay with you?”

You shook your head, grabbing the key. “No, I’ll be okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. Oh, he’s going to be so excited to see you.” She told you. 

“The whole day he's been worried sick about your flight.” His sister interrupted. “He’s gonna lose his mind.”

You laughed slightly, heart swelling with that familiar warmth it always had at the mention of him. The guilt was still rough around the edges of your mind, but it subsided when you finally got to speak to them.

You bid them farewell, promising to text if you needed anything. 

The hotel was simple, a bed, small couch, and a little bathroom. Gavin’s stuff was thrown around the whole room and you rolled your eyes softly at the mess he had made in only a few days. It calmed your nerves, surprisingly. Knowing that he was so close to you. You changed out of your airport clothes into something more comfortable. Grabbing one of Gavin's hoodies and a pair of shorts from your bag. 

About 45 minutes passed before you heard the sound of a key card swiping. You jumped up from the bed, standing in the middle of the room with a grin making its way onto your face. The door finally opened and there was Gavin, hair tousled and exhaustion radiating off his body. His arms were full of things—Jersey, blazer, hats, and a bag full of Leafs gear. 

He glanced up, doing a double take. Face quickly morphing from surprise to excitement when he saw you. He dropped his stuff, wasting no time in rushing forward and pulling you in a hug, hand coming up to cradle your head against his neck. You laughed, wrapping your arms around him. 

“What the fuck?” He whispered in your ear. “You’re here?” He pulled back, scanning your face. 

“I’m here.” You whispered, cupping his face with your hands. A smile broke out on his face, eyes crinkling with happiness. “I made it.”

“How?” He asked, brows furrowed. “I thought they cancelled a bunch of flights.”

“They did.” You nodded. “But mine was one of the only flights delayed a few hours.” 

He seemed to realize that you really were standing there in front of him, because he quickly connected your lips. Pulling you flush against his body. You felt the pressure leave his body the moment his lips were on you. The responsibilities of today slowly leaving the longer he was holding you. 

His tongue traced along your bottom lip in a silent question. You opened your mouth eagerly, tongues crashing in a kiss that left your knees weak. He pulled back after a minute, breathing heavily. 

“I can’t believe you're here.” He admitted, voice soft as he sat down on the edge of the bed, pulling you between his legs. His arms wrapped around your waist, head coming down to rest against your chest. 

“I’m sorry I wasn't here for you.” You apologized, running your hands through his hair. 

“Don’t be.” He told you, voice muffled by the fabric of your hoodie. “You can’t control the weather.”

“I know, but still. Feels like I let you down.” You frowned. 

He shook his head. “No, no, you’re here now and that's all I care about.” His hands slipped under your hoodie, thumbs rubbing against your skin softly. “I need to shower.” He mumbled, pulling back. 

You nodded, stepping back. “Do,” You started, heat rising to your cheeks. “Do you want company?”

“You? Always.” he paused. “Can you take this off?” He asked, fumbling with his tie. You laughed slightly, your hands making their way to his collar, loosening the tie for him. 

You made your way to the bathroom, both of you peeling your clothes off slowly, stealing kisses as you waited for the water to heat up.

The water cascaded down your back as you stood in Gavin's arms, his chest pressed against your back. The shower was small, but you made it work, basking in the presence of each other. He pressed soft kisses to your shoulder, holding you close. 

You eventually peeled yourself off of him, turning around to work the conditioner into his hair. Your nails grazed his scalp, fingers running through the strands. He got quiet all of a sudden, his gaze settling on your chest, brows furrowing. 

“What?” You asked as you scrubbed the suds into his hair, making it spike up wildly. 

“Is that the hickey I gave you almost a week ago?” He grinned.

You glanced down at your chest, seeing the fading bruise that he had, in fact, given you almost a week ago. 

“Shut up and let me wash your hair.” You said, blush coating your cheeks.

Somehow that made him grin even more, hand coming down to grab your ass shamelessly.

“Gavin.” You warned, a smile breaking out on your face.

“Yes ma’am,” He said, ducking his head down for you to rinse the product out. “I’m letting you wash it.”

You rolled your eyes with no real heat behind it, resuming your movements. 

***

“Thank you.” Gavin whispered into the dark, tightening his hold on you. Your head was on his chest, bodies molded together, slotting perfectly against each other. You were tracing mindless little shapes on his arm, listening to the sound of his heartbeat steady under you. “Thank you for always supporting me.”

“Always. I’ll always support you.” You whispered back, voice soft. “I’m so proud of you.”

You meant every word. Gavin was your best friend. He was the person you could count on after a rough day. The person you could ramble about random topics to and he'd sit there listening with a grin on his face. The person you had spent the last few years of your life loving, despite all the long distances and challenges you faced together.

“I love you so much.” He said, bringing your hand up and kissing your knuckles softly. 

You smiled against his chest, a warm feeling blooming in your chest. “I love you too.” 

“What’s,” He started, voice quiet. “What’s next for us?”

You paused, unsure of how to answer. Obviously, you had done long distance before, but never with the added pressure of the NHL.

“I don’t know.” You admitted. “But I do know that I’d follow you wherever. So if that's Toronto, then that’s Toronto.” 

“You’re too good for me.” He said softly, squeezing your waist. 

“I’m in it for the long haul with you, Gav. No matter what happens or where you go.” You promised him, lacing your fingers back together.

He let out a sigh, as if your answer was the only assurance he needed. You could tell that the familiar feeling of exhaustion was slowly creeping in, his voice going an octave lower and his words slowing down. “I needed to hear that.” 

You picked your head up, giving him a small peck on the lips. “We’ll figure out the future later. It’s bed time now, you need all the sleep you can get before dev camp.” 

With a final squeeze of your hand, his breathing evened out as sleep took over. His body completely relaxed under you, mouth parting slightly. You smiled softly to yourself, eyes closing as you slowly nodded off, Gavin’s arms still wrapped tight around you.

[junezsq]

he leaves for ten minutes

beau maxwell x fem!reader

summary: a night out takes an uncomfortable turn when beau is away for a moment, leaving dean to step in and protect his best friend’s girlfriend

established relationship

warnings: misogynist trying to flirt with/intimidate the reader, reader feels trapped, confrontations, beau and dean are sweethearts though

word count: 5.7k

a/n: based on this request!! i hope this is wat you had in mind :) also, i love protective dean and beau sm

── ᵎᵎ ✦

you should’ve known the night was going too well, though there had been absolutely no reason to think that at the time.

getting the four of you to malone’s had been surprisingly easy. dean and allie had met you and beau there. there had been no argument over where to go, no waiting forty minutes for somebody who claimed they were already on their way, and no last-minute debate about whether malone’s would be too crowded on a friday night.

it was, of course, far too crowded.

by the time you made it through the door, the place was already warm with the press of too many bodies and loud enough that you had to lean close to hear each other properly. music played from somewhere toward the back, nearly swallowed by the noise of overlapping conversations and laughter, while people stood two and three deep around the bar waiting for drinks. every time the front door opened behind you, a brief rush of cold air slipped inside before disappearing almost immediately.

beau’s hand settled against the small of your back before you’d taken more than a few steps.

you hardly noticed it anymore. not because you didn’t like it, but because beau touched you so often that his hand finding you had become as familiar as anything else about him. in crowded places, it was almost guaranteed. his fingers would find yours, or his palm would settle against your back, or he’d hook an arm loosely around your waist while he talked to someone else. sometimes you thought it was less about keeping track of you and more about reassuring himself that you were still there.

you’d never asked him about it. you liked the habit too much to risk making him self-conscious about something he probably didn’t even realize he was doing.

he guided you through the crowd with his hand resting lightly at your waist, glancing back every few steps as though there were any possibility you could’ve disappeared from beneath his palm without him noticing.

“i’m still here,” you said eventually.

beau turned his head toward you, eyebrows pulling together because he hadn’t heard. you leaned closer and repeated yourself, nodding toward the hand at your waist, “you keep checking.”

his expression cleared with understanding. his gaze dropped briefly toward where his palm rested against your side before returning to your face, and for a moment he looked almost sheepish, “people keep pushing past.”

“and?”

“and you’re—” he stopped himself at your raised brows. his mouth opened, then closed again as he apparently reconsidered whatever answer had first occurred to him, “easier to lose in a crowd than me.”

you stared at him for a moment. “that was almost offensive.”

“but it wasn’t.”

“debatable.”

his mouth twitched, but he continued walking, keeping his hand exactly where it had been before. you tried not to smile.

the four of you managed to find a booth tucked against one of the walls near the back of malone’s. it was one of the larger ones, curved around a rectangular table, and for once there was enough space that nobody had to sit half on top of anyone else. allie slid into one side first, dean following her, while you took the opposite side with beau beside you.

you ended up near the wall, which suited you perfectly. beau settled in, stretching one arm along the back of the booth while his knee rested against yours beneath the table. across from you, allie was already shrugging off her jacket while dean attempted to flag down someone for drinks.

the first hour passed easily as conversation wandered without direction. allie told you about something that had happened in one of her classes, dean interrupted often enough that she eventually started ignoring him, and beau spent several minutes pretending not to be interested in the fries someone had ordered before eating more of them than anyone else.

the booth became increasingly cluttered as the night went on, glasses leaving rings of condensation across the table and discarded napkins collecting near the empty basket that had once contained food.

you liked nights like this.

there was something easy about being with the three of them. beau had known dean for so long that half their conversations seemed to rely on context neither you nor allie possessed, while you and allie had become increasingly good at communicating your shared confusion through increasingly expressive looks across the table.

beau stole the lime from your drink and you stared at him as he ate it without the slightest trace of remorse, “that was mine.”

“you were taking too long,” he shrugged.

“i was holding it.”

“exactly.”

you narrowed your eyes before reaching for his drink and taking a deliberately long sip. beau watched you over the rim of the glass, eyebrows slowly lifting, “you have your own.”

you copied his shrug as you took another sip while maintaining eye contact, then set the glass back in front of him.

his mouth twitched, “thief.”

“prove it.”

something warm and amused settled into his expression as he looked at you, and for a second the crowded bar seemed to disappear from his awareness completely. you knew that look. it usually preceded either a kiss or an extremely annoying comment, and judging by the way his gaze briefly dropped to your mouth, you suspected it would be the first.

before he could do either, someone called his name from across the room.

beau glanced over his shoulder, recognition immediately crossing his face. he looked back at you as though considering whether whoever had called him was worth leaving the booth for.

“go,” you said, laughing softly.

“i’ll be right back.”

you nodded, but before he could move away, you caught the front of his shirt and pulled him down far enough to press a quick kiss to his lips.

the smile that appeared was smaller than his usual grin. softer, almost private, despite the fact that you were surrounded by people. his hand briefly squeezed the back of your neck before he straightened and disappeared into the crowd.

you watched him go for a few seconds, following the back of his head until the crowd swallowed him from view. when you turned around again, dean was looking at you from across the table.

you narrowed your eyes. “what?”

“nothing.”

allie glanced at him before looking at you, “he’s judging you.”

“i’m not judging anyone.”

“you have a very judgmental face.”

dean frowned at her, “what does that even mean?”

allie took a sip of her drink rather than answering, and you laughed softly as dean began arguing his case to a girlfriend who had already stopped listening.

the conversation moved on easily after that. you stopped thinking about where beau had gone, knowing he was somewhere nearby and would eventually find his way back to you. he always did.

you were listening to allie tell you something when someone stopped beside the booth.

at first, you assumed he was waiting for somebody to pass. people had been squeezing between the booths and the bar all night, and you barely looked up until a voice interrupted allie halfway through her sentence.

“hey.” the guy standing at the end of the booth looked vaguely familiar, though you couldn’t remember where you’d seen him before. maybe another party, or somewhere on campus. his face was one of those you recognized without being able to attach a name or memory to it.

you gave him a polite smile, “hi.”

he didn’t move. you waited for a moment before turning back toward allie, assuming that was the end of the interaction.

“i know you, don’t i?”

you looked at him again, “i don’t think so.”

“i’ve seen you somewhere.”

you gave a small shrug, “probably around campus.”

he nodded as though that proved something, and the pause that followed lasted a little too long. you became aware of allie watching him from across the table while dean’s attention remained, at least outwardly, on something happening near the bar.

“can i buy you a drink?” the guy asked.

you glanced at beau’s half empty glass sitting in front of you, “i’m good, thanks.”

he followed your gaze. “when you finish that one.”

“still good,” you smiled politely again before turning back toward allie. this time, neither of you immediately resumed your conversation.

the guy remained there, and you could feel it without looking. there was a particular kind of awareness that came with knowing someone was watching you, an uncomfortable pressure between your shoulder blades that made it impossible to return your attention fully to whatever allie had been saying.

after a few seconds, he spoke again, “you got a boyfriend?”

you exhaled quietly through your nose. “yeah.”

“where is he?”

the question irritated you more than it should have. you turned toward him again, one hand still resting around the condensation-slick glass in front of you, “somewhere over there.”

the guy glanced toward the crowded room before looking back at you, “he left you here by yourself?”

you stared at him before looking deliberately across the table at allie and dean, “clearly.”

allie’s mouth twitched, though she quickly hid it behind her glass. the guy didn’t seem to notice, but dean did.

you caught the briefest shift in his expression before he looked away again, and you knew him well enough by now to understand what it meant. he was listening.

that realization didn’t bother you. if anything, it gave you the strange comfort of knowing somebody else had noticed without the annoyance of having them immediately take over.

dean knew you could handle yourself.

you and he had argued enough over the years for him to know that better than most. he had seen you annoyed, furious, stubborn and unreasonable. he had also been on the receiving end of all four often enough to know that stepping into an argument you were perfectly capable of handling would only earn him your irritation as well.

so he stayed where he was, but he listened.

“what’s your name?” the guy asked.

“does it matter?”

his smile faltered slightly, “i’m trying to be friendly.”

“and i’m trying to talk to my friend.” the words came out more sharply than you’d intended, but you couldn’t bring yourself to regret them.

something in the guy’s posture changed, “you always this rude?”

you stared at him for a second, “i said no to a drink.”

“i heard you.”

“then i’m not sure what we’re still talking about.”

a silence settled around the booth that had nothing to do with the noise of malone’s. the rest of the bar continued around you, music playing and people laughing only a foot away, but your attention had narrowed to the man standing at the edge of the table.

he looked irritated now. not embarrassed or disappointed, but genuinely irritated, as though you’d broken some unspoken rule by refusing to participate in a conversation you had never asked to have, “you don’t have to be a bitch about it.”

allie’s expression changed immediately. you felt your temper flare before common sense had a chance to catch up, “and you don’t have to still be standing here.”

across the table, dean went very still. he hadn’t said anything, and he wasn’t even looking directly at the guy yet, but the awareness between them was immediate, “you got something to say?” the guy asked.

dean finally looked at him, “no.”

the answer was so simple that the guy seemed almost disappointed by it. you looked back at him, “great. are we done now?”

his attention returned to you, “you think you’re funny?”

“no.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

you frowned, your patience almost entirely gone by then, “what do you want?”

“nothing now.”

“then go.”

that was when something changed.

you saw it before he moved, though later you wouldn’t have been able to explain exactly what you had noticed. maybe it was the tightening of his jaw, or the way his shoulders shifted forward, or the sudden disappearance of whatever thin layer of friendliness he’d been pretending to have.

he stepped closer to the booth and the irritation inside you vanished so quickly it left you cold.

until that moment, you’d been angry and annoyed. completely certain that, however unpleasant the interaction was, it was still only an argument. you’d dealt with men like him before, the kind who treated rejection as the opening of a negotiation rather than the end of a conversation, and you had never particularly struggled to tell them exactly what you thought.

suddenly, you weren’t so sure that was all this was.

you became acutely aware of where you were sitting. against the wall, with the table in front of you and the stranger standing at the only open end of your side of the booth.

for the first time since he’d walked over, you felt trapped.

the realization must have shown on your face. you didn’t know how. maybe your eyes widened slightly, or your shoulders tensed, or you simply stopped arguing. whatever it was, dean saw it.

his reaction was immediate, because he was out of the booth before you fully registered that he’d moved, crossing around the end of the table and stepping directly between the stranger and your side of the booth, “back up.”

his voice was calm, and something about that calmness changed the atmosphere immediately. you’d seen dean loud before. everyone had. he was loud when he was annoyed, competitive, amused, or losing an argument he insisted he was winning.

this was different.

allie knew it too. you could tell from the way she had gone still across the booth, watching him carefully without attempting to interfere. there was no alarm in her expression, only attention. she knew him well enough to recognize that the absence of his usual theatrics meant he was genuinely angry.

the guy scoffed, “we were talking.”

“she’s done talking.”

“she can tell me that.”

dean was silent for a second, “she did.”

there was nothing clever in the response and no attempt to make the moment into something it wasn’t. dean simply stood there, broad shoulders blocking your view of the man almost entirely.

the guy tried to look past him, but dean shifted so he covered you.

“move.”

dean didn’t, “you need to leave.”

the guy laughed under his breath, “or what?”

dean watched him for a moment, his expression unreadable from where you were sitting. the silence stretched for several seconds, though it probably felt longer than it actually was.

“you were comfortable enough when it was her sitting there,” he said eventually, his voice still quiet. “now somebody your own size is standing here and you want to make it a fight.”

the guy’s jaw tightened. dean tilted his head slightly, “doesn’t look great.”

the words weren’t particularly threatening. that was probably what made them land. the guy glanced around at the people at nearby booths who had begun to notice, and the attention seemed to drain some of the confidence from his posture.

he muttered something you couldn’t hear before finally stepping away.

dean watched him disappear into the crowd. he waited longer than necessary, eyes fixed in the direction the stranger had gone, before finally turning back toward you.

the change in his expression was immediate. whatever coldness had been there disappeared, “you good?”

you nodded automatically, “yeah.”

dean looked at you for a long moment.

“i’m fine.”

he didn’t call you a liar, though you suspected he wanted to. instead, he looked toward allie, and something passed silently between them, the kind of easy communication that came from knowing someone well enough not to need words for everything.

allie gave a small nod before dean slid into your side of the booth.

you moved closer to the wall to make room, and he settled beside you in the space beau had left behind. across the table, allie stayed where she was, though her attention remained on the two of you for a few seconds longer.

dean didn’t crowd you. he didn’t put an arm around you or ask again whether you were all right. he simply sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder rested lightly against yours, his presence creating a solid barrier between you and the rest of the room.

across the table, allie picked up her drink and looked at you with deliberate casualness, “do you remember what i was saying before?”

you blinked, “something about your professor?”

“close enough,” she continued her story anyway.

you loved her for that. she spoke normally, picking up somewhere in the middle of whatever she’d been telling you before, and after a moment dean added a quiet comment that made her roll her eyes.

neither of them looked at you too closely. neither of them asked if you wanted to leave. they simply gave you time to stop feeling like your heart was beating somewhere in your throat.

you leaned back against the booth and let their voices wash over you. dean’s shoulder remained against yours, the occasional movement reminding you that he was still there without forcing you to acknowledge why.

you’d known him through beau first.

for a long time, that was how you’d thought of him. beau’s friend. beau’s teammate. one of the people who occupied so much space in the stories beau told you that you’d felt like you knew him before the two of you had ever had a proper conversation.

somewhere along the way, that had changed, because dean had become your friend too.

he annoyed you. frequently. he stole food off your plate without asking and disagreed with you on principle whenever he was bored. but he also remembered your coffee order after hearing it once and texted you whenever beau left his phone somewhere stupid. he treated you like someone who belonged in his life rather than somebody he tolerated because you were dating his friend.

you hadn’t really thought about what that meant until now.

dean had known you could handle yourself. he’d waited because he respected that. and then, the second you couldn’t, he’d been there.

a few minutes later, you saw allie’s attention move toward the crowd. her expression softened slightly as her eyes settled on something, “beau’s coming back.”

your stomach tightened.

dean looked toward the crowd, then at you, and you knew from the brief pause that he was waiting to see what you wanted to do. he didn’t ask, though. he simply remained beside you, his shoulder still resting lightly against yours, while allie watched beau make his way through the crowd.

you didn’t have time to decide what expression to put on your face before he reached the booth.

at first, beau looked relaxed. there was still a faint smile on his face from whatever conversation had kept him away for so long. then his eyes found you, moved to dean sitting beside you, and returned immediately to your face.

the smile disappeared and you saw the exact moment he understood that something was wrong, “what happened?” his voice was quiet, but the question came without hesitation. you shook your head almost instinctively, “i’m fine.”

beau’s gaze remained on you for another second before shifting toward dean.

dean didn’t answer for you. instead, he stood. the movement was unhurried, and his hand touched your shoulder briefly as he moved away, an absent gesture you doubted he had consciously thought about. he walked around the table and slid back into the booth beside allie, who shifted closer to the wall to make room for him.

the space beside you was empty again. beau looked at it, then at you, before sliding into the booth.

the moment he sat down, his body angled toward yours as much as the table allowed. one knee pressed against yours beneath it, and his hand settled lightly against your thigh, warm even through the fabric of your clothes.

he didn’t look across the table again, “tell me.”

there was nothing demanding in the words. if anything, the quietness of his voice made the knot in your chest pull tighter.

you looked down at his hand for a moment, gathering your thoughts. the whole interaction had lasted only a few minutes, but trying to explain it now made it feel strangely complicated.

“this guy came over while you were gone,” you began. “he was trying to buy me a drink, and i told him i wasn’t interested.”

beau’s thumb moved once against your thigh, but otherwise he remained completely still.

“he kept talking to me after that. asking where you were and things like that.” you paused, suddenly uncomfortable beneath the weight of beau’s attention, “i told him to leave. he got annoyed.”

you could see beau trying very hard not to interrupt, the effort was written across his face, “how annoyed?”

you hesitated, “he called me a bitch.”

beau’s jaw tightened. you felt the change beneath your hand where it had come to rest over his. the tension that moved through him was subtle, but immediate. across the table, dean leaned back against the booth, watching the two of you without saying anything.

“that’s when dean got up,” you continued. “he made him leave.”

beau’s eyes moved across the table. dean gave a slight shrug, as though the entire thing had been considerably less important than it actually had. “she’s skipping a bit,” he said.

you frowned, “i’m not skipping anything.”

dean looked at you, “you are.”

“i told him what happened.”

“you gave him the edited version.”

you felt beau’s attention shift back to you, “there’s an edited version?”

“no.”

“yes,” dean said at the same time.

you looked across the table at him, “whose side are you on?”

dean’s eyebrows lifted slightly, “not really a sides thing.”

allie rested her chin against her hand, watching the exchange. she had been quiet since beau returned, but you caught the faintest twitch at the corner of her mouth.

you turned back toward beau and found him waiting. a sigh escaped your lips, “i got a little scared. that’s all.”

beau’s expression changed. the anger didn’t disappear, but something else moved over it. concern, quieter and heavier, settling into the crease between his eyebrows.

before he could say anything, dean spoke again, “she couldn’t get out.”

you looked at him, but his expression was no longer teasing, “he was standing at the end of the booth,” he explained, looking at beau now. “table in front of her, wall behind her. when he moved closer, she was boxed in.”

the words made your stomach tighten all over again. hearing it described that plainly was different from remembering it. you had known, in the moment, that there was nowhere for you to go, but you hadn’t put it into words even inside your own head.

beau’s hand stilled beneath yours, “did he touch you?”

“no,” you said immediately, “he didn’t. dean got there before he could,” you added.

something passed across beau’s face at that, too quick for you to identify. his eyes moved toward dean again.

“he wasn’t going to,” dean said, his voice matter-of-fact, “not after i got over there.”

beau looked at him for a moment, before his attention returned to you. his expression softened slightly, though the tension hadn’t left his shoulders.

“it was just for a second, babe,” you tried to reassure him, but you knew he didn’t believe that was the entire truth.

his hand moved from beneath yours. for half a second, you thought he was going to try and find the guy. instead, he reached beneath the table and took your hand properly, threading his fingers through yours. the familiarity of the movement made something inside your chest loosen before you could stop it.

“i’m here now,” he said quietly.

there was anger in his face. you could see it in the tension around his mouth and the way his jaw tightened every few seconds, but he wasn’t making it yours to deal with. he wasn’t demanding a description of the guy or asking why you hadn’t come to find him. he wasn’t telling you what you should have done differently or turning what had happened into a reason for you to comfort him.

he simply held your hand, and as his thumb moved slowly across your knuckles, you found you hadn’t realized how badly you’d wanted him back until then.

your shoulders loosened slightly and beau noticed. of course he did.

he let go of your hand to move his arm along the back of the booth behind you, and you shifted toward him before he even had to ask. the moment you leaned into his side, his arm settled around your shoulders and drew you closer.

you rested your head against him, letting yourself sink into the familiar warmth of his side. beau’s arm tightened around your shoulders almost immediately, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you, while beneath the table, his other hand remained wrapped around yours.

for a while, nobody spoke. across the table, dean had settled back beside allie, one arm resting behind her while she leaned into the corner of the booth. beau looked up, and his eyes met dean’s over the table.

the exchange lasted only a few seconds. beau gave a small nod, something quiet and serious passing over his expression, and dean returned it just as subtly. neither of them said anything, but you understood enough anyway.

beau knew exactly what dean had done. and dean, apparently, didn’t think it required discussion.

you closed your eyes briefly as beau’s fingers moved against your shoulder in slow, absent strokes. the adrenaline that had been sitting beneath your skin was beginning to fade now, leaving you tired in its place, and you let yourself concentrate on the small things instead: the warmth of his body beside yours, the weight of his arm around you, the familiar movement of his thumb brushing over your hand beneath the table.

you hadn’t realized how tense you still were until you felt yourself slowly beginning to relax.

after a while, beau lowered his head and pressed his lips to the top of yours. the kiss lingered for a second before he spoke, his voice quiet enough that the words stayed between the two of you despite dean and allie sitting only a few feet away, “i leave for ten minutes.”

the comment was so characteristically him that a soft laugh escaped you before you could stop it. you turned your face slightly into his chest, hiding the small smile that had finally begun to appear, “it was longer than ten minutes.”

you felt him shift beside you, “was it?”

you lifted your head enough to look at him, “mhmm.”

beau seemed to consider that for a moment before his mouth twisted, “shit.”

another laugh slipped out of you, quieter than the first but easier this time. something in beau’s expression softened at the sound, though the concern hadn’t entirely disappeared from his face. it was still there in the slight crease between his eyebrows and the careful way his eyes moved over yours, as though he were checking for something you might not be telling him.

you knew that look, “i’m fine,” you told him.

“i know,” his answer came easily, but his thumb continued moving over the back of your hand.

you studied him for a moment, “really.”

he nodded again, but you didn’t believe him. or, more accurately, you believed that he believed you were fine now. that didn’t mean he had stopped thinking about what had happened before he came back.

the tension in his jaw gave him away. you narrowed your eyes slightly, “you look like you want to kill someone.”

beau’s eyebrows lifted, “i don’t.”

you continued looking at him and he lasted approximately three seconds before sighing, “fine. i’m annoyed.”

“annoyed,” you repeated, unconvinced.

“very annoyed.”

you waited with raised brows. beau looked at your expression and amended, “extremely annoyed.”

“better.” you smiled before you could stop yourself, and some of the remaining tension in his expression finally eased when he saw it. his eyes stayed on your face for another moment before he shook his head slightly and pulled you closer again.

you settled back against his side, and this time the movement came more easily. some of the last tension in your chest went with it.

you though back to the quiet exchange between beau and dean. it was something that made warmth press unexpectedly against the lingering discomfort in your chest.

beau trusted dean.

not just with football or parties or whatever other stupid things they’d gotten into together over the years. with you.

and dean had treated that trust like the most natural thing in the world. not as an obligation, or a favor he would need thanking for. it was just something he did because beau loved you and, somewhere along the way, dean had decided that meant you were his person too.

beau’s thumb continued its slow movement over your shoulder, and you let yourself sit there for another minute before he spoke again. his voice was quieter this time, all traces of humor gone, “do you want to leave?”

you thought about it; you were still shaken. you could admit that to yourself now. every so often, the memory of the stranger stepping closer returned without warning, bringing that same cold feeling into your stomach. but the thought of leaving made the whole thing feel bigger somehow, as though one unpleasant stranger had managed to take the entire night from you.

you shook your head, “not yet.”

beau nodded, his expression giving away nothing but acceptance, “then we’ll stay.”

there was no hesitation and no attempt to change your mind. he simply settled back into the booth and kept his arm around you.

across the table, allie seemed to sense that the moment had passed. she waited another few seconds before starting her story over from the beginning, apparently deciding that none of you had been paying enough attention the first time.

dean frowned, “didn’t you just just tell this story?”

allie looked at him, “nobody was listening.”

“i was.”

“what was i talking about?”

dean opened his mouth, then closed it again.

allie nodded, “exactly.”

a quiet laugh escaped you, and beau’s attention immediately dropped toward you. the corner of his mouth lifted, and his softly squeezed your shoulder once before he turned his attention back to the conversation, though his arm remained securely around you.

you still felt the remnants of adrenaline beneath your skin, and every so often your attention flicked toward the crowd without permission. you caught yourself searching faces you didn’t recognize, checking the spaces between groups of people before you could stop yourself.

each time, beau’s thumb moved gently against your shoulder. you weren’t sure if he noticed you doing it, but you suspected he did.

after a while, dean caught your eye from across the table. you held his gaze for a second, then mouthed a quiet, thank you.

his expression tightened with immediate discomfort, causing you to almost smile. dean had never seemed like somebody who enjoyed sincere emotion being directed at him.

he gave you a brief nod though, and immediately reached for allie’s drink. she moved it out of reach without even looking at him, “no.”

“i didn’t do anything.”

“you were going to.”

“you don’t know that.”

allie finally looked at him, “i absolutely do.”

dean leaned back in the booth, looking unfairly accused.

you looked at beau. he was already looking at you. something passed between you, a flicker of shared amusement that needed no explanation.

the four of you stayed at malone’s for another hour. conversation never returned entirely to what it had been before, but it came close. allie eventually finished her story, dean continued to insist that he had been listening the first time, and beau absentmindedly pushed his glass towards you so you could finish what you’d started.

when you finally left, the cold air outside hit your face hard enough to make you inhale sharply. after the warmth of malone’s, the night felt almost startlingly clear, the sounds of the bar dulling as the door closed behind you.

beau immediately wrapped his arm around your shoulders as the four of you started down the sidewalk. dean and allie walked a few steps ahead. allie slipped her hand into his, and he glanced down at her before adjusting his pace to match hers.

after a minute, dean looked back. his eyes moved over you, then beau. apparently satisfied, he turned forward again and you smiled to yourself.

the night hadn’t gone the way any of you had expected. your heart still beat a little faster when you thought about the moment the stranger’s expression had changed, and you suspected it would take a while before the memory stopped making something unpleasant twist in your stomach.

but beau was beside you, warm and solid, his arm wrapped around you.

a few steps ahead, dean was listening to allie talk, occasionally turning his head toward her as she spoke. she said something that made him laugh, then shoved his shoulder when he apparently responded with the wrong thing.

a couple minutes later, dean glanced back at you one more time. it was only briefly, but you understood then, perhaps more clearly than you had before, why beau loved him like a brother.

it wasn’t because dean was particularly good at saying the right thing. he usually wasn’t. it wasn’t because he made grand gestures or turned friendship into something that needed to be announced.

it was knowing when to stay out of the way and when to step in. it was sitting beside someone without demanding they explain how they felt. it was looking back over your shoulder once, then again, just to make sure the people you cared about were still there.

beau’s thumb moved across your shoulder and when you looked up at him he was already watching you. his eyebrows lifted slightly in a silent question, and this time you didn’t tell him it was nothing. you only moved a little closer and something in his expression softened.

you knew then, that you weren’t alone; you’d never been, and you never would be.

[luvlypresley]

The Nightwing "No Pay-Policy"

you slide your card toward the register like it’s nothing, like you didn’t spend the last hour watching dick grayson smile at you across dinner and pretending your knees weren’t weak.

he notices immediately. of course he does. this man has the reflexes of a cat and the dramatic instincts of a theatre kid raised by ninjas.

“hey— hey, hey, hold on.” he’s already halfway out of his chair, eyes wide, voice half-laughing like he can’t believe what he’s seeing. “what do you think you’re doing?”

you blink. “...paying?”

dick presses a hand to his chest like you’ve wounded him. “paying? you? for me?” he shakes his head slowly, lips twitching. “that’s cute. wrong, but cute.”

you try not to smile, because he’s being ridiculous, standing there in his leather jacket, hair falling into his eyes like he was crafted to be your weakness. “i just thought I could take this one.”

“no, no, sweetheart.” he steps closer, resting his palms on the counter beside your hand. you can feel the warmth of him, the way he crowds in without being pushy. “that’s my job.”

you raise a brow. “your job?”

his grin softens just enough to make your heart stutter. “yeah. my job. i asked you out. i pay. that’s the rule.”

“that’s not a real rule.” you argue.

“it is in the dick grayson handbook,” he counters, tapping the imaginary badge on his chest. “chapter one: be a gentleman. chapter two: do unnecessary flips. chapter three: pay for dates.”

you snort. “i swear you make half of this up.”

he leans in, lowering his voice like it’s a secret just for you. “only the parts meant to make you smile.”

your cheeks warm and he definitely catches it. His eyes flicker in that smug soft boy way, not arrogant, just unbearably fond.

dick nudges your card back toward you with two fingers, slow and deliberate. “look… i know you can pay. you’re capable, you’re independent, you scare the hell out of me in the best way.” he pauses, blue eyes bright, honest. “but let me treat you tonight. i want to.”

you swallow. “you really don’t like when i try to pay, huh?”

he huffs a laugh, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “i like that you try. i like that you’re thoughtful. but it also makes me wanna wrap you up in my arms and say ‘nope, not happening’ every single time.”

“possessive much?” you tease.

“only when it comes to you,” he shoots back, grinning like it’s the most natural truth in the world.

he takes your card, sets it back in your bag, and presses the tiniest kiss to your forehead before you can argue. “let me do this one. consider it… an investment in more nights like this.”

you look up at him, fighting a smile. “and what do i owe in return?”

dick shrugs lightly, looping his fingers with yours as he hands his card to the cashier. “just keep showing up.”

and the way he says it. Soft, earnest, like you’re the best thing to happen to his week...yeah.

you’re not fighting him on the bill anymore.

hes so cute i wanna eat him

©luvlypresley2025 - do not translate or copy in any way.

[djostummy]

Can you please do something like “random moments at the villa” with Caleb?

Random Moments in the Villa w/ Caleb McDaniel!

masterlist!

hi guys! i have been trying my best to work on these but over the past few weeks and upcoming weeks i have been on vacation, my birthday is coming up, and then i’m going out of the country for another vacation so i’m slam packed! i’m really trying to be ahead of all these! pls forgive me!

. coupledcaleb! who compliments everything you wear! from your day bikini’s, to your night clothes, your pajamas, and even your challenge clothes.

. coupledcaleb! that takes pictures of your outfit every night in the villa. even goes as far as to hype you up during them!

. coupledcaleb! that let’s you play with his hair during the day even of he complains about it being messed up! he loves the feeling of your nails being in his hair.

. coupledcaleb! will try and match with you at night. he’ll ask you before you leave to get ready what you are thinking about wearing and try (his best) to match with you.

. coupledcaleb! that wears his cowboy hat but ends up putting it on you.

. coupledcaleb! sings songs with you around the villa! even goes as far as to take videos (vlogs) of you guys singing.

. coupledcaleb! that finally decides to close things off with you after picking you at the firepit.

. bfcaleb! will take you back to charleston to meet his family and friends after a few months of dating.

. bfcaleb! obviously had a hard time separating from you at the airport. he had to go back to north carolina while you had to go back to your own house. after sleeping in the same bed for so long, it was hard for him to sleep without you beside him.

. bfcaleb! always anticipates you coming into town or him going to see you! he can’t wait to hug you if you do come into town!

. bfcaleb! is exactly the same man that was in the villa. most of the girls had the idea the guys would be different from the villa but caleb? he was still the same caring man he was!

[bnwrittes]

hiii i saw u take requests for zack bolduc🙏 i dont have like a specific idea but i would love to read literally anything about him that ud wanna write :))

Miss, that's not your fiancé

SUMMARY: When your class wins a contest that gives them tickets to a Montreal Canadiens game and a special pre-game rink visit, your students are thrilled — mostly because they are convinced this will finally prove you’ve been lying about Zachary Bolduc being your fiancé. But when Zach recognizes you immediately, greets you like you’re the most important person in the building, and very proudly confirms that he is, in fact, engaged to their teacher, your students are forced to accept the truth: Miss really did bag a Hab.

WC: 4.1K

WARNINGS: Pure fluff, teacher!reader, fiancé!Zachary Bolduc, playful student teasing, public affection, mild embarrassment, students being dramatic and nosy, soft established relationship, no angst.

Your students had never believed you, not once.

Not the first time one of them had spotted the small diamond on your left hand while you were writing fractions on the board and gasped so loudly half the class thought there was a spider.

Not the second time, when someone had asked who your fiancé was and you had answered, very casually, “Zachary Bolduc,” like you weren’t talking about an NHL player currently wearing a Montreal Canadiens jersey.

And definitely not the third time, when a group of eleven-year-olds had immediately launched into the kind of dramatic disbelief only middle schoolers were capable of.

“Miss, respectfully,” Mateo had said, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed, “there is absolutely no way.” You had blinked at him over the top of your laptop. “Respectfully?”

“Yes. Respectfully. Because I like you.”, beside him, Sofia had nodded gravely. “You’re really nice, Miss. But Zachary Bolduc is not your fiancé.”

“He is,” you had said, trying not to laugh “No, he’s not.”

“Why would I lie about that?” Liam had lifted his hand, not even waiting to be called on. “Maybe you met him once and your brain just decided the rest.”

The class had erupted, you had stood at the front of the room, marker still in your hand, engagement ring catching the fluorescent classroom lights, and wondered how your life had become being lovingly roasted by sixth graders “I have pictures,” you’d told them.

“No AI,” Mateo shot back immediately.

“It’s not AI.”

“Photoshop.”

“I don’t even know how to use Photoshop.”

“Exactly what someone using Photoshop would say.” You had stopped trying after that.

At first, Zachary thought it was hilarious.

Every time you came home with another story, he would lose it on the couch, head thrown back, one hand over his stomach like your class had personally been placed on earth to humble you “They said I’m not believable enough to be your fiancée,” you told him one night, dropping your tote bag near the door and kicking off your shoes.

Zach had looked up from where he was sprawled across your couch, still in sweatpants from practice, hair damp from a shower. “What does that mean?”

“I asked the same thing.”

“And?”

“They said you look like someone who would be engaged to an influencer, not a teacher who keeps granola bars in her desk.” Zach’s mouth had fallen open before he started laughing again. “That’s so specific.”

“They also said I probably made you up because I needed street cred.”

“You do need street cred.” You had thrown a pillow at him, he caught it easily, grinning, then reached for your hand once you got close enough. He pulled you down beside him and kissed your knuckles right above your ring, still smiling against your skin.

“One day,” he said, “they’re gonna find out.” You snorted. “At this point, you could walk into my classroom wearing your jersey and they’d say you were a hired actor.”

“Honestly? I respect them.”

“You would.”

“They have standards.”

“They are eleven.”

“Still.” For months, it became the running joke of your classroom, any time the Canadiens came up, your students would look at you like you were seconds away from making another outrageous claim.

When you had worn one of Zach’s hoodies on a casual Friday, the class had clocked it immediately “Miss,” Sofia said slowly, narrowing her eyes at the logo on your chest, “interesting choice.”

“It’s cold.”

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s my fiancé’s.” Mateo put his pencil down. “Here we go again.”

You had laughed so hard you had to turn toward the whiteboard, so when your school announced that your class had won the city-wide reading contest — after weeks of you bribing them with stickers, extra recess, and the kind of dramatic motivational speeches usually reserved for championship locker rooms — you were already emotional.

Then the principal told you the prize.

A trip to a Montreal Canadiens game, not just tickets, a pre-game rink visit was included in the prize too.

A small meet-and-greet with staff and a few players before puck drop, the second the words left your principal’s mouth, your entire class exploded.

Kids screamed. Some jumped out of their seats. Someone knocked over a pencil case. Mateo stood up with both hands on his head like he had personally been drafted.

You, meanwhile, stood near the doorway with your hand pressed over your mouth, because you knew.

You knew Zach would be there, you also knew your students still absolutely did not believe you.

The week leading up to the game was chaos, every morning, someone asked whether Zachary Bolduc knew you were coming, every afternoon, someone asked whether you had “finally told the truth.”

On the bus ride to the Bell Centre, it somehow got worse.

You were seated near the front with your clipboard, permission slips carefully tucked in a folder, emergency contacts highlighted, while thirty kids vibrated with enough excitement to power the entire city “Miss,” Liam called from three rows back.

“Yes?”

“Are you nervous to see your fake fiancé?” you turned slowly in your seat, the chaperone beside you choked on a laugh.

“My very real fiancé,” you corrected “Sure.” Sofia leaned into the aisle. “Are we supposed to act surprised when he doesn’t know you?”

“He knows me.”

“Would he know your birthday?”

“Yes.”

“What’s his favorite food?” You opened your mouth, then paused, the class went silent, you pointed a finger at them. “Do not.” Mateo slapped the seat in front of him. “She doesn’t know!”

“I do know.”

“Then say it!”

“He changes it every week!”

“Fake relationship.”

The bus erupted again, you sat back in your seat, cheeks warm, trying very hard not to smile too much. Your phone buzzed in your coat pocket, and when you pulled it out, Zach’s name lit up your screen.

Zach ❤️: You here yet?

You glanced around at your students, all of them still arguing over whether you were about to be exposed in front of the entire class.

You: Almost. They’re currently discussing how embarrassing it’ll be when you don’t recognize me.

His reply came almost instantly.

Zach ❤️: Perfect. I’m about to be so annoying.

You stared at the message.

You: Zachary.

Zach ❤️: What? I’ve waited months for this.

You had a terrible feeling, by the time the bus pulled up, your students were practically plastered against the windows. The Bell Centre felt enormous around them, bright and loud even before the game had started. Staff members greeted your group and led you through the entrance, giving everyone wristbands and reminding them of the rules.

No running, no yelling in restricted areas, stay with the group and do not touch anything unless someone says it is okay. You repeated every instruction twice, teacher voice fully activated, even though your own stomach was fluttering.

It wasn’t like you had never been there before. You had been to plenty of games. You had waited for Zach after practices, kissed him in parking garages, worn his hoodies in the quiet of your apartment, helped him choose ties for team events, listened to him stress about games and travel and the pressure of playing in a hockey city that felt everything so deeply.

But this was different, this was your school life colliding with your real life.

Your students knew you as Miss. The one who reminded them to write their names on their papers, who kept extra pencils in a cup near the door, who made them redo sloppy work because she knew they were capable of better. They knew you as the person who tied shoelaces on field trips and settled arguments over whose turn it was to use the good markers.

They did not know you as Zach’s person.

They did not know that the man they watched on TV sometimes fell asleep on your shoulder during movies. That he complained when you stole fries off his plate but always pushed the plate closer. That he texted you before morning skate and called you after road games no matter how tired he was. That he had proposed to you in the soft quiet of your kitchen because he said that was where he loved you most — barefoot, laughing, flour on your cheek from the cookies you had nearly burned.

Your students were whispering as the staff led you closer to the rink area “Do you think we’ll meet Cole Caufield?” “Do you think Nick Suzuki will be there?” “Do you think Miss is about to get caught lying?”

You looked over your shoulder. “I can hear you.” Mateo smiled sweetly. “We know.”

A staff member greeted you near the boards, warm and cheerful, explaining that the players were finishing up some pre-game routines but a few people would come by to say hello. Your students lined up against the glass, eyes huge as they took in the ice, the seats, the arena slowly filling above them.

For a few minutes, everything was exactly what you had hoped, they were awed, they were happy, they were asking questions and pointing at every little detail like it mattered.

Then one of the equipment staff members walked by, glanced over, and smiled “Hey, Y/N,” he said casually, you smiled back. “Hi.”

Your students went silent, painfully silent, you felt thirty heads turn toward you at once.

Sofia’s mouth opened, Mateo looked like someone had unplugged his brain.

The staff member, completely unaware he had just cracked the foundation of your students’ worldview, gave the class a friendly wave. “You guys excited for the game?”

A chorus of shaky, confused yeses followed, ehen he moved on, Liam slowly raised his hand, you sighed. “Yes, Liam?”

“How does he know your government name?” You pressed your lips together. “Because I come here sometimes.”

“Why?” you stared at him, he stared back, the class collectively leaned closer “Because,” you said carefully, “my fiancé plays here.”

Mateo whispered, “This is getting scary.” before anyone could respond, another voice called your name.

A familiar one, you closed your eyes for half a second.

Of course.

Of course he couldn’t just walk over normally, Zach came down the hallway in team gear, hair slightly messy, face already lit up with a grin so wide you knew immediately he had planned every second of this. He wasn’t on the ice yet, but he looked game-ready enough for your students to recognize him instantly.

The reaction was immediate, gasps, actual gasps, one kid whispered, “No way.” another said, “That’s him.”

Sofia grabbed Mateo’s sleeve so hard he yelped, Zach ignored all of it, completely, he walked straight toward you like there weren’t thirty children watching with their entire souls leaving their bodies.

“Hi, baby,” he said.

The class screamed, not loudly enough to get in trouble, but loudly enough that a nearby staff member laughed, you covered your face with one hand. “Zach.”

“What?” he asked, all innocence, stopping right in front of you “You know what.” He smiled, leaned down, and kissed your cheek.

Your students lost their minds.

It was not a scream this time. It was a collective collapse. A full academic breakdown. Mateo turned around and walked three steps away like he needed space from reality. Sofia covered her mouth with both hands. Liam just pointed at you, then Zach, then you again, as if trying to solve an equation no textbook had prepared him for.

Zach slipped an arm around your waist, you could feel him laughing silently “You’re enjoying this way too much,” you muttered.

“I’ve been called fake for months.”

“You have not. I have.”

“Same thing.”

You looked at your students and tried to recover any amount of authority “Class,” you said, clearing your throat, “this is Zach.”

Nobody answered, Zach lifted his free hand. “Hey, guys.” Mateo slowly turned back around. His face was pale with betrayal “You’re real,” he said.

Zach nodded very seriously. “Last time I checked.”

“And you’re actually engaged to Miss?” Zach looked down at you, and his expression softened in a way that made your chest ache. The teasing slipped from his face for just a second, replaced by something warmer, steadier.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m actually engaged to Miss.” The class went quiet again, but this time it was different.

Your students had seen adults be married. They had seen parents and teachers and people in their lives exist in relationships. But to them, you belonged to the classroom. To homework and reading logs and reminders about indoor voices. Seeing someone look at you like that — like you were not just Miss, but somebody’s whole world — made them strangely shy.

Then Sofia, because she was Sofia, broke the silence “Did she make you say that?”

You gasped. “Sofia!” Zach burst out laughing “No,” he said. “She didn’t make me say that.”

“Blink twice if you need help,” Liam added, Zach immediately blinked twice “Zachary!” The kids howled.

You jabbed a finger lightly into his side while he laughed harder, pulling you closer on instinct “She’s mean to me,” he told them.

“She gives homework,” Mateo said grimly. “We know.”

“Exactly.”

“I cannot believe you’re bonding over this,” you said.

One of the staff members asked if the kids wanted to take a group photo near the rink, and suddenly everyone remembered where they were. Zach helped organize them without even being asked, naturally crouching a little beside the shorter kids, giving fist bumps, answering questions about warm-ups and sticks and whether getting checked into the boards hurt as much as it looked “Yes,” he told them honestly, “but you get used to it.”

“That’s concerning,” you said, he looked over at you. “You say that every time.”

“Because it is concerning every time.” A few other players passed through and greeted the group. Some recognized you, too, which did not help your case at all.

Kirby who was one of them smiled and said, “Hey, Mrs. Bolduc” The kids gasped again, you pointed at him. “Do not encourage them." Zach looked delighted. “No, no. Let him talk.”

“Mrs. Bolduc?” Mateo repeated, like he was tasting the words, you felt your cheeks heat. “Not yet.”

“Soon,” Zach said, and there was something unbearably proud in his voice, that shut you up immediately. Because there were many versions of Zach you loved.

The focused one. The sleepy one. The competitive one. The one who got quiet after a bad game and needed you to sit beside him without forcing him to talk. The one who lit up when he saw you after being away. The one who proposed with shaking hands even though he had spent half his life performing under pressure.

But proud Zach was dangerous, proud Zach looked at your ring like he had won something, proud Zach said “my fiancée” like it was the most important title he had ever been given, proud Zach made you forget how to act normal in front of your students.

Unfortunately, your students noticed, Sofia’s eyes narrowed again. “Miss is blushing.” You snapped back to reality. “I am not.”

“You are.”

“It’s warm in here.”

“We’re beside ice.”

Zach laughed into his fist, you turned to him. “You are not helping.”

“I’m not trying to.” Eventually, he had to go.

The staff gave a gentle reminder that Zach needed to finish getting ready, and the kids immediately started protesting like he was being sent away forever.

Zach gave them all a final wave, then turned to you, for one second, he hesitated.

You knew why, he was careful about your work life. Careful about not making you uncomfortable. Careful about boundaries when you were with students, when you were responsible for them, when you had to be their teacher first and everything else second.

But you were already in too deep, they had seen him kiss your cheek. They had heard him call you baby. They had witnessed the downfall of their conspiracy theory in real time.

So when he leaned down slightly, you met him halfway and let him press a quick, soft kiss to your lips.

It was brief, sweet, still enough to make thirty middle schoolers explode behind you.

“MISS!” “Oh my gosh!” “IN FRONT OF THE CHILDREN?” “She has a LIFE!” “I feel betrayed!”

Zach pulled back laughing, his forehead nearly brushing yours “Good luck,” he murmured.

“With the game?”

“With them.” You glanced over your shoulder at your class, who were now reacting like they had just watched the season finale of their favorite show. “I need it,” you whispered.

He squeezed your hand once, thumb brushing over your engagement ring, then started backing away “I’ll look for you during warm-ups,” he said.

Mateo immediately shouted, “WE’LL BE WATCHING YOU TOO!” Zach pointed at him. “I’m counting on it.”

By the time you got your class to their seats, they were no longer the same children who had gotten on the bus.

They were changed, haunted, humbled, still extremely dramatic, the second everyone settled in, the questions began. “How did you meet? “Did he propose in public?” “Do you get free tickets?” “Does he help you grade papers?” “Does he know you have a teacher voice?” “Does he know you’re scary when people don’t line up properly?”

You answered some and dodged others, no, he did not help you grade papers, though he had once put stickers on completed quizzes because he said it looked fun, yes, he knew about the teacher voice, no, he was not scared of it.

That was a lie. He absolutely was.

When warm-ups started, your students surged toward the glass in their designated area, waving wildly the second they spotted Zach on the ice, he saw them almost immediately.

You knew he would, his face broke into a grin, and he skated closer, tapping the glass right in front of them with his stick. Your students shrieked like he had personally blessed them.

Then his eyes shifted to you, you were standing a little behind the kids, arms crossed over your coat, trying to pretend this wasn’t making your heart do something ridiculous.

Zach smiled softer, not for the kids, not for the staff, for you, then he lifted his glove and tapped the glass again, right where you stood.

Your students turned as one “MISS.” You sighed. “Watch warm-ups.”

“He loves you,” Sofia said, sounding shocked by the obviousness of it, you looked at Zach through the glass. He was still watching you, smiling like he knew exactly what she had said.

Your voice softened before you could stop it “Yeah,” you said. “I know.”

The game itself was electric, your class cheered like they had been born and raised in the arena. They yelled every time Zach touched the puck, even when absolutely nothing happened. Mateo took it upon himself to explain hockey rules to anyone within earshot, despite getting several details wrong. Sofia kept a running commentary on how “Miss’s fiancé is actually really good,” as if she had discovered him herself.

When Zach scored an assist, your entire row lost its mind, you were pretty sure one of your students ascended spiritually.

By the third period, your voice was nearly gone from cheering and from reminding everyone to stay in their seats. Your cheeks hurt from smiling. Your heart felt impossibly full watching your students experience something so special — something they had earned.

And yes, maybe a tiny part of you felt smug, just a little.

When the Canadiens won, the arena roared around you, your students jumped and clapped and hugged each other. You laughed, clapping along with them, eyes immediately finding Zach on the ice.

He looked up toward your section, it took him a second, but when he found you, he lifted his stick slightly, for the class and for you.

For the ridiculous, wonderful fact that two completely separate pieces of your life had finally met, on the bus ride home, the energy was different.

Exhausted, but still buzzing.

Some kids were half-asleep against the windows. Others were whispering about the game, replaying the best moments with the seriousness of professional analysts. You sat near the front again, coat folded over your lap, your phone glowing in your hand.

Zach ❤️: So? Do they believe you now?

You glanced back, Mateo was awake, watching you suspiciously, you typed back.

You: Mostly.

A second later, Mateo called out, “Miss?"

“Yes?”

“I believe you now.” You smiled. “Thank you.” A pause, then he added, “But I still think he blinked twice.” the bus erupted one last time, you laughed, shaking your head as your phone buzzed again.

Zach ❤️: Tell Mateo I’m safe and willingly engaged.

You looked back at your students, unable to hide your smile “Zach says he’s safe,” you announced, “and willingly engaged.” Sofia sighed dreamily against the window. “That’s actually kind of cute.”

Liam nodded. “Still weird that Miss has a life.”

“Very weird,” Mateo agreed, you turned forward again, laughing under your breath.

Later that night, after every student had been picked up and every permission slip had been tucked away and every lost mitten had been returned except one, Zach came to get you from the school parking lot.

He was leaning against his car when you walked out, hands in his jacket pockets, hair still damp from his post-game shower.

You were tired down to your bones, but the second you saw him, you smiled, he opened his arms without a word, and you walked straight into them “How was it?” he asked, pressing a kiss to the top of your head, you buried your face in his chest. “You have destroyed my classroom.”

“Good.”

“They’re never going to be normal again.”

“They weren’t normal before.”

“That’s true.” He laughed softly, wrapping his arms tighter around you. For a moment, neither of you moved. The school was quiet behind you, the parking lot mostly empty, the air cold enough that you tucked your hands under his jacket for warmth.

Then he pulled back just enough to look at you “So,” he said, eyes bright, “favorite part?” You pretended to think about it. “Probably when they realized you were real.”

“Not my assist?”

“That was second.”

“Wow.”

“Actually, no. Third.” His eyebrows lifted. “What was second?” You smiled, reaching up to fix the collar of his jacket “When you told them you were actually engaged to me.”

Zach’s expression softened in that same dangerous way from earlier, he covered your left hand with his, thumb brushing your ring “I like saying it,” he murmured.

“I noticed.”

“I’m gonna keep saying it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He leaned down, nose brushing yours. “My fiancée. My future wife. The teacher whose students think I’m fake.” You laughed against his mouth. “They thought you were fake.”

“Past tense?” You hesitated, Zach groaned. “They still think I’m fake?”

“No. They believe you’re real.”

“But?”

“They may think I’m holding you hostage.” He stared at you, then he started laughing so hard you had to hold onto his jacket to keep from stumbling.

And right there, in the quiet school parking lot, after a night your students would talk about for the rest of the year, Zach kissed you like he didn’t care who saw.

Like he was proud, like he was yours and for once, when you told your class about your fiancé on Monday morning, nobody argued.

Not even Mateo, though he did raise his hand after announcements and ask, very seriously, “Miss, can your husband come to career day?”

You blinked “He’s not my husband yet.”

Mateo shrugged. “Basically.” from the back of the room, Sofia sighed. “I still can’t believe Miss bagged a Hab.”

You turned to the board, shoulders shaking and when Zach texted you five minutes later asking how school was going, you sent back one simple answer.

You: They believe me now.

His reply came instantly.

Zach ❤️: Good. Took them long enough.

[bnwrittes]

Jackson blake x reader hurt/ comfort maybe reader gets into a car accident but you can write it how you choose, i legit love your writing so much 😭❤️

When everything went quiet

SUMMARY: After a terrifying car accident leaves you bruised, shaken, and overwhelmed, Jackson drops everything to get to you. What follows is a slow recovery filled with lingering fear, late-night comfort, medication charts, overprotective hovering, and Jackson learning how to breathe again after almost losing you. As the team begins to notice how deeply shaken he still is, you both have to figure out how to heal together.

WC: 5.7k

WARNINGS: Car accident, injury, bruised ribs/shoulder, hospital visit, panic attack/anxiety, emotional distress, protective boyfriend, mentions of traumatic memories after the crash, recovery, hurt/comfort, soft caretaking, mild angst, fluff.

The first thing you noticed after the crash was the sound of the rain.

Not the pain. Not the smell of burned rubber. Not even the fact that your hands were locked around the steering wheel so tightly your knuckles had gone white.

Just the rain.

It hit the windshield in quick, uneven bursts, sliding down the cracked glass in thin lines that blurred the red and blue flashes outside. For a few seconds, you could not understand why there were lights. You could not understand why your car was angled strangely near the shoulder of the road, or why your chest felt like something heavy had been slammed into it.

Then everything came back at once.

The green light. The intersection. The car that came too fast from the side. The headlights. The awful sound of metal folding in on itself. Your body jerking forward against the seatbelt so hard the air left your lungs.

You tried to breathe, but it came out shaky.

Your phone was somewhere on the floor. Your purse had spilled open across the passenger side. A carton of strawberries had burst, bright red fruit scattered under the dashboard like something too cheerful for what had just happened. The grocery bag with Jackson’s favorite cereal was ripped, the box crushed against the door.

For some reason, that was what made your eyes fill with tears.

Jackson had texted you only twenty minutes ago.

get the good cereal. not the healthy one. love you.

You had rolled your eyes when you read it, smiling at your phone in the grocery aisle because he acted like you were personally trying to ruin his life every time you bought something with fiber in it.

Now the box was flattened. The front of your car was smashed. Your chest hurt. Your shoulder burned. Your ears rang.

And you wanted Jackson so badly you could barely think, someone knocked on the window.

You flinched so hard pain shot through your ribs.

A man stood outside in the rain, bending slightly to look in at you. His mouth was moving, but for a second you could not make out the words. Then the sound came rushing back, too loud all at once.

“Are you okay? Can you hear me?” You nodded automatically, though you were not sure if you were okay. You could hear him. That was something.

The door creaked when he opened it carefully. Cold air and rain rushed in, making you shiver “Don’t move too much,” he said quickly. “I called 911. They’re on the way. Were you alone?”

You nodded again “My boyfriend,” you whispered, but you were not even sure why. Maybe because Jackson was the only coherent thought in your head.

The stranger’s expression softened. “Do you want me to call him?”

Your fingers were shaking too badly to answer. He helped you find your phone under the brake pedal, the screen cracked at one corner but still alive. When he handed it to you, your thumb hovered over Jackson’s name.

For a moment, you almost did not call.

Jackson had practice early the next morning. He had been tired all week. He had been trying to balance training, media, family calls, and making sure he still came home with enough energy to curl into you on the couch at night. He worried so easily when it came to you, even when he pretended he did not.

You did not want to scare him, but then your chest spasmed with another shaky breath, and you pressed call before you could talk yourself out of it. He answered on the second ring “Hey, baby,” Jackson said, warm and familiar, his voice softened by the comfort of home. “You heading back?”

You opened your mouth, nothing came out, there was a pause. Not long. Barely a second, but Jackson knew you too well “Baby?” His voice changed immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“I—” Your throat tightened. You looked through the rain-smeared windshield at the wreckage of your hood. “I got hit.”

Silence, then the sound of movement. Fast movement. A chair scraping back. A door opening. Keys being grabbed “What do you mean, you got hit?” he asked, and the calm in his voice was so forced it almost scared you more. “Are you in the car? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know,” you cried, and once the tears started, you could not stop them. “I don’t know, Jack. My chest hurts and my shoulder hurts and the car is—”

“Okay. Okay, listen to me.” His breathing was uneven now. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“I was driving home and the car came out of nowhere, and I don’t—” Your voice broke. “I don’t know where I am.”

“Hey. Stay with me. Is someone there?” You looked up at the man still crouched near the open door. “Yeah.”

“Give him the phone.” You handed it over with trembling fingers, the man spoke to Jackson, giving him the street name, the nearest intersection, what he had seen when he pulled over. You heard Jackson’s voice through the phone, sharp with panic and trying desperately to sound controlled.

“Is she bleeding?” “Did she hit her head?” “Is she talking normally?” “Are the paramedics there yet?” “Tell her I’m coming.”

When the phone came back to you, Jackson was breathing hard “I’m on my way,” he said.

“You don’t have to come.” the words came out weakly, automatically, like some stupid instinct to make things easier for him, Jackson made a sound that was almost wounded “Don’t say that to me,” he said. “Don’t ever say that to me when you’re hurt.”

“I just—”

“No. I’m coming. I’m already in the car. Keep talking to me.”

“About what?”

“Anything. Tell me what you bought" You blinked, tears still slipping down your cheeks. “What?”

“At the store,” he said, his voice shaking around the edges. “Tell me what you bought at the store.”

“Jack—”

“Please,” he whispered, and that broke you more than anything else. “I just need to hear you.” So you told him, you told him about the pasta. The sauce. The strawberries. The cereal. The stupid good cereal he had asked for. You told him about the flowers you had almost bought for the kitchen but did not because you thought they were too expensive. You told him about the old woman who smiled at you in the checkout line because you dropped a lemon and it rolled halfway across the aisle.

Jackson listened to every word like it was the most important thing he had ever heard “That’s good,” he kept saying. “You’re doing so good. I’m almost there.”

The ambulance arrived first, the paramedics were kind, careful, asking questions you had to answer twice because your mind kept drifting. What day was it? Did you lose consciousness? Did your head hurt? Could you move your fingers? Could you feel your legs?

You could.

Everything hurt, but you could.

They fitted a brace around your neck just to be safe and helped you out of the car. The second you stood, your knees almost gave out. One of the paramedics caught you gently, but the panic surged again, thick and humiliating “I’m okay,” you said quickly, even as your voice wobbled.

The paramedic gave you a look that was soft but knowing. “You don’t have to be okay right now.”

You wanted to believe that, then, over the sound of rain and emergency radios, you heard him “Where is she?” Jackson’s voice.

You turned your head too quickly and winced, he was running toward you through the rain, hoodie half-zipped, hair damp, face pale in a way you had never seen before. A police officer stepped in front of him, probably to keep him away from the scene, but Jackson pointed toward you and said something too low for you to hear.

Whatever it was, the officer moved.

Jackson reached you seconds later, he stopped short, like the sight of you in the neck brace, wrapped in a reflective blanket, was something his mind could not process. His hands lifted, then hovered uselessly in the air, terrified to touch you “Baby,” he breathed.

That one word was enough, your face crumpled “I’m sorry,” you sobbed, Jackson’s expression broke. “No. No, no, no. Why are you sorry?”

“The car,” you cried, looking past him toward the crumpled front end. “Your car is ruined.”

He stared at you like you had slapped him, then he dropped to his knees in front of you on the wet pavement, not caring about the rain soaking through his jeans. His hands found yours, gentle and shaking.

“I don’t care about the car,” he said, voice cracking. “I don’t care about the car. I care about you.”

“But—”

“No.” He shook his head quickly, eyes bright. “I don’t want to hear about the car. I don’t want to hear about insurance or repairs or anything else. You called me. You were awake. You’re here. That’s the only thing that matters.”

You tried to nod, but the brace stopped you. Your breathing hitched again, Jackson noticed immediately “Hey, look at me.” His hands tightened just enough around yours to ground you. “Look at me, sweetheart. Breathe with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can. I’ve got you.” He breathed in slowly, dramatically enough for you to follow. Out. In again. Out again.

It was ridiculous, maybe, that the same boy who could barely sit still through a movie without fidgeting was now the steadiest thing in the world. But he was. He stayed on his knees in the rain, his face inches from yours, guiding your breathing until the worst of the panic began to loosen.

The paramedic told him they wanted to take you to the hospital to get checked. Jackson nodded immediately “I’m going with her.”

“Sir—”

“I’m going with her,” he repeated, and there was something in his voice that made even the paramedic pause, You looked at him, exhausted and trembling. “Jack.” His eyes snapped back to you, softening instantly. “I’m not leaving you.”

So he didn’t.

Not in the ambulance, where he sat beside you with one hand wrapped around yours and the other brushing damp strands of hair from your face. Not at the hospital, where he answered questions when you got tired of talking. Not when they took you for scans and told him he had to wait outside, leaving him standing in the hallway with both hands pressed to the back of his neck like he was holding himself together by force.

When they finally brought you back, he was there before the nurse had even finished adjusting your blanket “What did they say?” he asked quickly. “Are you okay? Did they check your ribs? Your head? Your shoulder?”

The nurse smiled gently. “She’s bruised and shaken up, but nothing is broken. No concussion. She’ll be sore for a while.”

Jackson closed his eyes, for a second, all the fight went out of him.

He sat down hard in the chair beside your bed and covered his mouth with one hand. His shoulders shook once. Barely. If you had not been watching him so closely, you might have missed it “Jack,” you whispered.

He looked up immediately, trying to pull himself back together. “Yeah. What do you need?”

“You.” He stood so fast the chair scraped against the floor. He leaned over the bed and kissed your forehead, your temple, your hairline, every place he could reach without hurting you “I’m here,” he whispered. “I’m right here.”

That night, he took you home with discharge papers folded carefully in his pocket and your prescription bag in his hand. He drove like he was transporting something priceless and fragile, both hands on the wheel, eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds “You’re driving like an old man,” you mumbled from the passenger seat, voice tired.

“I’m driving like someone who has precious cargo.” You gave him a small look. “Precious cargo?”

“Very precious. Slightly concussed-looking cargo.”

“I don’t have a concussion.”

“I know. They said that. I’m still watching you.”

“I can tell.” He glanced at you, his mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but could not quite manage it yet.

At home, Jackson became almost impossible.

He helped you out of the car even though you told him you could walk. He unlocked the door before you even reached it. He guided you to the couch with one hand hovering behind your back and the other holding yours. He brought you water, then another blanket, then ice, then your medication, then a pillow, then a different pillow because he decided the first one was “not supportive enough.”

“Jackson,” you said after he asked for the fourth time whether the room was too cold.

“What?”

“You’re pacing.” He looked down at himself like he had not noticed. “No, I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m checking things.”

“What things?”

“Things.” You stared at him, he exhaled and sat on the coffee table in front of you, knees bouncing. His eyes flicked over your face, your shoulder, the angry seatbelt mark beginning to darken near your collarbone “I don’t know what to do,” he admitted quietly.

Your heart softened “Come here.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” He moved carefully, sitting beside you on the couch like the cushions themselves might injure you if he shifted too quickly. You leaned into his side, and he adjusted right away, wrapping his arm around you without putting pressure on your ribs.

For the first time since the impact, your body relaxed “I keep seeing it,” you whispered, Jackson’s jaw tightened. “The crash?” You nodded, then winced because your neck was sore, he noticed that too “Careful” he murmured, brushing his lips over your hair. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

“I want to. But I don’t want to.”

“That’s okay.” His hand moved slowly up and down your arm. “We don’t have to figure it out tonight.”

“It was so fast.”

“I know.”

“I thought I was fine at first. Then I saw the front of the car and I just—” Your voice broke again. “I thought you were going to be mad.” Jackson pulled back just enough to look at you “Mad?” he repeated, like the word did not make sense in his mouth.

“At the car. At the damage.” His face twisted with pain. “Baby.”

“I know it sounds stupid.”

“It doesn’t sound stupid. It sounds like you were scared.” His thumb brushed lightly over the back of your hand. “But I need you to hear me. I am never, ever going to care more about a car than I care about you.”

“I know.”

“No, I mean it.” His voice grew thick. “When you called me, I didn’t even remember what car you were driving. I didn’t think about money or damage or anything. I thought about you sitting there alone and scared, and I—” He stopped, swallowing hard, you reached up carefully, touching his cheek. “Jack.”

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he admitted, the room went quiet, the rain had softened outside, tapping gently against the windows. Jackson’s eyes were red, his face drawn with exhaustion and fear. He looked younger somehow, stripped of every layer of joking confidence he usually wore so easily. “You didn’t,” you whispered.

He turned his face into your palm. “I know.”

“I’m here.”

“I know.” But from the way his hand covered yours, holding it against his cheek like proof, you knew he was still trying to believe it.

The next morning was worse, the doctor had warned you it would be. Bruises deepened overnight. Your ribs ached every time you inhaled too deeply. Your shoulder felt stiff and tender, and your neck protested when you tried to turn your head. Even standing from bed made you suck in a sharp breath.

Jackson, who had apparently slept for maybe twenty minutes total, was up immediately “Don’t move,” he said, appearing beside the bed like he had been waiting for the sound.

“I have to pee.”

“Okay. I’ll help.”

“I can go to the bathroom by myself.”

“I’m not going in with you,” he said quickly, cheeks flushing despite everything. “I’m helping you get there.” You would have laughed if your ribs did not hurt.

He helped you sit up, one hand behind your back, the other holding your forearm gently. His focus was intense, almost frighteningly so, like helping you stand was a high-stakes playoff moment “Slow,” he murmured. “Take your time. Don’t rush.”

“Jack, I’m bruised. I’m not ninety.”

“You’re injured.”

“I’m sore.”

“You were in a car accident.” You sighed. “You’re going to say that a lot, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” And he did, all day.

When you reached for a glass in the cabinet, he appeared behind you and grabbed it first. When you tried to carry your own plate to the sink, he took it from your hands. When you stood up too quickly, he caught your elbow and looked at you with such alarm you almost apologized for having legs.

By noon, he had built what he called your “recovery station” on the couch: water bottle, medication, snacks, ice pack, heating pad for later, phone charger, remote, extra blanket, and a notebook where he had written down the times you were supposed to take medicine “You made a chart?” you asked, staring at it.

He looked defensive. “It helps.”

“You wrote ‘check on baby’ every hour.”

“That’s not medicine-related. That’s for me.” You stared at him for a beat before your lips began to tremble with a smile, Jackson’s expression softened. “There she is.”

“What?”

“You smiled.” Your smile faded into something gentler. “You’ve been watching for it?” He shrugged, but his eyes gave him away. “Maybe.”

The team noticed immediately.

Jackson told the coaches what happened, and although you insisted he could go to practice the next day, he still looked physically pained by the idea of leaving you “I’ll be fine,” you promised from the couch, wrapped in a blanket, hair messy, one of his hoodies swallowing you whole.

He crouched in front of you, already dressed for practice, but making no move toward the door. “I can stay.”

“You already missed yesterday.”

“They understand.”

“Jackson.” He looked down, you softened your voice. “You need to go.”

“I don’t like leaving you alone.”

“I’m not alone. Your mom said she’d come by. And I’ll call you if I need anything.”

“You’ll actually call?”

“Yes.”

“Not just sit here and pretend you’re fine?” You gave him a look. “I will call.” He studied your face like he was trying to catch a lie. Then he nodded, though he still looked miserable, at the door, he came back three times.

“Your phone is kind of heavy,” he said seriously.

“Go to practice.”

“I love you.”

“I love you too. Go.”

When he finally left, the apartment felt too quiet, at the rink, Jackson was not himself.

Everyone could tell, he was there physically. He went through warmups, tied his skates, taped his stick, answered when spoken to. But there was a delay in him, like part of him was still sitting beside your hospital bed listening to a doctor say the word lucky.

During drills, he missed a pass he never would have missed normally. Then another. He apologized under his breath, jaw tight, and reset. But his eyes kept flicking toward the bench where his phone sat inside his bag, like he could somehow hear it through the walls if you called.

One of the guys nudged him after the drill. “You good, Blake?” Jackson nodded too quickly. “Yeah. Fine.”

It was such an obvious lie that no one believed it, after practice, he was the first one off the ice. Usually he lingered, joking around, chirping, taking extra shots, but that day he was out before half the team had even reached the bench. He checked his phone immediately.

No missed calls, no emergency texts, just one message from you

still alive. your mom brought soup. stop worrying,

Jackson stared at it for several seconds, shoulders dropping with relief “Is she okay?” one of his teammates asked carefully from nearby, Jackson looked up, and for a second his guarded expression slipped. The fear was still written all over him “Yeah,” he said. “She’s okay. Bruised up. Sore.”

“Man, that’s scary.” Jackson nodded, throat bobbing. “Yeah.”

The locker room got quieter than usual around him. Not awkwardly, just gently. The guys who usually chirped him for being attached to his phone did not say a word when he texted you back immediately.

good. keep being alive. proud of you.

Then, after a pause:

did you take your meds?

A few seconds later, you replied.

yes dad

Jackson laughed softly at his phone, but the sound cracked a little at the end, the teammate beside him pretended not to notice, over the next few days, his protectiveness only got worse, sweet, but worse, he woke up whenever you shifted in bed.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m rolling over.”

“Do you need help?”

“No.”

“You made a noise.”

“Because I have ribs, Jackson.”

“I know. They’re bruised.”

“I am aware.” He insisted on driving you everywhere, even when you only needed to go five minutes away. The first time you sat in the passenger seat again, your hands started shaking before you could hide it. Jackson noticed immediately but did not make a big deal out of it.

He simply reached over and held your hand “We can go back inside,” he said “No. I want to try.”

“Okay.”

“But drive slow.” He gave you a serious look. “I have never driven fast in my life.” you turned your head slowly to stare at him “Okay,” he amended. “I have never driven fast in my life while precious cargo was in the car.”

At the first intersection, your breath caught, Jackson felt your hand tighten and without looking away from the road, he said, “We’re good. I see him. I see the light. I’m stopping. We’re good.”

You closed your eyes for a second “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.”

“I feel ridiculous.”

“You’re not ridiculous.”

“It was just a car accident.” His voice lowered. “It wasn’t just anything. You looked at him, his eyes stayed on the road, but his jaw was tense “It happened to you,” he said. “So it matters.” That shut you up for the rest of the drive.

A week later, you went to the rink for the first time since the accident.

You had not planned to. Jackson had a light practice and then a team meeting, and his mom was busy that afternoon. You insisted you were fine staying home alone, but he looked so anxious about it that you finally sighed and told him you would come with him if it made him feel better.

He tried to pretend it did not, it absolutely did, he carried your bag even though it only had a book, water, and your phone charger inside. He kept a hand on your lower back as you walked through the parking lot. Not pushing, not crowding, just there. A quiet reminder that he was beside you, inside, a few of the guys spotted you immediately.

“Hey, there she is.”

“How’re you feeling?”

“Good to see you up and around.”

Jackson’s hand stayed at your back the whole time, you smiled, a little overwhelmed but touched. “I’m okay. Just sore.” one of the older guys gave Jackson a pointed look. “He letting you breathe?”

You laughed. “Barely.” Jackson did not even deny it “Good,” the guy said. “He’s been useless without you.” Jackson’s ears went pink. “I have not.” Another teammate leaned against the wall, grinning softly. “You missed three passes in one drill because you were looking at your phone.”

“I was checking the time.”

“You were checking if she texted.” Jackson looked away, your chest tightened, but not in the painful way.

You knew he had been worried. You had seen it in the way he hovered, the way he slept lightly, the way his hand reached for you in the middle of the night even before he was fully awake. But hearing that it had followed him here, onto the ice, into the one place he usually felt steady, made something ache inside you.

“Jack,” you said softly, he glanced down at you, you reached for his hand and squeezed it “I’m here.”

For a moment, the hallway faded around you. His expression shifted, that same raw look from the hospital flickering across his face, then he nodded once. “Yeah.”

The guys noticed that too, so they stopped teasing.

At practice, you sat in the stands with a blanket around your shoulders, watching Jackson skate. He looked over at you constantly. Not every few minutes. Constantly. Between drills. During water breaks. When the whistle blew. After he took a shot. When someone bumped him lightly into the boards. His eyes found you like a reflex.

At first, it made you smile, then it made you sad, because Jackson was still scared, he was skating, laughing when someone chirped him, doing everything he was supposed to do, but there was a thread tied from him to you, pulled tight with fear. He needed to know you were there. Awake. Breathing. Safe.

After practice, one of his teammates skated by the glass and tapped it near you with his stick “He’s been looking up here every thirty seconds,” he mouthed.

You rolled your eyes affectionately, but when Jackson came off the ice, you were waiting near the tunnel, his hair was damp, cheeks flushed from skating, but the first thing he did was scan your face “You okay?”

You stepped closer. “Yes.”

“Did you get tired?”

“A little.”

“Are your ribs—”

“Jackson.” He stopped, you glanced around. A few guys were pretending very badly not to listen “I love you,” you said quietly. “And I love that you care. But you look like you’re going to have a heart attack every time I blink too hard.”

A couple of his teammates suddenly became very interested in their sticks, Jackson’s face flushed. “I’m not that bad.” someone coughed, “You are.”

Jackson shot him a look, you took both of his hands. His were still cold from the rink “I’m not saying stop caring,” you said. “I’m saying you can breathe too.” His expression softened, then cracked a little. “I don’t know how.”

The honesty of it made your throat tighten, Jackson looked embarrassed the second he said it, glancing down at your joined hands. “I keep thinking about the call. I keep hearing your voice. And then when I’m not with you, I start thinking maybe you need something, or maybe you stood up too fast, or maybe—”

“Baby,” you whispered, he pressed his lips together “I know I’m being too much,” he said.

“You’re not too much. You’re scared.”

“I hate it.”

“I know.”

“I hate that I wasn’t there.”

“You came.”

“After.”

“You came when I needed you.” His eyes lifted to yours “You stayed,” you added. “You took care of me. You made medication charts. You yelled at a pillow because it wasn’t supportive enough.”

One of his teammates snorted behind him, Jackson groaned. “You were not supposed to tell people that.” You smiled softly. “You made me feel safe.”

The teasing around you faded again, Jackson stared at you, the fight leaving his shoulders “You did,” you said. “And I know you’re still scared. I am too sometimes. But I’m getting better. We’re getting better.”

He nodded slowly “Okay,” he murmured.

“Okay?”

“I’ll try.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” He leaned down and kissed your forehead, lingering there for a second longer than usual. His lips were cold from the rink, but his hands were warm around yours, from behind him, someone said, “Look at Blake growing emotionally.” Jackson did not even turn around. “I will throw a skate at you.”

“No, you won’t,” another voice said. “Your girl said breathe.” You laughed, and this time Jackson did too, a real laugh, not perfect. Not free of fear. But real

The recovery was not instant, there were still nights when you woke up from dreams of headlights and Jackson woke up right beside you, arms already reaching. There were still moments in the car when your heart jumped at a sudden brake light, and Jackson quietly reached over without making you ask. There were still days when your body ached and you cried because you were tired of being careful.

Jackson stayed through all of it.

He learned when to hover and when to step back. Not perfectly. Sometimes he still took things out of your hands before realizing you were fully capable of carrying them. Sometimes he still watched you walk across the room like the floor might disappear beneath you. Sometimes he still texted you too many times from practice.

But he tried.

And you learned too.

You learned to call him when you felt scared instead of pretending you were fine. You learned to let him help without feeling guilty. You learned that being loved by Jackson meant being worried over, teased gently, tucked into blankets, and held through the ugly parts without him once making you feel like a burden.

Two weeks after the accident, you went to another practice, this time, Jackson only looked up at you every few minutes.

Progress.

Afterward, you waited near the locker room, scrolling on your phone while the guys filtered out one by one. They greeted you warmly, some asking how you felt, others dramatically thanking you for bringing Jackson’s brain back to his body.

“He completed a full drill today,” one of them told you solemnly. “Miracle.”

“I hate all of you,” Jackson said as he appeared behind him, you smiled. “Proud of you.” His teammate clapped him on the shoulder. “She’s proud of you, man. Big day.”

Jackson rolled his eyes, but he was smiling when he reached you “Ready to go home?” he asked.

You nodded, he reached for your bag out of habit, then paused, you raised an eyebrow, his hand hovered, the effort on his face was almost painful, finally, he lowered his hand. “Do you want me to carry that?”

You softened immediately. “You can.” Relief flashed across his face so clearly that you laughed “You’re adorable.”

“I’m traumatized.”

“That too.” He laced his fingers with yours as you walked toward the exit. Outside, the air was cool, the sky gray, the parking lot damp from earlier rain. You felt the familiar tightening in your chest as you approached the car, but it was less sharp than before.

Jackson noticed anyway, he always noticed, he stopped beside the passenger door and turned to you. “We can wait.” You shook your head. “No. I’m okay.”

“You sure?” You looked at him, really looked at him. The boy who had dropped to his knees in the rain. The boy who had sat awake all night making sure you were breathing easily. The boy who had been so shaken his teammates saw it before he could hide it. The boy who loved you so much it sometimes made him clumsy with fear.

You squeezed his hand “I’m sure.”

Jackson opened the door for you, watching carefully as you got in. He still looked nervous, but when he climbed into the driver’s seat, he took a breath before starting the car, he glanced over at you. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“I’m proud of you too.” His face softened, the drive home was quiet. Not silent in the scary way the crash had been, but peaceful. Jackson kept one hand on the wheel and one hand open on the console. You placed yours over it halfway home, and his fingers curled around yours instantly.

At a red light, he glanced at you “I know I’ve been a lot,” he said quietly.

“You’ve been exactly what I needed.” His throat bobbed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” The light turned green, but for a second, he just looked at you like he was memorizing the moment. Then someone honked behind you, and you both jumped, Jackson startled so badly you burst out laughing, then immediately winced and held your ribs, his panic returned at once. “Don’t laugh. Laughing hurts. Stop laughing.”

“You jumped harder than I did.”

“Because they honked aggressively.”

“It was a tiny honk.”

“It was hostile.” You laughed again, softer this time, and Jackson groaned like you were personally trying to undo your recovery. But he was smiling too.

When you got home, he carried your bag inside, helped you out of your jacket, and paused before asking if you needed anything. You could tell he wanted to list water, medicine, ice, soup, pillows, blankets, and probably a full medical team. Instead, he took another breath “What do you need?” he asked.

You reached for him “This.” he came without hesitation.

On the couch, he settled beside you, careful as always, letting you curl into him at your own pace. His arm wrapped around you, warm and steady. You rested your cheek against his chest, listening to the heartbeat that had become your favorite sound since the accident.

“I’m still scared sometimes,” you admitted, his hand moved gently through your hair. “Me too.”

“But not all the time.”

“No,” he whispered. “Not all the time.” You closed your eyes, this quiet did not feel like the one after the crash, this quiet had Jackson’s breathing. His warmth. His thumb brushing slowly over your shoulder. His lips against your hair, this quiet was safe.

And when Jackson whispered, “I’ve got you,” you believed him, not because he could stop every bad thing from happening, not because he could keep the world from being frightening, but because he had already proven that when everything went wrong, when the lights blurred and your hands shook and you could not find your way back to yourself, he would come running.

He would kneel in the rain. He would stay awake. He would learn how to breathe again with you. And he would love you through the hurting until home felt like home again.

[andy-15-07]

Hiii could i request a John Logan x pregnant reader?!! Like multiple moments where he’s very protective of reader and everyone in the group is too!!

I love your writing omg 🥹💕

Two Heartbeats

Pairing: John Logan  x Reader

Word Count: 1128

Request open!

Off campus masterlist

The first time John got protective, it happened so quietly you almost missed it.

You were only a few months pregnant, still early enough that most people didn’t know unless you told them, but the hockey boys had found out the same way they found out everything: by being loud, nosy, and impossible to keep secrets from. The reaction had been instant. Garrett had nearly dropped a cup. Tucker had gone soft around the eyes in that way he did when something mattered. Dean had stared at John for a full ten seconds before saying, “Well, you’re screwed.”

John, to his credit, had just smiled and kissed your temple.

Now, on a Saturday afternoon, the six of you were at the grocery store because you had decided, with the confidence of a pregnant woman and the appetite of one, that you needed strawberries, salt-and-vinegar chips, and the exact yogurt brand you could not possibly live without.

John had already insisted on pushing the cart.

You had already insisted that you were perfectly capable of walking by yourself.

He had already ignored you.

“John,” you said, reaching for a box of crackers, “I am not fragile.”

He looked at you over the cart handle. “Did I say you were?”

“You are acting like I’m a piece of glass.”

His hand slid to the small of your back as a man in a hurry passed too close behind you. “You’re pregnant.”

You gave him a look. “That is not the same thing.”

“It is for me.”

That made your expression soften even though you were still trying to be stubborn about it. John’s hand stayed warm at your back, steady and absent in that comforting way he had. He wasn’t hovering exactly. Just close enough to make sure the world stayed out of your space.

Garrett, who had been pretending not to hear the entire conversation, leaned over the cart and muttered, “He’s been like this for weeks.”

Dean nodded. “He acts like you’re going to faint if you reach for cereal.”

John shot him a look. “She did almost faint last week.”

“That was one time,” you said.

“That was enough for me,” John replied.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile on your face gave you away. He noticed, of course he did.

The second time it happened was at practice.

You had come to watch because John had asked you to, but only if you sat in the safer seats and promised not to wander around the rink by yourself. You had laughed at his tone when he said it, because it sounded half serious and half terrified.

Now you were sitting in the stands with a blanket over your lap and a bottle of water in hand while the guys skated hard below. John kept looking up at you every few minutes, and each time he did, you lifted a hand in a tiny wave just to make him smile.

Garrett noticed.

“Dude,” Garrett said as they skated past the bench, “you’re staring again.”

John didn’t even try to deny it. “She’s pregnant.”

Tucker, immediately amused, said, “That is not an answer.”

“It is for me.”

Dean laughed. “He’s getting worse.”

John shot him a look. “I will put you on your ass.”

Dean grinned. “Not if your pregnant girlfriend gets to you first.”

From the stands, you yelled, “I can hear you!”

The entire bench cracked up.

John looked up and smiled so fast and so soft that even Garrett stopped teasing for half a second.

After practice, John came straight to you with his hair damp and his cheeks pink from the cold. The second he got close, he touched your stomach lightly with the backs of his fingers, like he was greeting both of you at once.

“How was it?” he asked.

You smiled. “You only looked up at me nine hundred times.”

He gave you a deadpan look. “That’s not what I asked.”

You laughed. “It was fine.”

He nodded, then looked at the stairs leading down and immediately shifted closer when one of the rink workers carried a stack of equipment past the rail.

You narrowed your eyes. “John.”

“What?”

“You just moved me.”

He blinked. “I did not move you.”

“You absolutely nudged me behind you.”

His hand stayed on your back. “That guy wasn’t watching where he was going.”

“He wasn’t even close to me.”

John gave you a look like that was beside the point. “I know.”

You studied him for a second and saw it then. Not control. Not panic. Just instinct. He had already started thinking in terms of two heartbeats instead of one.

That should have been annoying.

Instead, it made your chest go soft.

The third time happened at dinner that night when someone at the table reached over you too quickly and John’s hand shot out to stop the glass before it tipped. Everyone went quiet for half a beat.

You stared at him.

He stared back, then looked mildly embarrassed by the fact that the entire room had just witnessed how hard he was trying to make the world gentle around you.

“Okay,” Tucker said carefully. “That was actually kind of impressive.”

Dean muttered, “He’s going to fight the air next.”

John ignored them and sat beside you, one hand resting over your thigh under the table as if to prove he was not in fact overreacting.

You leaned a little closer and whispered, “You know I’m not breakable.”

John looked at you for a second, then his expression softened completely. “I know.”

“Then why are you like this?”

He smiled a little. “Because I love you.”

That made you go quiet.

The whole table probably heard it. No one said anything, though. Garrett suddenly found his food very interesting. Dean looked away with the kind of fake disinterest people only used when they were being very obvious.

John’s thumb brushed once against your leg under the table. “And because I love him,” he added, nodding toward your stomach, “and I’m not used to loving two people at once yet.”

That was enough to make your throat go tight.

You reached under the table and laced your fingers with his.

John looked at you and smiled, small and warm and a little stunned by his own honesty, like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud but was glad he had.

Garrett cleared his throat loudly. “Anyway, this is disgusting.”

Dean pointed at him. “You’re just jealous.”

Tucker nodded. “Very.”

You laughed, and John kissed your temple before going back to pretending he wasn’t the most protective man in the room.

He failed.

But only because he was already so in love with both of you that it didn’t matter who noticed.

[impactmintsfreshagain]

Quick one based on this post because it's stuck in my head!

Summary: Brendon can't separate work and home life and his poor suffering residents take matter into their own hands in an attempt to save their own skins.

The plan was formulated through group chats and whispers as the passed each other over the course of the shift. Getting more and more desperate as the day went on. Brendon was unbearable. His biting criticism of their performance was worse than ever, and his patience for their smallest of mistakes non existent.

There was only one reason.

You two had fought that morning.

And you were likely ignoring him, and he was making sure everyone else was as miserable as him.

It was never a question that Brendon was in the wrong, the whole of the ortho team had met you several times and loved you. You complement Brendon's harsh edges with your sunny personality. You always remembered the small details about each of them, made Brendon check in on your behalf, brought food for them all when their shift ran longer than expected. But it was deeper than that. You'd listened to them when they needed to vent about their workload. You'd bought one intern a coat last winter when you realised they couldn't afford it. You'd baked a traditional dish for one resident who was missing his family back in Nigeria. You'd adopted them.

So they didn't question that Brendon was in the wrong the question was how to fix it. How to get you to forgive him, so he would stop being so well shark like.

They wouldn't do this if they weren't sure the fight was over something small, so sickeningly in love it could never be anything more than an argument over if ketchup belonged in the fridge of the cupboard.

The plan.

The plan was simple, flowers and a simple typed 'sorry' on the car. They had pooled together to pay to have it delivered as soon as humanly possible, which should have been about 20 minutes or so ago.

Right on que the elevator doors hissed open, the entired floor turning to watch as you stepped out red faced holding the flowers in a death grip. "Brendon Park" your voice rang out loud across the floor startling everyone who was quickly giving each other panicked looks.

Brendon practically ripped the door off it's hinges at your voice only to be greeted by a face fully of pink and white lillies. Pollen puffing up into his nose from you waving them around."Sorry? Your sorry? Do you think this makes up for your betrayal". Before he could respond you turned on your heel and left.

His eyes shifted to the gaggle of baby doctors hovering. The word betrayal hanging heavily in the air. Scared of Park as they may be their opinion of him right now was clear on their faces.

"Oh for the love of g-" he moved before realising he was still holding an obnoxiously large bouquet of flowers which he threw onto the nurses station. "I didn't cheat on her for fuck sake. I actually spoilt the books she's been reading okay."

The tension in the room quickly evaporated with a collective sigh of relief. Which was short lived as Brendon's tone dramatically changed. "Now who wants to tell me what that" he pointed to the offending flowers, "is all about?"

.

You were now sitting in Brendon's office (after he begged you to come up from Nuro), feet kicked up on his desk the way he hates, humming while he stood to the side of his team as they apologised for the flowers and explained.

"So what I'm hearing is, and correct me if I'm wrong," you glared at Brendon who gulped, "is that my husband is taking his bad mood out on you all unjustly to the point that you conducted a desperate plan to help him, and he still matched you in here to apologise for buying me some lovely flowers?"

There was a collective shout of "no" as they tried to salvage this situation for their boss, but you just smiled at them. Brendon wasn't nervous, but you watched him twisting his wedding ring around his fingers and you suddenly realised that this tiny joke has gotten way out of hand.

Standing you ushered the group out the office, thanking them for the beautiful gift. Which left just you two in the room. Brendon's eyes were trained on you, his mouth a thin line as if not sure if he should speak and risk making this worse.

You walked across the office to him, poking your finger into his wife chest and looking up at him. "No matter what, stop taking your frustration out on them. Okay? It's not fair they are supposed to be learning not worrying if mommy and daddy are fighting" he huffed a laugh but nodded. "And you know I'm never really mad at your right" you voice was softer now. "You are my world, I was just being dramatic I'm sorry. I didn't realise how upset I was making you." You looked down guilt eating at you.

Brendon's fingers under your chin lifted your head to look at him. "I like our routines, especially before a shift. It threw me off when things changed and I shouldn't have reacted the way I did. But you are allowed to feel how you feel baby, it wasn't dramatic I should have been more thoughtful". He kissed your forehead, also uncomfortable with how quickly one comment had spiraled into such an event.

You smiled up at him. "I love you".

"I love you".

"I can't believe he faked his own death!"

Brendon laughed pulling you into his arms knowing you'd both be alright. There was a collective exhale from the group outside at the laugh as well, knowing the were now significantly more likely to survive this shift.

[bnwrittes]

Hi! 🤍 I had an idea for an angst-heavy Connor Bedard fic. Connor Bedard and the reader were the NHL’s golden couple. Young, successful, and deeply in love, they seemed to have the kind of relationship everyone admired. Their wedding captivated the hockey world, and when they welcomed their daughter, fans became even more convinced they were living a real-life fairytale. But behind closed doors, perfection was only an illusion.

Somewhere along the way, Connor stopped turning to his wife first. Instead, he began confiding in someone else. It never became physical at first, but every late-night phone call, every inside joke, every vulnerable conversation, and every piece of himself he shared with someone else slowly chipped away at their marriage. The reader isn’t just heartbroken because another woman knows her husband—she’s devastated because she’s no longer the person he runs to first.

For the sake of their daughter, they continue pretending everything is fine. They smile through family photos, interviews, charity events, and game nights while their marriage quietly falls apart behind closed doors. I’d love lots of domestic angst, emotional flashbacks to when they were hopelessly in love, therapy, both POVs, and the heartbreaking realization that sometimes relationships don’t end because love disappears—they end because two people slowly stop letting each other in. Whether they find their way back to each other or ultimately let each other go is completely up to the writer

The person he stopped coming home to

SUMMARY : Connor Bedard and his wife were once hockey’s golden couple—young, adored, married, and parents to a little girl everyone believed completed their fairytale. But behind the perfect photos and polished interviews, Connor has started giving pieces of himself to someone else: his worries, his fears, his late-night honesty. It isn’t physical, but it is intimate enough to break something sacred. For their daughter’s sake, they keep pretending, until therapy, resentment, and the memory of who they used to be force them to decide whether love is enough to rebuild what they stopped protecting.

WC: 7.6K

WARNINGS: Angst-heavy, emotional affair, marital issues, therapy, arguments, emotional neglect, co-parenting fears, crying, mentions of public pressure, brief separation, happy ending.

The first time you realized Connor Bedard was no longer coming home to you, he was standing in your kitchen.

Physically, he was there.

Barefoot on the cold tile, hair damp from the shower, one hand braced against the counter while the other held his phone. His wedding ring caught the soft yellow light above the stove every time his thumb moved across the screen.

Your daughter’s plastic cup sat beside him, half full of apple juice. A tiny purple hair clip was abandoned near the sink. There were goldfish crackers crushed under the high chair, laundry humming in the machine, and the faint smell of the chicken you’d reheated twice because Connor had said he would be home by six.

It was nearly nine, you stood in the doorway, unseen for a moment, watching the small smile tug at his mouth.

Not the polite smile he gave reporters, not the tired smile he gave fans when they stopped him in public, not even the soft smile he saved for your daughter when she ran toward him yelling, “Daddy!”

This one was private, quiet, familiar.

And it was not yours.

“Yeah,” Connor murmured into the phone, voice low enough that it felt like he was trying not to wake the house, even though you were awake. Even though you were always awake when he came home late. “No, I know. It’s just been a lot.”

Your chest tightened, he laughed softly “I don’t know. You get it.”

You get it, three words, that was all it took. You had heard Connor say a million things over the years. You had heard him whisper nervous promises before his first NHL game. You had heard him curse at himself after bad losses. You had heard him cry into your shoulder when the pressure became too much and he was too young to know where to put all of it.

You had been there for every version of him, the boy with shaking hands before draft interviews, the rookie who could barely sleep.

The young star who learned too quickly that talent came with expectations sharp enough to cut, the husband who once called you from hotel rooms just to hear you breathe, the father who had cried harder than you when your daughter was born.

And now, standing in your own kitchen, you listened to him tell another woman that she understood him.

Not you.

Her.

You did not say anything at first, you simply stepped back into the hallway, one hand pressed to your stomach, the other covering your mouth as if you could physically hold in the sound of your heart breaking.

Because the worst part was not that Connor was speaking to someone else, it was that he sounded relieved, like he had finally found the person he wanted to talk to.

And somehow, somewhere, that person had stopped being you.

—

Two years earlier, Connor had cried during his wedding vows, he had promised himself he wouldn’t, he had joked about it for weeks, rolling his eyes whenever you teased him “I’m not crying,” he’d said, lying across your bed while you sat beside him with wedding seating charts spread over your lap. “I play in front of twenty thousand people. I can handle saying vows.”

“You almost cried when our dog learned how to give paw.”

“That was different.”

“You also cried during that commercial with the old man and the horse.”

Connor had thrown a pillow at you “You’re making that up.”

“I have video evidence.” he had grabbed your waist then, pulling you down until you fell against his chest, your papers scattering across the comforter.

You had laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe “Connor,” you’d protested, still smiling. “The seating chart.”

“Don’t care.”

“Our wedding guests might.”

“They can sit on the floor.”

You had lifted your head from his chest, pretending to glare at him, but Connor had only looked at you with that soft, devastating expression that always made you forget what you were annoyed about “What?” you’d asked.

He had brushed his thumb along your cheek “Nothing.”

“Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Look at me like that and then say nothing.” his smile had faded into something quieter “I just can’t believe I get to marry you.”

You had rolled your eyes because if you didn’t, you might cry “You’re so dramatic.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.”

He had kissed your forehead “I’m always going to come home to you,” he whispered. “No matter what happens. No matter how crazy everything gets. You’re my person.”

And on your wedding day, standing in front of family, teammates, cameras, and the entire hockey world waiting to turn your love story into content, Connor broke before he even finished his first sentence.

Everyone laughed softly, you cried too, not because it was embarrassing, because you believed him.

Because when he looked at you with shaking hands and wet eyes, you knew with the kind of certainty people spent their whole lives chasing that Connor Bedard loved you more than he loved the game, more than he loved the noise, more than he loved being adored.

He had promised you forever with his whole heart and you had promised it back.

—

Now, forever looked like Connor sleeping on the edge of the bed, his back turned toward you, phone face down on the nightstand.

A careful distance between your bodies where warmth used to be, you lay awake beside him, staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe.

Your daughter, Ellie, was asleep down the hall with three stuffed animals tucked under her arm and a nightlight glowing beside her crib. She was almost two now, with Connor’s eyes and your stubbornness. She said “hockey” like “ock-ee” and clapped every time she saw her father on TV.

To her, nothing was wrong, to everyone, nothing was wrong, that was what made it feel unbearable, the world still saw the golden couple, the young captain and his beautiful wife.

The fairytale wedding, the baby announcement that had broken the internet for two days, the family photos in matching pajamas at Christmas.

The charity gala pictures where Connor’s hand rested at your waist and you smiled like your heart was not cracked clean down the middle.

The interviews where people asked how marriage and fatherhood had changed him.

Connor always smiled “It grounds me,” he would say. “My wife and my daughter are everything.”

And everyone believed him, you used to believe him too, now you wondered how many times he had said those words after texting her from the locker room.

Her name was Mia. she worked with the team’s media department, she was smart, funny, kind in that effortless way that made it impossible to hate her without hating yourself too. She never crossed a line in public. Never touched his arm too long. Never looked at him in a way other people would notice.

That almost made it worse, if she had been cruel, you could have blamed her, if she had been obvious, you could have called it what it was and screamed.

But Mia had not stolen your husband with lipstick on his collar or hotel room secrets, she had taken him one conversation at a time.

Or maybe Connor had given himself away.

That was the part you could not stop thinking about, every night he did not tell you what was wrong, every joke he saved for her.

Every insecurity he handed to her first, every part of himself he stopped trusting you with, you could forgive attraction.

Maybe.

You could understand temptation, maybe.

But intimacy? the kind that had once built your marriage?, the kind that made someone your home? that felt like betrayal in a language no one else could hear.

—

Connor knew you were awake.

He could feel it, you had always been too still when you were hurting. Too quiet. Too careful. In the beginning, he had learned all your silences like a second language.

The silence when you were tired, the silence when you were angry, the silence when you were scared, the silence when you needed him to reach for you but did not want to ask.

He used to be good at reaching, he used to roll over and pull you into his chest without thinking. He used to kiss the back of your shoulder until you softened. He used to ask, “Where’d you go?” when your mind drifted somewhere dark.

Now he lay on his side, facing the wall, pretending he did not know, ecause if he turned around, he would have to look at what he had done.

And Connor was terrified that if he looked too closely, he would not be able to lie to himself anymore.

It was not an affair, that was what he kept telling himself, he had never touched Mia.

Never kissed her, never slept with her, never said he loved her, he had only talked to her.

At first, that was all it had been.

A conversation after a brutal loss. Mia had found him sitting alone in an empty hallway after media, elbows on his knees, still in his suit, tie pulled loose around his neck “You don’t have to say the right thing all the time,” she had said gently.

He had laughed without humor “Kind of do.”

“No,” Mia had replied. “You just think you do.”

And something about that had made him exhale, not fully but enough.

He had been so tired.

Tired of being watched. Tired of being analyzed. Tired of being young and expected to carry himself like a veteran. Tired of coming home and seeing you with Ellie, tired too, stretched thin, giving everything you had to motherhood and marriage and the life his career demanded.

He didn’t want to add to your burden, that was the first excuse, you had enough on your plate.

You were home with Ellie alone during road trips. You handled missed dinners and rescheduled plans and the loneliness of being married to someone whose life belonged partly to the public. You smiled through it. You told him you were proud. You never made him feel guilty.

So when Connor felt himself unraveling, he stopped bringing it home, not because he didn’t love you, because he thought he was protecting you.

Then one conversation became two, two became texts, texts became late-night calls from hotel rooms, hotel rooms became inside jokes, inside jokes became comfort.

Comfort became habit and habit became a locked door between him and his wife.

Connor closed his eyes, beside him, you shifted under the covers, he wanted to turn around, he wanted to say your name, he wanted to confess everything, even though there was nothing and too much to confess all at once.

Instead, he stayed still, a coward in the bed he used to call home.

—

The breaking point came at a charity event, of course it did.

There were cameras, there were always cameras.

Connor wore a black suit, crisp and expensive, with one hand resting on the small of your back as you posed together in front of a sponsor wall. You wore a satin dress the same shade as champagne and earrings Connor had bought you after Ellie was born “You look beautiful,” he had said when you came downstairs.

For one fragile second, you almost believed things could be normal,hen his phone buzzed, you watched his eyes flick down, you watched his expression change.

Soft.

Instinctive.

Private.

You did not need to see the name on the screen, your body knew before your mind did “Don’t,” you whispered.

Connor looked at you. “What?”

“Don’t answer her while your hand is on me.”His face went pale, around you, people laughed and glasses clinked and photographers called Connor’s name.

“Baby,” he said quietly.

The word hit you like a slap, baby, he had not called you that in weeks, maybe months, you turned your head and smiled for the camera, Connor’s hand tightened on your waist, to anyone watching, it probably looked sweet.

Protective.

Loving.

You leaned closer, still smiling, and said through your teeth, “Move your hand.” His fingers fell away, the photographer lowered their camera, “Perfect, thank you!”

You stepped away from Connor before he could speak, you made it halfway down the hall before he caught up to you “Y/N.”

“Not here.”

“Please.”

“Not here, Connor" he glanced around, panic flashing across his face. “Can we just talk?” you laughed once. It sounded nothing like you “Now you want to talk to me?”

He flinched, good, you thought, then immediately hated yourself for it, Connor dragged a hand through his hair. “It’s not what you think.” you turned to face him.

There it was, the sentence every woman feared because it almost always meant it was exactly what she thought, just dressed in technicalities “Did you sleep with her?”

“No,” he said immediately. “God, no.”

“Did you kiss her?”

“No.”

“Do you love her?” Connor’s mouth opened, nothing came out, the hallway seemed to narrow around you, your whole body went cold “That,” you whispered, voice shaking, “should have been the easiest no of your life.”

His eyes filled “I don’t know what it is.”

You took a step back as if distance could save you, Connor reached for you, then stopped himself “I swear to you, I never meant for this to happen.”

“What happened?” you demanded. “Say it.”

He looked wrecked.

Good.

No.

Not good.

You loved him but you also hated that you loved him while he stood in front of you, unable to deny that some part of his heart had wandered outside your marriage “Say it,” you repeated, tears burning your eyes. “Because I need to know I’m not crazy.”

Connor swallowed hard “I let her become someone I went to.”

The words landed between you, small, devastating, honest, you nodded slowly, wiping your cheek before the tears could ruin your makeup “Yeah,” you whispered. “You did.”

His voice broke. “I’m sorry.”

You shook your head “No, Connor. You’re sorry I noticed.”

“That’s not fair.”

“Neither was making me share my husband without telling me.” He recoiled like you had hit him, for a second, neither of you spoke.

Then someone laughed around the corner, and the sound was so normal, so careless, that it made your chest ache.

You looked back toward the ballroom “We have to go back in.” Connor stared at you “What?”

You straightened your shoulders. “We have to go back in, smile, take pictures, thank donors, and pretend we’re fine.”

“I don’t want to pretend.”

“You should’ve thought about that before you made pretending the only thing we’re good at.”

—

That night, Connor slept in the guest room, not because you asked him to.

Because he did not dare crawl into bed beside you, he sat on the edge of the mattress with his elbows on his knees and his phone in his hand.

Mia had texted three times.

Are you okay?

I’m sorry if I caused problems.

Connor?

He stared at the messages until the words blurred, then he deleted the thread, not because deleting it fixed anything, because keeping it felt like choosing.

And for the first time in months, Connor understood with sickening clarity that he had been choosing every day, not in one dramatic moment, not in a single unforgivable act, but quietly.

Constantly.

He chose when he called Mia after losses, he chose when he told her things he had not told you, he chose when he smiled at his phone across the room while you folded your daughter’s pajamas alone.

He chose when he convinced himself that because he had not touched her, he had not betrayed you, Connor covered his face with both hands.

A memory came without warning.

You, pregnant with Ellie, lying on the couch with one of his hoodies stretched over your stomach. He had come home after a long road trip, exhausted and sore, and found you asleep with one hand resting protectively over your bump.

He had knelt beside you, pressing the softest kiss to your stomach “I’m home,” he had whispered, you had woken just enough to run your fingers through his hair “Missed you.”

Connor had rested his forehead against your belly “I missed both my girls.”

You had smiled sleepily “You don’t even know she’s a girl.”

“I do.”

“You do not.”

“I’m her dad. I know things.” You had laughed, and Ellie had kicked, and Connor had looked up at you like he had never been happier in his life.

He had meant every second of it, that was the worst part, he had loved you, he loved you now.

But love had not stopped him from hurting you.

—

Therapy was your idea, divorce was also your idea, not because you wanted it, because you needed Connor to understand that you were no longer standing in the ruins of your marriage with a broom, asking him where to sweep.

You told him on a Sunday morning while Ellie sat in her high chair eating banana slices and smearing yogurt across her cheeks, Connor froze with his coffee halfway to his mouth “What?”

You kept your voice low “I found a marriage counselor.”

He blinked “Okay.”

“And I found a divorce attorney.” His face went white, Ellie babbled happily between you, holding up a banana piece like she had discovered treasure “Baby,” Connor said, voice barely there.

You looked at him “I’m not saying I’m filing today.” his shoulders trembled with the breath he took “I’m saying I need both options. Because I don’t know which one we’re going to need.”

Connor looked down at his coffee, you could see him fighting tears.

Good.

No.

You were tired of that war inside yourself, tired of wanting him to suffer because you were suffering, tired of wanting to comfort him because he was still Connor.

Your Connor.

Ellie dropped her spoon, both of you bent down at the same time to pick it up, your hands brushed, you pulled back first.

Connor noticed, of course he noticed, his mouth tightened “I’ll go,” he said. “To therapy.”

“That’s not enough.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” Your voice cracked despite your best effort. “I don’t need you to attend therapy like it’s a punishment. I need you to show up. I need honesty. Ugly honesty. I need you to stop protecting yourself with half-truths.”

He nodded slowly “I’ll do whatever you need.” you stared at him, exhausted “I needed you to say that months ago.”

—

The therapist’s office had beige walls, soft lighting, and a box of tissues sitting on a table between you like a warning.

Connor sat on one end of the couch.

You sat on the other.

A space wide enough for a marriage to die sat between you, the therapist, Dr. Hall, was calm in a way that almost irritated you “What brought you here?” she asked.

You laughed under your breath, Connor looked down at his hands, you waited, for once, you needed him to go first.

He took a long time, then he said, “I had an emotional affair.” the words cracked open the room, you looked at him sharply.

Connor did not look away this time “I didn’t sleep with her,” he continued. “I didn’t kiss her. But I gave her parts of me that belonged in my marriage. I let her become the person I went to when I was overwhelmed or scared or upset. I hid it from my wife because I knew it was wrong. Even if I didn’t admit that to myself at the time.”

Your throat tightened, Dr. Hall looked at you “How does it feel hearing him call it that?”

You stared at Connor, painfully young, painfully sorry, painfully yours “It feels validating,” you whispered. “And horrible.”

Connor’s eyes shone “I’m sorry.” you shook your head, tears already falling “I keep thinking about how stupid I must have looked.”

His expression crumpled “You didn’t—”

“No, let me finish.” Your voice sharpened. “I keep thinking about all those nights I asked if you were okay and you said you were tired. I keep thinking about me lying beside you, wondering why you wouldn’t touch me anymore, wondering what I did wrong, wondering if having Ellie changed how you saw me, wondering if I became too much or not enough.”

Connor looked like he could barely breathe “I never thought that.”

“But you let me think it.”

The silence that followed was brutal, Connor wiped at his face with the heel of his hand “I know.”

You turned toward Dr. Hall “I wasn’t just his wife. I was his best friend. Before all of this. Before the NHL got so loud. Before everyone decided we were this perfect thing. He told me everything.” You looked back at Connor. “You used to call me first.”

Connor’s lips parted, no defense came.

Only tears.

“You used to call me first,” you repeated, quieter now. “And then one day you didn’t. And I didn’t even know it was the last time.” Connor bent forward, elbows on his knees, crying silently into his hands.

You wanted to touch him.

You didn’t.

—

Connor started sleeping at the team apartment three nights a week.

It was supposed to be space, that was what Dr. Hall called it, intentional separation with clear boundaries.

To you, it felt like practicing grief.

Ellie did not understand.

She stood at the front window the first night he left, palms pressed to the glass, watching his car pull out of the driveway “Daddy?” she asked. you crouched behind her and wrapped your arms around her little body “Daddy loves you so much, baby.”

“Daddy home?”

Your eyes burned “Daddy will see you tomorrow.” she turned around and patted your cheek with a sticky hand “Mama sad?”

You broke, not loudly, not dramatically, just enough for Ellie to frown and wrap her tiny arms around your neck “Mama no cry.”

You held her too tightly “I’m okay,” you lied, that night, after you put her down, you sat alone in the nursery long after she fell asleep, the rocking chair creaked softly beneath you.

There was a framed photo on the bookshelf from the day you brought Ellie home. Connor was sitting in that same chair, shirt wrinkled, hair messy, newborn daughter asleep on his chest. He looked terrified and completely in love.

You remembered taking the picture, you remembered how he had whispered, “How am I supposed to leave the house ever again?”

You remembered laughing “You have a job.”

“Not anymore. I quit.”

“Connor.”

“She needs me.”

“I need you too.”

He had looked up at you then, expression so soft it hurt “I know,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.” You stared at the picture until your vision blurred, people always talked about betrayal like it was a fire. Explosive, obvious, destructive, no one told you it could feel like water damage.

Slow.

Quiet.

Seeping into everything until one day the house you built no longer felt safe.

—

Connor hated the apartment, it was too quiet.

Too clean.

Too empty.

No toys underfoot. No tiny socks in the couch cushions. No shampoo bottles lined up in the shower beside yours. No half-finished mugs of tea abandoned around the house because you always forgot where you set them down.

No you.

He came back from practice, sat on the couch, and stared at the wall, for months, he had convinced himself he was overwhelmed by domestic life.

The crying baby, the schedules, the pressure of being needed at home and at the rink, but now that he had silence, he despised it.

He missed Ellie’s laugh, he missed your voice from the next room, he missed the way you used to slide cold feet under his legs on the couch.

He missed being irritated by your alarm in the morning, he missed you asking if he wanted the last bite of your dessert, even though both of you knew you did not mean it.

He missed his life and the ugliest truth of all was that he had been careless with it because he assumed it would always be there.

His phone buzzed, for one sick second, his body reacted like it used to, then he saw your name.

Can you take Ellie tomorrow morning? I have an appointment.

Connor sat up immediately.

Of course. What time?

Your reply came two minutes later.

8:30.

He stared at the screen, thumbs hovering, he wanted to ask what kind of appointment, he wanted to ask if you were okay, he wanted to say he missed you, instead, he wrote:

I’ll be there.

Then, after a pause:

Do you need me to drive you?

The typing bubble appeared, disappeared and appeared again.

No. Thank you.

Connor closed his eyes, that was what he had reduced you to.

Polite.

Distant.

Careful.

Like he was a stranger you were trying not to inconvenience.

—

Co-parenting while still married was its own quiet hell, Connor came over in the mornings sometimes, making Ellie pancakes while you got ready upstairs. You could hear him talking to her in the kitchen.

“Blueberries or bananas?”

“Boo.”

“Blueberries?”

“Boo!”

“Okay, bossy. Blueberries.”

Ellie giggled, your heart twisted, he was such a good father, hat made it harder, somehow.

If he were awful, you could leave cleanly.

But Connor was gentle with your daughter. Patient. Devoted. The kind of dad who let her put sparkly stickers on his face before games and then forgot to remove one before media. The kind who tucked her stuffed rabbit into his suitcase before road trips because she insisted Bunny needed to “watch Daddy hockey.”

He loved her beautifully, he had loved you beautifully too.

Once.

When you came downstairs, Connor looked up from the stove, for a second, the scene was so ordinary you almost forgot, then his eyes softened with guilt, and you remembered.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning.”

Ellie shrieked your name and lifted both arms, you picked her up, kissing her cheek “Did Daddy make breakfast?”

“Daddy boo pancakes!”

Connor smiled faintly, you hated how much you missed that smile, after breakfast, while Ellie played in the living room, Connor cleared his throat “I changed my number.”

You looked up “What?”

“And I requested that Mia be reassigned away from anything directly involving me.” His voice was careful, not defensive. “I know that doesn’t fix it. I’m not saying it does. I just wanted you to know.”

You gripped the edge of the counter “Did she fight it?”

Connor shook his head “I told her I crossed lines and that I couldn’t have any contact with her anymore.”

The room tilted slightly “What did she say?”

He swallowed “She said she understood.”

You looked away, a bitter laugh slipped out before you could stop it “Of course she did.” Connor flinched, but he did not argue.

Good, progress, maybe, pain, definitely “I’m not telling you because I want credit,” he said quietly. “I should’ve done it before. I know that.”

You looked at him then, really looked at him, he looked tired. Not practice tired. Not road-trip tired. Soul tired. His face had thinned. His eyes were red around the edges. He had the expression of someone who had finally understood the damage and knew understanding it did not undo it “I don’t know how to trust you,” you admitted.

Connor’s face crumpled “I know.”

“I don’t want to check your phone. I don’t want to become that person.”

“I’ll give it to you anyway.”

“I don’t want it.”

“I know.”

“No, Connor, I don’t think you do.” You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “I don’t want access. I want peace. I want to not wonder. I want to not feel sick when your phone lights up. I want to not look at old pictures of us and wonder if I was happier because I knew less.”

His eyes filled, you hated that you still knew the exact second he was about to cry “I don’t know how to give you that yet,” he whispered. “But I want to learn.”

The words settled between you.

Not enough.

But something.

—

Therapy got worse before it got better, that was the thing no one put in the inspirational quotes, healing was not soft lighting and breakthroughs.

Sometimes healing was you sobbing so hard you could not speak while Connor sat beside you, shaking, forced to listen to every ugly thought you had swallowed for months.

Sometimes it was Connor admitting things that made you want to walk out “I liked being needed without feeling like I was failing someone,” he said one session, voice raw. “With Mia, there wasn’t history. There wasn’t a baby crying in the next room. There weren’t chores or resentment or expectations. I could just be the version of myself who was struggling, and she didn’t need anything from me.”

You stared at him “So I needed too much?”

“No.” He turned toward you quickly. “No, that’s not what I mean.”

“But that’s what happened.”

Connor dragged a hand over his face “I think I convinced myself you didn’t need me emotionally anymore. You were so strong after Ellie was born. You handled everything. And I felt useless, and then guilty for feeling useless, because you were the one doing most of the work. So instead of telling you that, I disappeared more.”

You laughed through tears “You felt useless, so you made yourself less useful?” Connor’s mouth trembled “Yeah.”

The honesty hurt.

But lies had hurt more.

Dr. Hall leaned forward slightly “What did you need from him then?” she asked you, you wiped your cheeks “I needed him to ask me if I was okay and stay long enough for the real answer.”

Connor lowered his head.

“I needed him to hold Ellie and tell me to take a shower. I needed him to notice that I was lonely. I needed him to come home from road trips and not act like being tired excused being absent.” Your voice cracked. “I needed my husband.”

Connor started crying then, not silently this time “I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I’m so sorry.” For the first time in weeks, you reached for him, your hand covered his, Connor froze.

Then he clung to you like a drowning man, it was not forgiveness.

Not yet.

But it was the first time touching him did not feel like touching the wound.

—

The flashbacks came at strange times, you would be packing Ellie’s diaper bag and suddenly remember Connor at nineteen, standing in your first apartment with flowers from a gas station because he had forgotten Valentine’s Day until midnight“They’re ugly,” he had said immediately.

“They are.”

“I panicked.”

“I can tell.”

“I also got you a muffin.”

“A muffin?”

“Chocolate chip.” You had stared at him for three seconds before bursting into laughter, Connor had looked so relieved that you laughed harder.

Then he had crossed the room, wrapped both arms around you, and buried his face in your neck “I love you,” he had mumbled.

“With your gas station flowers and panic muffin?”

“Especially with my panic muffin.” You had kept the receipt pressed between the pages of a book for years, another memory hit while folding laundry.

Connor on your honeymoon, sunburned despite your warnings, insisting he was fine while moving like a man twice his age “You’re red,” you had said.

“I’m tan.”

“You look like a lobster.”

“A very athletic lobster.”

“You need aloe.”

“I need respect.”

“You need aloe.” He had pouted until you rubbed it across his shoulders, then immediately melted under your hands “I married well,” he murmured.

“You married someone smarter than you.”

“Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

The memories did not comfort you at first, they made you angry, because that Connor had existed, that marriage had existed, you had not imagined it, you had not invented the tenderness or exaggerated the love.

It had been real.

And somehow, real things could still break.

—

The first time Connor asked to come home, you said no, he nodded like he expected it. You stood by the front door after Ellie had fallen asleep, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands.

It was one of his hoodies, you had put it on without thinking, Connor noticed but did not mention it “I’m not ready,” you said.

“I know.”

“I don’t want you back in our bed because you miss the house.”

“I don’t.”

You gave him a look, he corrected himself “I mean, I do miss the house. I miss Ellie. I miss you. I miss all of it. But that’s not why I’m asking.”

“Then why are you?”

Connor looked down, then back up at you “Because I want to be here for the hard parts too. Not just breakfast and bedtime and the moments where Ellie runs to me. I want to be here when she won’t sleep. When the dishwasher breaks. When you’re exhausted. When we’re uncomfortable and still figuring this out.” His voice shook. “I don’t want to keep being a visitor in the life I damaged.”

Your throat tightened, that was a good answer, you hated that it was a good answer “I believe that you believe that right now,” you said.

Pain flashed across his face “But you don’t trust it.”

“No.”

He nodded “Okay.” Connor reached for his coat, some part of you wanted to stop him, instead, you let him leave, then you slid down the door and cried into his hoodie until your chest hurt.

—

Connor did not ask again for three weeks, he kept showing up anyway, not dramatically, not with grand gestures that made forgiveness feel like a performance.

He showed up quietly, he took Ellie to the park so you could sleep, he fixed the loose cabinet handle you had asked him to fix six months ago.

He sent you his travel schedule before you had to ask, e called after games, but not to unload. To ask about your day. To ask how Ellie slept. To ask, carefully, if you had eaten dinner.

At first, you answered with one-word replies, then sentences, then one night, after a rough game, he called from the hotel.

You almost did not answer, then you did, Connor’s face appeared on the screen, hair wet, hoodie pulled up, exhaustion carved into his features.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi.”

He hesitated “I had a bad game.”

Your stomach tightened out of habit, this was the kind of moment he had taken elsewhere, you waited.

Connor swallowed “My first instinct was to shut down,” he admitted. “Or say I was fine. But I’m not fine. I’m embarrassed and angry and I feel like everyone can see I’m messing up in every possible area of my life.”

Your eyes filled unexpectedly, he looked directly into the camera “And I wanted to tell you. Not because I expect you to fix it. Not because I deserve comfort. I just… I wanted to let you in.”

For a long moment, you said nothing, Connor looked terrified, then you whispered, “I’m sorry about the game.”

His shoulders sagged slightly “Thanks.”

“You looked tired in the third.”

His mouth twitched “Brutal honesty. Nice.”

“You called me, not ESPN.”

That made him laugh softly, the sound hurt, the sound healed, both at once “I miss you,” Connor said, barely above a whisper.

You closed your eyes “I miss who we were.”

“I do too.” when you opened your eyes again, he was crying.

“I don’t know if we can get back there,” you said.

Connor nodded, wiping his face “I don’t either.”

“But I think…” You took a shaky breath. “I think maybe I want to see if we can become something else.”

His lips parted, hope was dangerous on his face, you had to look away “Don’t make me regret saying that.”

“I won’t.”

“You don’t get to promise that with words anymore.”

Connor nodded “Then I’ll show you.”

—

He came home on a Tuesday, no cameras, no announcement, no dramatic embrace in the doorway, Just Connor carrying two duffel bags into the house while Ellie screamed like he had returned from war.

“Daddy home!” Connor dropped one bag instantly and scooped her up “Hi, baby girl.” she grabbed his face between both hands “Daddy stay?”

Connor looked at you over her shoulder, your heart clenched, then he kissed Ellie’s cheek and said, “Daddy’s going to try really hard.”

It was not the perfect answer, it was the honest one, that night, he slept beside you for the first time in nearly two months.

Neither of you touched at first, the space between you was smaller than before, but still there, you lay on your back, staring at the ceiling.

Connor lay beside you, equally still, finally, in the darkness, he whispered, “Can I hold your hand?” Your eyes burned, such a small question, such a different man than the one who once assumed access to you because love had made it easy.

You turned your hand palm-up between you, Connor reached for it slowly, his fingers wrapped around yours, he exhaled like he had been holding his breath for months.

You cried silently, so did he, neither of you said anything. for that night, holding hands was enough.

—

Repair was not linear, some days, you laughed together while making dinner, and it scared you how easy it felt, some days, Connor’s phone buzzed and your entire body went rigid, some days, he reached for you and you leaned in, some days, you moved away, he learned not to make his hurt about your healing.

You learned that forgiveness was not one decision, but many, a choice made in small, exhausted increments, in therapy, Connor learned to stop saying, “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” as if intention could soften impact.

He learned to say, “I hurt you.” he learned to sit in the discomfort without asking you to reassure him.

You learned to say the ugly things before they became poison.

“I hate that I compare myself to her.”

“I hate that part of me wants to punish you.”

“I hate that I still love you this much.”

Connor listened, sometimes he cried, sometimes you did, sometimes both of you sat in the car after therapy, emotionally wrung out, sharing fries in silence because neither of you had the energy to cook.

One evening, after a session that left both of you raw, Connor drove home with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near the center console.

Not reaching, just there, an offering, you stared at it for three stoplights, then you placed your hand over his.

He did not squeeze too tightly.

He did not make it a moment.

He simply turned his palm up and held on.

—

The public never knew, not really.

They speculated, of course, they noticed Connor was quieter, they noticed you missed a few games, they noticed you stopped posting as much.

But eventually, the story changed because stories always did, someone got traded, someone got injured, someone else got engaged.

The hockey world moved on.

Inside your house, things moved slower, Connor started taking Ellie on his own during mornings after late games so you could stay in bed. He learned where her favorite pajamas were. He learned which cup she would accept and which one would cause a meltdown. He learned how to braid her hair badly, then better, then almost well.

He stopped treating fatherhood like something he helped with and started living inside it.

He stopped treating marriage like something that survived on love alone and started tending to it like something alive. One night, months later, you found him sitting on Ellie’s bedroom floor after putting her down.

The room was dark except for the nightlight, Ellie slept peacefully in her crib, Connor had his back against the wall, knees bent, head tipped back “You okay?” you whispered.

He looked over, his eyes were wet “Yeah.” you lowered yourself beside him, for a while, neither of you spoke, then Connor said, “I almost lost this.”

You looked at Ellie, then at him “Yeah.” he nodded, swallowing hard “I almost lost you.” You looked down at your hands “You did lose me for a while.”

Connor closed his eyes “I know.” that was another thing that had changed.

He no longer rushed to soften the truth “I don’t think I realized,” he said, voice breaking, “that love doesn’t disappear all at once. I thought as long as I loved you, we were safe. But I stopped letting you in. And you stopped feeling safe with me. And by the time I noticed, we were living in the same house like strangers.”

Your throat tightened “I kept waiting for you to come back to me.”

“I know.”

“I was so angry that you didn’t.”

“I know.”

You looked at him then, Connor’s face was open, devastated, honest “I’m still angry sometimes,” you admitted.

“I know.”

“But I’m not only angry anymore.”

Hope flickered across his expression, careful, fragile, you reached for his hand, Connor stared down at your fingers like he did not deserve them.

Maybe he didn’t, maybe deserving was not the point, maybe rebuilding was less about deserving a second chance and more about honoring one if it was given “I love you,” you whispered.

Connor broke, he covered his mouth, shoulders shaking, you moved closer, and this time, when he leaned into you, you let him “I love you too,” he choked out. “I never stopped.”

“I know.”

“But I stopped acting like it.”

You nodded against him “Yeah.”

He held you carefully, like something precious and breakable “I’m going to spend the rest of my life acting like it,” he whispered. “Not just saying it. Not just when it’s easy. I know I don’t get to ask you to believe me right away. But I’m going to show you. Every day. Even on the days you’re mad. Even on the days it hurts. I’m here.”

You cried into his shoulder, for the first time in a long time, his arms felt like home, not the same home as before.

That one was gone, but maybe this could be a new one, built slower, built honestly, built with doors open.

—

A year after the charity event where everything shattered, Connor stood beside you at another one.

Same kind of ballroom, same polished floors, same cameras.Different marriage, his hand rested near your back, not on it.

You glanced at him.

Then you stepped closer, allowing his palm to settle gently at your waist, Connor’s eyes softened.

Not private in a secretive way, private in a way that belonged to you again, a reporter asked for a photo, you smiled, Connor smiled too.

But this time, when his phone buzzed in his pocket, he did not look down, not even for a second.

His eyes stayed on you, later, in the car, your heels kicked off and Ellie asleep in her car seat, you looked over at him “You didn’t check your phone.”

Connor started the engine “No.”

“You didn’t even look.”

He glanced at you “There’s nothing on there more important than you.”

The words could have been too easy, too pretty, a year ago, they would have made you ache, now, they settled somewhere gentler, because he had earned the right to say them one ordinary choice at a time.

You reached across the console, Connor took your hand immediately, in the back seat, Ellie stirred “Mama?” she mumbled sleepily.

“I’m here, baby.”

“Daddy?” Connor looked at her through the rearview mirror “I’m here too, Els.” she sighed, comforted by the answer, and fell back asleep.

You looked out the window as the city lights blurred past, once, you had believed love meant never breaking, then you learned love could break in silence, in distance, in every conversation not had and every truth swallowed too late.

But you also learned something else.

Sometimes love came back not as a fairytale, not as perfection, not as the golden couple everyone thought they knew, ometimes love came back as therapy appointments and hard conversations.

As phone calls answered honestly, as hands held in the dark, as a husband learning, day by day, to come home with his whole heart.

Connor lifted your hand to his mouth and kissed your knuckles “I love you,” he said quietly, you looked at him, the boy you had married was gone, so was the girl who believed marriage could survive on promises alone.

But the man beside you was trying, choosing, staying and for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough to begin again “I love you too,” you whispered.

Connor kept your hand in his all the way home.

[angelbbyunicorn]

villa camera roll w/ Caleb!!

*you’re coupled up with Caleb in the villa and these are some of the videos you take together

masterlist , taglist

༘⋆ You began recording, walking up to Caleb who was sitting at the counter chatting with other islanders, "Ooouuhhh, look at my sexy man in his cowboy hat!" Caleb turns to you right away, his cheeks now turning pink from the sudden affection.

༘⋆ You and melanie stood in front of the phone camera showing off your outfit for the night, Caleb watches as he waits for your turn to show what you're wearing, as soon as you step into frame he launches at you picking you up over his shoulder. "Caleb! I'm trying to show off my outfit!" you yell, swinging your legs.

༘⋆ Caleb had his head buried in the crook of your neck you sneakily lift the phone up and press record, "Seems like someone didn't get much sleep last night." You tease, "mmm" he hums against your neck. "Maybe I should sleep in soul ties so you aren't so distracted when you try and fall asleep" you joke, he immediately picks his head up noticing the phone held in front of him, he pushes the phone down, causing you to end the video.

༘⋆ Caleb was showing off what he made you for breakfast, "We got eggs, pancakes, and some fruit. Let's go see what the queen thinks of this" He walks up the stairs with the food in hand, he places the plate in front of you and salutes to you, "What are you doing" you ask, looking at the camera embarrassed, "Making sure my food is good enough for the ruler." He teases, you push his shoulder lightly before kissing him and thanking him for the food.

༘⋆ You watched as Caleb munched on the snack you had made him, "Is it good?!" you ask, sticking the camera in his face. He freezes in his tracks, mouth full and pushes the phone down.

༘⋆ The two of you were seated in soul ties, you had just gotten done sharing a kiss, you whip your phone out capturing him with your lip color smeared around his lips, "Wow that color suits you very really" you tease, "Huh?" He replies before wiping his lips and seeing the color transfer on the back of his hand, "Delete that!" he yells, covering the camera.

༘⋆ You and Trinity were sitting on the couch as Bryce and Caleb came up to you, camera in hand, "Do you think they're talking about us?" He asks in a loud whisper, the both of you roll your eyes, "That or they're talking about how amazing we are in bed" Caleb adds, the both of them launch themselves onto the couch you were sitting on, the two of you try to push them away, "You're so annoying!" Trinity says, waving her arms.

༘⋆ Kc filmed you and Caleb as you walked up to Caleb mid workout doing pushups, you sat on Calebs back as he continued, your legs and arms crossed with a sassy look on your face, he didn't stop until you got off.

༘⋆ You and Trinity laid on the tanning chairs, eyes closed soaking every bit of the sun into your skin, Bryce and Caleb sneak up on you, they splash a bit of water on your legs, startling the both of you. The two of you jump out of your seats as chase after them, the boys both screaming and laughing as you attempt to catch them.

༘⋆ “look at you, all gross and sweaty” you say as Caleb comes over to you after working out, immediately after you speak he runs over and smothers you with kisses “EW CALEB YOU’RE SO SWEATY!!!” you yell, trying to push him off you.

༘⋆ You had just gotten done getting ready for the night Caleb stood at the bottom of the stairs you walk down as he holds the phone up, “Wow, look at my sexy lady.” he says, holding his hand out to help you down.

༘⋆ It was raining in the villa that day, Caleb gets Kc to film a video as you sit on the counter, “Stand up” Caleb says, holding his hand out to help you up, “Why?” you ask with a nervous chuckle. “I want a hug” he answers. You get up and hug him tight a round the neck, he lifts you off the floor and runs you into the rain, you swing your legs in the air, “Caleb! Put me down” you say laughing.

a/n: i’ve been seeing people doing this lately i thought it was cute

tags: @kingoveverything @postbodyarchive @maracops @jjscoquette @natesibsdih @luvvconceal @missmodelsexx @misscelly71 @reallyamthegoat08 @badlands-bitchh @qiyokuliife @takiimuncher @lattetwirll @glowygurlie @lovemehardcoreangel @y-yasminn @yallnotogso @22angel2 @randumfanfics @2bun22 @kavsgirl @swagonometryfr @gwensexxual @ibelieveinfairyz @suxyio @rafesgreasycurtainbangs

[belli5]

THINKING ABOUT YOUᵎᵎ CM

╰ Synopsis After sweet moments and growing close with Caleb, you’re both put to the test with casa amor. In the end, you both realise how it helped you to realise how much you really like each other and reunite happily.

tags/contains Caleb McDaniel x fem!reader. Fluff, slight angst, jealous Caleb, jealous reader, yearner Caleb, mutual pining, casa amor, yearner reader, povs from both persons, use of y/n, Chris is a made up islander, 4.3k words, requested, 2, 3.

➺ from Sera, to you📨. This is put together by 3 requests and I’m sorry if someone doesn’t like that, but I feel like it makes sense with this fic so ion curr.

masterlist ᥫ᭡ please reblog this fic if you enjoyed it!

When you walked into the villa, everything was new. The people were amazing but you didn’t know if there was anyone for you, yet.

And honestly no offence to any of the guys, but none of them were really your type either. You got along with everyone, sure, but something had always felt like it was missing. You laughed and chatted with everyone, but your bubbly side never truly came out.

Until Caleb came in.

From the moment he arrived, everything clicked in place. You found yourself smiling more, laughing more and feeling lighter than you had since stepping into the villa.

He made you feel comfortable enough to be yourself. The conversations felt natural, the silences comfortable, and that spark you’d been waiting for finally showed up.

Ever since the first recoupling after his arrival, the two of you have been together. Every challenge you did side by side, kissing in the dressing room after he made you breakfast, sleeping together, everything only brought you closer.

At the second recoupling where you two wrote each other a letter, he wrote the sweetest letter to you. The words were thoughtful and sincere, hitting you right in the chest. You felt like the luckiest girl in the villa, because who wouldn’t want themselves such a sweet guy in their life?

Caleb made you feel chosen every single day and standing there holding his letter, you knew you had something special.

So when Aniya got a text, everyone perked up immediately. She read it out loud: “Islanders, get ready to raise some heart rates in tonight’s challenge, Hearts On Fire”

You started jumping up and down from excitement. Cause baby, you’ve been ready. You were ready to suck some fingers, make that ass clap in everyone’s face, and just be all up on that thing.

In the dressing room, you sat down and focused on your makeup and hair, making sure your look was flawless. You weren’t about to let anybody raise your man’s heart rate higher than you did.

The costumes were hung up on the hangers, and all the girls were picking theirs. The second you saw the cowgirl one, you knew it was yours. The outfit hugged your body just right, a silver crop top, paired with glittery silver shorts that caught the lights. Paired with a cropped white shrug draped over your arms, while silver cowboy boots completed the look. Topping it all off was a matching white cowboy hat.

“What do y’all think if I come in like this?” you asked, earning the girls’ attention as you practiced in the mirror.

You walked forward with a little sway, then opened the shrug blouse, slipping it off smoothly as you spoke. “This cowgirl loves reverse.” You said, turning around and shaking your ass to the beat in your head.

The dressing room filled with “ouhhh’s” and laughs. Melanie spoke supportively. “I love that!”

Kayla nodded, hyping you up. “Caleb’s gonna love that.”

When all the girls walked downstairs, there were no boys waiting to greet you. It made sense if they were already at the fire pit, but you kind of got confused because you at least expected the guys to make some noise for the girls like they always hyped yall up.

Instead, you were met with a big white box tied with a pink ribbon sitting in the middle of the villa in front of the fire pit. The girls immediately started getting excited, making comments about how they were ready to unwrap that present and see what was inside. “This shit better be good.” You laughed.

The gift tag read “Girls, a gift for you! XOXO.” You all sat down on the couch, hoping the guys would come bursting out any second.

The box started opening on its own. You leaned forward, wishing it was the boys. And in a way, your wish came true, but not how you expected. Inside was a big screen that lit up, showing the boys in their costumes at another fire pit. Below the screen, red letters appeared: “Welcome to Casa Amor”

So they were at Casa Amor. While you girls were stuck at the villa.

This was a fucking great gift.

Everyone’s mouth fell open, just as shocked as you. “What the fuck?” Melanie said, confusion all over her face.

“Are you deadass?” you stood up, equally stunned. The guys on the screen looked hyped, smiling and clapping like this was the best news ever. You all rushed toward the screen, trying to get a better look.

Fuck me, you thought. You were irritated. You and Caleb had been so good since the first recoupling, and you knew damn well Casa Amor was the biggest test, and now the boys were there while new girls were probably already waiting for them.

You easily found Caleb among all the other guys on the big screen. He was right there in front, sitting in his cowboy costume. At least you were matching.

The first girl stepped up dressed in a firefighter costume, looking confident. “I’ll happily be your new emergency contact.” She said with a flirty smile.

You watched as Caleb leaned in and kissed her. It wasn’t a quick peck either. His hand rested on her lower hip as he held her close. Jealousy burned hot in your chest, the girls around you kept glancing in your direction, but you decided to stay silent, and keep your eyes glued to the screen.

You all slowly sat back down on the couch, as the next girl approached, a dark haired beauty who moved with confidence. “I’m not a regular cat. I’m a Persian cat.” She announced, walking toward Caleb. She straddled him without hesitation, her body pressed against his. “You’re a cowboy, huh?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Caleb replied with a happy smile. His hands settled on her ass as she leaned in, kissing his neck and grinding herself against him. The sight made your stomach turn, you made a disgusted face, unable to hide your reaction. The girls around you shifted uncomfortably, the energy turning sour fast.

And right when you thought it couldn’t get any worse, it did.

The next girl was a blonde in a police officer outfit, handcuffs dangling from her fingers. Caleb had the audacity to grin and say “Arrest me” while holding his hands out to her like it was funny.

“Oh baby, you’re so weird..” you said out loud, even though you were really talking to yourself. Your heart was pounding with a mix of anger and hurt. This was supposed to be your night, the girls’ turn to do the heart rate challenge while the boys watched. Instead you were stuck here, forced to watch new girls throw themselves at your man.

The screen went black after all the girls had come out and done their big one. Kayda’s phone pinged and she read the text out loud “Girls, the show’s over. The boys will be spending the next few days at Casa Amor. Don’t wait up.”

That night, when you got ready for bed, you realised how jealous you had been. You knew you really liked him because seeing him be touchy with them really got to you. You had grown so attached, and now the thought of him at casa amor for days made you pissed.

You would miss Caleb sleeping next to you. The way his arm would end up around your waist, the talks before bed, the warmth of him, it had become your normal. You changed into your sleep clothes, brushed your hair, and tried to shake off the negative thoughts.

When you walked into the shared bedroom, you immediately went to your bed, the room now felt too big and too empty without the boys. You sat down on the floor, reached under the bed, and pulled out the drawer. Inside were the pictures you two had taken in the photo booth.

You knew you both had put two different photo booth pictures in there. Seeing only one left in the drawer made you smile softly.

You just hoped that what you had was strong enough to survive the next few days.

The next morning you woke up feeling a bit lighter. You decided to start the new day with better energy and tried not to think too much about what Caleb might be doing at casa. You still missed him, of course, but dwelling on it wasn’t going to help.

You and the girls gathered in the dressing room to get ready. The usual chatter and laughter filled the space as everyone did their makeup and picked outfits. You were all surprised when Ariana walked in with her signature smile and welcomed you all down to the fire pit. “Obviously the boys are at casa amor” Ariana spoke. “But where do you feel like you stood in your couple before they left?”

Melanie was the first one to talk. “I felt like me and Sincere were at, like, a whole new chapter for us so I think before I saw what I saw, we were the best we could ever be.” she said.

Ariana turned to you. “Y/n, how did you feel about your connection with Caleb?”

You took a breath and answered honestly. “I actually felt really good about my connection with Caleb. We had such a great time in the villa and every day just felt like we got closer and closer and then casa amor came and I was like damn.” You laughed lightly before continuing. “But I don’t regret anything. I think we built something special, and I hope he knows that.”

The other girls went around sharing how they felt too. Once everyone had spoken, Ariana smiled and dropped the next bombshell.

She announced that casa boys were coming in for all of you. And it wasn’t only seven guys, it was twelve. At the end of the day you’d choose seven to keep in the villa. The energy shifted instantly for the better as the twelve new guys started walking in. They went around introducing themselves, each bringing different vibes and personalities.

Ariana left after the introductions, giving you all time to get to know each other and enjoy the pool party. A couple of hours passed as you got to know the guys. You tried to be as open as you could, especially with Chris and a couple of the others who seemed cool.

You were determined to have fun and explore like the show encouraged, but it wasn’t easy. Caleb was never fully out of your mind, every funny moment or flirty comment made you think about him and what he might be doing on the other side.

Later, Ariana came back and welcomed everyone to the fire pit again. “Islanders, there’s been lots of chatting, but I want to see what the chemistry is like,” she said, sitting down with the girls while the twelve guys got comfortable on the beanbags across from you. “After all, the boys at casa can’t have all the fun. And you did say you want to explore new connections.”

Ariana explained the rules clearly; one by one, the boys were going to choose and kiss two girls who had caught their eye.

At casa, Sincere received a text that said everyone to gather at the fire pit. The guys headed over, trying to guess what was coming. They thought of anything except what actually happened.

A big screen was set up right in front of the fire pit. The boys settled down, confused, as the girls from the villa appeared on the screen. Caleb immediately found you, his eyes locked on your face right away. You looked good, of course, but he wasn’t expecting this.

Ariana’s voice came through clearly. “Okay, Carl, go kiss your girls.”

Caleb frowned, confused about what this was and why they were showing it to them. One of the casa boys in purple shorts stood up and went straight to Aniya, kissing her. When he finished, he moved to you, taking your hand, walked you to the middle of everyone, picked you up, and pulled you in for a kiss.

Caleb assumed this had to be some kind of challenge, so at first he didn’t really care.

After another two guys who didn’t choose you, another one walked up to you. He asked the girls to move so he could lie you down on the couch. He pressed himself against your body as he kissed you. Caleb shifted in his seat, folding his arms over his chest; he knew you were a pretty girl, so of course you’d get chosen.

Another guy went without choosing you, and Caleb felt a small moment of relief. Then a guy in green shorts picked you and led you to the middle of the fire pit, you got picked up again, gently pushed your hair behind your ear, and kissed you.

Caleb’s jaw tightened, his knee started bouncing restlessly as he looked away for a second. “He don’t gotta do all that..” he murmured under his breath.

The next guy wasn’t holding himself back at all. He sucked on your bottom lip, and the camera zoomed right in on it. Whoever was sitting next to Caleb jokingly covered his eyes, but Caleb pushed the hand away.

Yes, he didn’t want to see other guys kiss you, but he couldn’t look away either.

By the end, Caleb was so done. He wanted this shit turned off, he didn’t like that at all. Watching it made him realize how much he had missed you since he left yesterday. He hated that he needed to see this just to feel it. He should’ve realized how much you meant to him without the screen showing him other guys all over you.

The next day another challenge came, this time pitting the villa against casa amor. The rules were simple: couples would go head to head, in different categories to see who came out on top.

You went third and picked Chris to team up with. When the category landed on “kiss” you felt confident. You knew how to kiss, and you were determined to win this round for the villa.

The moment the challenge started, you were all the way in and didn’t waste time. You stepped forward and quickly pulled Chris’s shirt off, revealing his toned chest. You kissed him deeply at first, then moved lower, kissing and licking down his abs.

Chris responded just as intensely, his lips trailing across your stomach and up to your neck, leaving a trail of heat. You both dropped to the ground, bodies pressed close, hands exploring as you kissed everywhere you could reach.

The villa cheered loudly as you and Chris crossed the finish line first.

You jumped up from the ground with pure excitement, laughing and hugging Chris. “We did it!”

At casa, Caleb also did everything he could with Jaiden, his shirt also came off very quickly, and both of them were on the ground too. But unfortunately you reached the finish line faster. He was kind of pissed, like what were you exactly doing over there that made you win so fast? Were you two basically naked? Did that guy even look like him?

The casa received a text that said, “Y/n and Chris win the round for the villa.”

“Chris? Who the fuck is Chris?” Caleb laughed out loud, trying to play it cool in front of the guys. “He could never be me” he joked.

Caleb was jealous on the inside though, like not only did you win the challenge, but you won it in a kissing round.

After the challenge, the villa had won. Back at casa everyone was getting ready for bed. Caleb laid in his bed, arms behind his head, staring up at the ceiling while the girls and guys moved around the room.

The thought of you kissing other guys made his blood boil. He didn’t want to admit how much it bothered him, but he couldn’t deny it either. He yearned for you. He missed the way you fit perfectly against him in your shared bed, the way you were comfortable enough to tell him anything, and the way you made the villa feel like home. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else anymore.

None of the new girls felt right. All he wanted was to skip time straight to the recoupling and hopefully see you standing there alone, waiting for him.

He knew it was just a challenge, you’d obviously do anything to help the villa win because it was part of the game. But he still hoped you hadn’t kissed anyone outside of the challenges. The idea of you connecting with someone else outside challenges didn’t sit right.

He knew he’d have to pull Jaiden for a chat and be honest with her. He couldn’t pretend. If he wasn’t true to himself, none of this meant anything. His feelings for you were stronger than he’d even realized before casa, and he realised why exactly casa was made.

He just wanted to get back to you.

The day the recoupling came felt like judgment day had finally arrived. You didn’t know exactly how Caleb had been moving in casa other than the little bits from the mail everyone received. You’d be absolutely devastated if he came back in with another girl.

Caleb was just as nervous on the other side. As the boys got ready to head back to the villa, he kept thinking about you. He hoped and prayed you didn’t choose anyone else over him, because that would mean he should’ve explored harder. But at the same time, he knew what you two had built.

You had stayed loyal the whole time, you explored when you had to, and now it was out of your control. It was up to him.

Ariana called you up after Kayda. You stood up from your seat, heart racing as all eyes turned to you. “Y/n, you and Caleb coupled up at the first recoupling after his arrival” Ariana said, looking at you. “You chose each other again at the letter recoupling.”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips at the memory of his sweet letter and how safe you felt with him. “How has the casa amor experience been for you?” Ariana asked, giving you the floor.

“Well..” you smiled softly, taking a small breath. “At first, I was really sad when Caleb left. Obviously, I wanted to be open to the experience because that’s what casa is for, and I didn’t want to shut anyone out.”

You glanced over at Chris, offering him a warm smile.

“I definitely got to know Chris the most, and I can honestly say he’s an amazing guy. We had some really great conversations, and he’s someone I have so much respect for.” You paused for a second before laughing quietly. “But.. I just kept comparing everyone to Caleb.”

“Not in a bad way.” you quickly added. “But i just feel like no one here was Caleb. No one made me laugh the way he does or brought out that really bubbly side of me. So, for me, the romantic spark just never happened.”

Chris smiled and nodded in understanding. “Chris is genuinely such a lovely person.” You continued. “But he’s just not my person. And I think that’s totally okay.”

Ariana smiled softly. “And how are you feeling about Caleb now?”

You couldn’t stop yourself from grinning. “I didn’t think I’d miss him as much as I did, honestly. Every little thing reminded me of him. I found myself wondering what he was doing, hoping he was behaving himself.” You laughed, causing a few islanders to chuckle too.

“I think the time apart has actually made me realize how much I value what we have. Caleb just brings out a side of me that not many people do. He’s so easy to be around, he’s funny without even trying, he’s really smart, and I always feel comfortable when I’m with him. I never felt like I had to force anything with him because it all came naturally. And I really hope the feelings are mutual.”

Ariana smiled at you warmly. “Well, Y/n, the choice is yours. You can either stay loyal to Caleb or couple up with one of the new boys. What do you wanna do?”

You took a deep breath, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “Um.. I’m going to stay loyal to Caleb. Because I want to see if the feelings are mutual and if they are, I wanna see where this could go.” You said, your voice a little shaky but sure.

Ariana nodded understandingly. You glanced over at Chris, who gave you a small, disappointed smile, but you knew you were doing what felt right for you.

“Okay, you’ve decided to stay in a couple with Caleb” Ariana continued. “If he walks in with one of the girls from casa amor, you will be single and vulnerable.”

You nodded, heart pounding. “Let’s find out.” You closed your eyes for a few seconds. The wait felt like forever as you stood there, hoping.

Then you heard the footsteps. When you opened your eyes and saw Caleb walking in alone, relief flooded through you. “Oh, thank God!” you said, a big smile breaking across your face.

Caleb noticed you standing there by yourself and his face lit up. He smiled wide, briefly looked up at the sky like he was thankful, then looked back at you. You waved at him excitedly, the butterflies in your stomach turning into pure joy at seeing him again.

Ariana smiled brightly at him. “Welcome back to the villa, Caleb. How are you doing?”

Caleb sighed softly, a shy laugh escaping him. “I feel good.. I think I’m literally going to cry right now.” he joked.

“Aww!” you said, your heart melting as you watched him.

“Tell us how you’re feeling?” Ariana asked.

Caleb looked straight at you. “So good. I missed you so much! I missed holding you at night. I thought about our letters every day. I hated seeing the guys kiss you during that challenge.. I just wanted to be back here with you. And I know exploring is what this is for, but all I could think about was you. Like, I’m so happy right now.”

You smiled so wide your teeth showed, warmth spreading through your chest. He was so sweet. “Y/n, how does it feel to hear these beautiful words from Caleb?” Ariana asked, turning to you.

You let out a happy little laugh, glancing at him. “It feels amazing. He’s so sweet, and that’s honestly all I wanted to hear. I missed him a lot too. I’m just really happy that he’s back and that we both stayed loyal.”

Ariana smiled warmly at the two of you. “Well, since you both have decided to stay loyal, you’re still in a couple. Congratulations, Y/n and Caleb!”

Everyone clapped and cheered for you two. Caleb stood there awkwardly for a second, shifting on his feet with a big smile still on his face. “Can I go to her?” he asked, looking at Ariana.

You chuckled at how cute he looked. “Of course.”Ariana said, laughing. “Go get your girl.”

Caleb didn’t need to be told twice. He walked straight over to you, unable to stop smiling. The second he reached you, you stepped into his arms and the two of you hugged tightly. His arms wrapped around you perfectly, and you breathed him in.

When he finally pulled back from the hug, he gently cupped your face and pulled you in for a soft kiss. The villa erupted in more cheers and whoops. You both sat down together, still grinning at each other.“I missed you so much.” you whispered again, squeezing his hand.

Caleb looked at you. “I missed you so much too.” He said right back, leaning in to kiss your forehead. “We’re good now.”

After the dramatic final bits of the recoupling, Aniya was left heartbroken while Kc coupled up with someone from casa. You and Caleb finally made your way upstairs to the soulties, both exhausted but happy after the long, emotional day.

Caleb immediately cuddled into your side, his head resting on your chest as you wrapped your arms around him. “Ughhh, I can’t wait to sleep with you in the same bed again.” You said softly, running your fingers through his blond hair. The feeling of him close like this again made your heart feel full.

“Me too.” He murmured, smiling against you. “I was literally yearning to be with you.”

You smiled, continuing to play with his hair. “You look so beautiful tonight!” Caleb said after a moment, tilting his head up to look at you. “I don’t think I said it before.”

“Thank you!” You replied, warmth spreading across your cheeks. He lifted his head a little more and you leaned down, meeting him in a kiss. When you pulled away, you both settled back in, enjoying the quiet for a few minutes. “Wait.. what did you mean you saw me kissing other guys?” you asked, curiosity finally getting the best of you.

Caleb let out a small laugh. “On the second day in casa we had this big screen set up at the fire pit. They showed us the challenge where the casa guys got to kiss two girls each. I saw quite a bit.” he explained, his arm tightening around you a little.

“Ohhh” you nodded, processing. “We also had a big screen the day y’all went to casa. The heart rate challenge with the girls was live streamed for us.. so we saw everything too.”

He nodded. “‘Arrest me’ was crazy.” you repeated his words from the challenge, teasing him.

Caleb laughed quietly. “You’re so funny..” you said sarcastically, poking his side. “Just wait till I get handcuffs.” You added playfully.

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

[milkybabii]

INSECURE.

She said, "I've had a hell of a summer. So, baby, don't take this hard, but maybe we should get an annulment before this goes way too far."

The challenge had finally ended, everyone laughing and sharing kisses. Not me. I smiled when I had to, clapped when it was needed, and joked with my girls.

But every time I blinked, all I could see was His hands on Kenzie's waist. How easy and natural it looked. How they complemented each other so well.

By the time we were getting ready for the evening, I was unusually quiet, stuck in my head. Sitting criss-crossed on the day beds, picking my nails. Aniya noticed me first.

"You okay?" I glance up at her, moving over so she can sit down. "Yeah, I'm okay." Jen walked over to us, sitting on the other side of me. "Girl, are you sure? You look like you're going through it."

I laugh softly, "I'm literally okay, guys." "The fake laugh gave it away..." Jen deadpanned.

Silence settled between us before I sighed deeply. ".....Can I sound crazy for a second?" Aniya immediately scooted closer. "Of course, baby." I looked down at my hands. "When Caleb kissed Kenzie..." I stop. Jen and Aniya glanced at each other. "Like I know it's just a challenge..."

"It is." Jen nodded. I smiled tightly. "I know...It's just. She's literally his type." Aniya frowned. "What do you mean?" "I mean, look at her," I said, gesturing towards Kenzie, who was having a talk with Caleb as we spoke. "She looks like his exact type," I said as my voice got smaller.

"Then there's me..." Aniya's face softened. "Girl..." I shook my head. "No, seriously, like it might sound stupid, but I've been in my head about it since the challenge."

"Like, it just made me realize...that if Caleb walked into a room with 10 girls.. I'm probably not the one he'd pick." Aniya looked personally offended. "Girl, who the fuck put that idea in your head?" I shrugged. "No one, It's just... I dont look like his ideal type." Jen grabbed my hand. "Girl, stop. Do you know how he looks at you?"

Aniya adds, "Literally, he follows you around anywhere you go." I smiled faintly. "You guys have to say that." "No, we dont," Jen said before Aniya spoke, "I think you should tell him." My eyes widened. "Hell no."

"Why?" Jen said, playing with one of my braids. "Because I'll sound insecure..." "You are insecure...?" I groaned. "Ugh dont say it out loud." Aniya hugged me before standing up. "Caleb can't fix something he doesnt know is broken, girl..." Before walking away, leaving me and Jen cuddling.

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Later that night, while everyone was getting ready for bed, Aniya found Caleb at the kitchen island making something to drink.

"I need to tell you something." She said quietly, causing Caleb to look up, confused. "Yeah?" Aniya looked around before she spoke, "Your girl's in her head..." His smile disappeared. "What happened?" Aniya shrugged her shoulders. "It wasn't something you did. But that challenge..." He squinted his eyes. "The kiss?" She nodded. "She thinks Kenzies is more of your type...You should go talk to her."

Caleb nods, grabbing his smoothie he prepared.

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I sat alone on the dock, basking in the sun, still in my head about everything, when I didn't hear Caleb sit next to me. I only noticed him when he grabbed my hand and pulled me to his side. "You okay?" He asked me. I stared at his face for a moment before answering, "Yeah, I'm fine." We held eye contact as his hand came to my face, moving a stray boho piece out of my line of view. "Talk to me, baby."

I broke eye contact as I stared into the water. " It's stupid," I mumbled, playing with my ring. "I'll decide that." I laughed softly before speaking. "I hated watching you kiss Kenzie." I bit my lip. Caleb blinked. "It was a challenge."

"I know..." I sigh. "So what's really bothering you?" He said, confused. I hesitated before speaking, "She just looks... more your type... and I don't." I say, closing my eyes, leaning my head on his bicep. It goes quiet for a while.

I sigh, becoming self-conscious, "See, I told you it sounds dumb." Suddenly, I felt him grab my chin and turn my head towards him. "Listen, I dont know who made you feel like your competeing with Kenzie, but you're not." I opened my mouth to talk, but he cut me off. "I'm serious. I kissed Kenzie because of a challenge, that's it." He reached for my hand, interlocking them.

"When we were sitting around the fire pit, I was looking at you. When I wake up, I'm looking for you. When something happens your the first person I want to tell." His thumb rubbed over my knuckles. "So why are you acting like one kiss changed that?"

I looked down. "It just feels like... If we were outside of the villa, you wouldn't even look my way." Caleb laughed in disbelief. "You can not be serious." I huff, throwing my head back. "I am." I drag out my sentence.

He stares at me, confused. "Baby." The nickname made my body warm. "If we met outside...I'd notice you before I notice anyone else." I frowned. "You dont have to say that to make me feel better."

"I'm saying it because it's true, Y/n. When I first came into the villa, you were the first person I laid eyes on. I picked you because you make life just flow so effortlessly; you make everything peaceful."

Our foreheads rested against each other's. "I dont care if another girl comes in here checking every box people think I'd want; I chose you." His voice dropped into a soft whisper, "And until you say otherwise, I'm going to continue choosing you."

I smiled, finally feeling like I'm not holding my breath, I can't breathe, "So I'm being dramatic?" He grinned, "Just a little bit." I smacked his arm as I finally let out a real laugh. He laughed before catching my hand and bringing it to his lips, pressing a kiss on my knuckles.

"And for the record.. I dont have a type." I raised my eyebrows in curiosity. "No?" He shrugged. "I do now." He smiled. "It's you." I smiled so hard with all of my 32, as I leaned in to kiss him.

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HERE YALL GOOOO, TBH I DONT THINK THIS IS THAT GOOD BUT HEY.

ANYWAYS HOW WE FEELING ABOUT TONIGHTS EPISODE I THINK KEZIE AND DYLAN SHOULDVE WENT HOME AND NOT CALEB AND JAIDEN...

anywho, bye loves!!

[tumbleweedstillhaspanic]

how do you think our fave protective Brendon would handle his kids wanting to play a contact sport? there are so many opportunities for them to hurt themselves or bust a bone

Very opinionated about it and very much against it. He'd so try to push them towards sports like golf or swimming...he might make a compromise on tennis though the thought of them possibly tripping or getting hit in the nose by a tennis ball does cross his mind...the man is overprotective to the extreme.

He's kind of a hypocrite about it to be perfectly honest. I have the headcannon that he got through his undergrad with a full ride football scholarship...so he's got experience with a sport where people get super injured all the time...but he won't allow his kids to take that risk.

If he does relent and allow them to do it then he's extremely paranoid about the possibility of injury...to the point where he's clenching his jaw and visibly cringing in the stands...his spouse is having to remind him to take a breath and actually cheer for his kids...

He's hypervigilant about making sure they have the top of the line protective gear and more than likely is scaring the crap out of their coaches because nothing better happen to Park's babies.

The man means well, but he's a bit suffocating when it comes to his kids...he's seen way too much in the OR and it's made him watchful for any signs of danger when it comes to his loved ones.