Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
SUMMARY: Theodore Nott thought surviving Dueling Club would be the hardest part of his week. Turns out, surviving his angry girlfriend was significantly worse.
Based off of this request. @red--roses hope you like it<3
You were furious.
It wasn’t the fact that Theodore had gotten hurt in Dueling Club. It was the fact that you had to hear it from Lavender Brown — three days later — that he’d taken a nasty curse to the ribs and had been walking around like nothing happened.
So when he finally found you in your room that evening, you didn’t even let him speak first.
“You got hurt,” you said flatly, arms crossed. “And you didn’t tell me.”
Theo sighed, running a hand through his messy brown hair. “It wasn’t serious. I handled it.”
“That’s not the point, Theodore.” You used his full name like a weapon.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
“I’m your girlfriend. You don’t get to decide what I can and can’t handle. You don’t get to keep me in the dark ‘for my own good.’”
“I was protecting you,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “You already worry enough.”
“I’m not a child,” you snapped. “If you can’t trust me with the truth, then what are we even doing?”
The argument ended in a tense stalemate. Theo tried to reach for you, but you stepped back and left him standing there.
And that’s when you decided on petty terrorism.
The next evening, the entire friend group was gathered in the Slytherin common room for a casual dinner.
You sat right next to Theo like nothing was wrong — except everything was wrong, and you were making sure he felt it.
You picked up a piece of spaghetti with your fork, looked him dead in the eyes, and cut it cleanly in half.
Mattheo choked on his drink.
Theo’s eyes flicked to the broken pasta, then back to your face. He said nothing.
Pansy’s eyebrows shot up. Daphne pressed her lips together, trying not to smile.
Later, when Theo reached for the salt, you moved it just out of his reach.
When he gave you a look, you smiled sweetly.
“Communication is so important in relationships, don’t you think, Pansy?” you asked.
Pansy nearly lost it. “Oh my god.”
Enzo was grinning like an idiot. Blaise leaned back in his chair, thoroughly entertained. Even Draco looked amused.
Theo's jaw ticked. You weren't done.
When Mattheo asked Theo something about Quidditch practice, you turned to Mattheo with an innocent expression.
“Do you actually listen when people talk to you, Mattheo? Or do you also decide what people can and can’t handle?”
Mattheo laughed, raising his hands slightly. “I’m not getting involved in this.”
Theo finally spoke, voice low.
“Can we talk?”
You blinked at him, feigning innocence. “About what, Theodore?”
Blaise muttered under his breath, “She’s evil. I respect it.”
Later that night, you “accidentally” moved Theo’s bookmark three chapters forward in the book he was reading.
When he noticed, he gave you a long, tired look.
You just smiled and went back to your own book.
The group was losing their minds in the background.
“Ten galleons says she wins,” Enzo whispered.
“I’m not betting against her,” Pansy replied. “She’s unhinged right now.”
Theo eventually cornered you near the fireplace when most people had gone to bed.
He looked exhausted.
“Are you done?” he asked.
You crossed your arms. “Are you going to stop hiding things from me?”
He stepped closer, voice softening.
“I thought I was protecting you. I hate worrying you. I hate seeing you scared because of me.”
“I’m more scared when I find out from other people that you’re hurt,” you said, voice cracking just a little. “I’m your girlfriend, Theo. Let me be there for you. Even when it’s ugly.”
Theo stared at you for a long moment, then pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms tightly around you.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into your hair. “I’ll tell you next time. Even if it’s stupid and small.”
You hugged him back, tension finally draining from your shoulders.
“…You’re still Theodore for the rest of the week though,” you mumbled against his chest.
He let out a quiet laugh, the sound rumbling through him.
“Fair enough.”
You smiled into his sweater.
Because no matter what, he was still your Theodore.
I've finally gotten enough motivation to go through my drafts and publish them lol.
inspo: based off the tiktok trend where the children make one of their parents call and say goodnight to their ex-partner after being divorced for many years
warnings: slight mentions of divorce
author's notes: should i lowkey turn this into a small au/series hwhahah let me know guys
divorced dad!dean au masterlist
As the phone rings, you look at your 13 year old daughter. "This is stupid, you're online too much."
She giggles while her phone is up, ready to record the interaction. "It's fun, mom!
Your eyes widen when the ringing stops, the familiar voice of your ex-husband echoing throughout the room.
"Hello?"
You can't help but let out a quiet giggle, making your daughter poke you with her foot.
'Say something!' She mouths at you.
"Hellooo?" Dean drags out.
Still chuckling, you try your best to respond. "H-hey." You clear your throat. "What are you up to?"
"Nothing much, just studying the recent game." He replies, referring to the team of kids he was coaching.
"Well, it's getting late, and I was just calling to say good night." Your hand immediately flies to your mouth, feeling like a teen playing harmless pranks again.
Your daughter has a huge grin on her face as she places her finger to her lips, telling you silently to be quiet.
"...Is everything okay?" He replies, making your daughter snort.
"Yes, why wouldn't it be?"
"Send me the address, I'll come get you." You hear his car keys jingling in the background.
"What- I'm not drinking!"
"Okay so what's up? Talk to me."
You take a deep breath in. "I was just calling to say good night."
"Why?"
"Because you're the father of my daughter, and it's a nice thing to do?"
"...Well then, good night to you too sweetheart." Your head snaps towards your daughter when you hear the term of endearment.
"Right. Sweet dreams!" You squeak out before ending the call.
Your daughter bursts our laughing when the call ended. "That was too good!"
Prompt: when your younger brother and his best friend, Mack and Will, decide to surprise you at your Pittsburgh apartment, they get more than they bargained for
requested!
Growing up in the Celebrini household was never a dull moment, especially not as the oldest child. It was rinks, practices, someone yelling about losing their hockey bag, yelling over who took the last piece of dessert. But it was also full of love, that was always a given. And there was no one you loved like your siblings.
That’s part of the reason these last 11 months have been so hard. Not because your family is scattered, not because you live in Pittsburgh, which is approximately 3,000 miles away from your brother, but because you’ve been hiding something from them all.
That something?
Sidney Patrick Crosby.
You roll out of bed, trying to wiggle your way loose from Sid’s grasp. He just groans in response, pulling your body flush against his.
“Sid.” You whisper with a morning voice and a giggle. He groans again, his eyes still closed as his lips find your temple, then your cheek, then your lips. You kiss him back like a woman possessed, it happens every time Sidney kisses you. But you manage to pull back, even though your body is screaming at you to jump his bones right now and worry about coffee, and the headache you’ll get if you don’t have any, later. “I’m going to go start some coffee.” You whisper, your voice sultry in your boyfriend’s ear.
“Looking like that?” Sid questions you, his eyes raking over your bare form. You stand, your back towards him as you turned your gaze over your shoulder, his eyes staring at your ass.
“Come find me after your shower you hound.” You joke, stealing his penguins shirt off the ground, making sure to bend over very very slowly. Sidney groans as you leave the bedroom laughing, the soft glow of the morning casting your apartment in a golden glow.
You love Pittsburgh, at first you wondered what the hell you were doing as you spent your first night alone in the apartment. Your entire family had helped you move in, buying furniture, building the furniture, and listening to Mack and Aiden argue over the furniture. But it’s been two years since then, and almost a year since you and Sid have been attached at the hip. But that also means, it’s been almost a year of lying to everyone you love. Especially Macklin.
Macklin was your rock, your little brother who you looked after your entire life. And now he’s in San Jose, now he’s 19 and playing his heart out with his best friend Will Smith. Will, who you’ve also adopted like a little brother.
You smile thinking about them, about how excited they are to be coming to Pittsburgh in a few weeks. The family dinner was nearly impossible to plan with everyone’s schedules, but they all found a way, and that is the night that you’ll be introducing them to Sid.
It’s not like they don’t know him, or know of him. Macklin knows him in a ‘I’ve played against you and looked up to you my entire life’ kind of way. But you want them to know Sid, not Sidney Crosby the hockey player, Sid the boyfriend who basically lives with you. The boyfriend who refuses to let you drive anywhere, the boyfriend who redid your spare room so you could continue to write your novels from home, the boyfriend who cares more about you being a famous author than he does about being a famous hockey player, the boyfriend who has never once let you feel anything except larger than life.
These thoughts fill you with ideas for your next book, and it’s not like you haven’t based characters off Sidney’s actions before. The ideas fill your head as coffee starts brewing, and as the shower turns on from deeper in your apartment.
A little while later you grab your designated mugs, still deep in thought as you smile. But the peace of the Pittsburgh morning died. It died in the way that at 7:14am, your apartment door unlocks. And Macklin Celebrini and Will Smith enter your apartment with wide smiles.
“Surprise!” Mack yells, his smile fully on display, a drink carrier with three coffees in his hand, as Will smiles behind him, a brown bag clutched in his.
“Mackie.” You state, shock settling deeply around you. Your eyes blow wide as everything clicks.
The pair of shoes by the door which are obviously not yours, the bottle of men’s cologne on your countertop, the Pittsburgh Penguins shirt you’re wearing, which is way too big to be yours and houses CROSBY 87 on the back in big gold letters, and of course, the sound of someone in the shower. Of Sidney. Your boyfriend. Your secret boyfriend. Your very secret and very naked boyfriend.
“What?” Mack asks, his wide grin fading just a bit as he sees your shocked face. But that’s not the only thing he notices. His eyes scan your place, they catch the shoes, the bottle of cologne, the shirt that is way too big and way too worn covering your body. And of course, he clocks the sound of the shower turning off.
Will chokes as he realizes too, but it’s Will who’s eyes go wide when he realizes who’s shirt you’ve got on.
“Is… is someone here?” Mack asks quickly, his eyes going wide as he stares into your still wide eyes.
Your soul leaves your body, and you stay quiet not knowing what to say.
“Mack-“ Will says but you interrupt.
“Mackie, just-“ you start, but it’s too late. Too late because there’s the sound of the door opening, the sound of rustling, and the sound of footsteps coming closer to the kitchen.
And then it happens, Sidney Crosby walks into the kitchen. One of your white fluffy towels hanging dangerously low on his hips, and another towel drying his hair which is dark and dripping down his muscular back and chest.
“You better hope this hickey goes away before practice tomorrow otherwise the guys are going to-“ Sid stops when he realizes, he didn’t just say that to you. In fact, he said that to three people, two of which, are your little brother and honorary brother.
Macklin stares at his idol, Will stares between the two of you. Sidney just stares at Macklin. For a moment, nobody moved, and nobody spoke. Until your brother, to no one’s surprise, loses it.
“WHAT THE HELL!” Macklin exclaims, Will taking the carrying tray out of his best friend’s grasp as Mack starts waving his arms around.
“Oh my god.” You whisper, a hand going to your forehead while Sid’s hand tightens on the towel around his hips, like he remembered how he looks, and who it is standing in front of him.
“Is-“ Mack starts, green eyes so wide as he stares between you and Sid. “Sidney-“ he starts talking again but it’s like he can’t get out a full sentence.
“Morning, Macklin.” Sidney says, you can tell he’s a bit nervous by the way his muscles move. But he’s also still relaxed, like he’s not letting himself freak out.
“MORNING?” Macklin repeats. “Morning? You’re in my sister’s apartment basically wearing a fucking hand towel and you say morning?”
“It’s a regular towel.” You say, a bit offended that he insulted your fluffy white, and insanely expensive, towels. Behind Mack, Will now fully loses it. He sets everything down on the entry table and covers his mouth with his hand. His shoulders shaking as he tries to turn away.
“Will!” Macklin exclaims, turning around to watch his best friend try not to double over in laughter. “Stop laughing!” Macklin exclaims, but that only seems to make him laugh harder.
“I’m sorry,” Will says, waving a hand in front of him. “I’m sorry this is just the funniest thing that’s happened to me all year.” He says, wiping under his eyes as he continues to giggle.
“Sid.” You whisper, and your boyfriend’s gaze shoots over to you immediately. “Maybe go put some clothes on?” You say, and Will busts out with a new fit of giggles.
“Isn’t that a little hard when you’re wearing his shirt?” Will asks, and Macklin makes a pained noise as he really takes that fact in. You stare at Will as threatening as you could as Sidney awkwardly scratches the back of his neck as he tries to contain a laugh from Will’s comment.
“I’ll be right back.” Sid says, his smile unable to be contained as he turns down in the direction of your bedroom.
—
It didn’t take long for Sidney to come back in a pair of sweats and a black t-shirt. The shirt hugs his arms perfectly, and you have to drag your gaze away before your little brother notices. But Sidney does, he always notices. And he gives you a wicked little smirk before turning his attention back to your little brother.
“Macklin-“ Sidney starts as he sits down next to you on the couch, the younger players standing in front of the tv, facing the both of you like they are parents who caught you guys doing something bad.
“How long?” Mack asks, and for the first time since entering your apartment and finding out your secret, he sounds hurt instead of angry.
“A while.” You say with a slight wince.
“A while?” Mack echos. “How long is a while?”
“Just under a year.” Sid finishes, and his hand takes yours. His fingers interlinking with your shaking ones. “We were going to tell you.”
“When?” Mack asks.
“Dinner.” You say immediately, and you want to crawl into a hole as you see your brother’s face.
“Like the family dinner?” Will asks from beside Mack as you nod.
“Why didn’t you-“ Mack starts but stops himself as he really takes you in. Takes in the way you and Sidney are, the way he knows that if he were to raise his voice again Sidney would step in front of you, the way his hand is wrapping around your slightly shaking one. The way Mack knows that keeping this from him all this time must have been killing you. “I’m not mad, Y/N.” He finally says, the tension dropping slightly from his shoulders. “I just-“ he pauses, his fingers running through your hair. “Why didn’t you feel like you could tell me?”
That carved a part of you open. Not, why didn’t you tell me? But, why didn’t you feel like you could tell me?
You see him clearly for the first time since he walked in, your younger brother. Your younger brother who has done nothing but support you your entire life. Your younger brother who looked at you for years like you hung the stars for him.
“Because it was new at first.” You finally say, staring at Mack, your hands still squeezing Sidney’s. “And I didn’t want the world to know, we didn’t want the world to know. With both of us in one form of the media we just wanted something that was… ours.” You explain. “Plus, he’s Sidney Crosby, and I have the Celebrini name.”
That fact causes your boyfriend to shift you more into his side, and your brother for the first time looks like he might understand why you kept it secret.
“I didn’t want people to assume stuff because of who we are.” You say, motioning towards you and Sid. “And, I didn’t care what they would say about me if they found out, I still don’t. I just care about him.” You say, and everyone stills.
“Y/N.” Sid whispers, his voice so soft.
“So you hid him because you love him?” Will asks, the joking smile replaced with a genuine one.
“Yes.” You say, and you feel the familiar press of a kiss to your head.
“I’m sorry this is how you found out.” Sidney says. “But I’m not sorry that you know. And I’m definitely not sorry for all the time I’ve gotten to have with her.”
“Oh my god.” Mack says, finally sitting down on the couch.
“So you’re like, in love in love.” He says, laughing for the first time today.
“Yeah Mackie.” You say with a laugh. “We’re in love in love.”
“Fuck.” Mack says, laughing loudly now. “Do I have to pretend I don’t know?” He asks suddenly.
“Just until dinner.” You say, hoping he’ll agree. It’s quiet for a second until Mack nods and agrees.
“So!” Will says, clapping and bringing all the attention to him. “I’m exhausted and I cannot keep the comedy up unless I’m fed.”
Sidney lets out a genuine laugh before he agrees.
“I’ll start something up.” He says, letting go of you but not without a soft kiss.
“Oh god. Right in front of me.” Mack complains, but you see his smile before he covers his face.
“I have more questions.” Mack says, as he follows Sid into the kitchen and rapid fire asks everything he can possibly think of.
How did you guys meet? Who made the first move? Do you live here? Do any other hockey players know? Do the Penguins know?
Sid meets them all with honesty and laughter, and his answers make Will fake a groan with how sweet they are.
“I love her, Mack.” He says finally once Macklin seemed to exhausted all his questions. “I have for a long time, even before we started dating. I know that probably sounds like a lot, and maybe it is.” He confesses, but he keeps talking. “I loved her before I had any right to. Before I knew if she’d ever look at me that way, before I knew if this could be anything more than me hoping she’d text me back, or finding reasons to ask about her day, or noticing every time she laughed at something I said and trying not to make it obvious that it melted every wall I’ve ever had.”
Your breath catches as you hear it, and Sid turns his attention to you for only a second before turning back to your brother.
“She loves you very much Macklin. I need you to know that this secret wasn’t because she didn’t trust you, and it wasn’t because she wanted to keep you out. But she wanted to protect it until she knew how to show it to the people she loves most, which is you. Both of you actually.” Sid says, pointing to Mack and then to Will.
Your heart clenches as Will sits down on the couch now too, smiling a bit as he hands you the coffee he and Macklin brought in.
“Can I ask something?” Macklin says to him, and Sid just nods, stirring batter in a bowl. “Are you guys worried about, I mean, I’m not trying to be weird, but are you guys-“
You cut him off before he could finish. “The age difference?” You ask, one eyebrow rising.
Macklin nods, looking a bit sheepish at that question, but you understand.
“No.” Sid says with warmth but also with confidence. “I mean we know people will talk, but people aren’t in this relationship.”
Your heart warms at that. That no matter what, no matter the age or the circumstances that fans can and will put you through, no matter any of it you know Sidney Crosby is yours and yours alone.
It doesn’t take long for the four of you to settle down, to laugh, eat, and the boys to all chirp each other.
You’re standing in the kitchen, watching the three of them talk, and for the first time in a very long time, you let yourself breathe.
Because Macklin Celebrini, your little brother who used to cry at the thought of you growing up and moving out of your parent’s house, is sitting with the man you love more than life itself.
Sidney catches your gaze from across the space, and he gives you a wink before chirping your brother and his best friend back.
summary ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ with two deans in front of you, the only thing left to trust is the part of him no monster can steal cleanly
pairing ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ dean winchester x reader ( f )
wordcount ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ 807 genre ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ angsty !!
warnings ˚˖𓍢ִִ໋ emotional distress, weapon mention, blood/injury mention
notes ˚˖𓍢ִ໋ ִ❀໋ consider supporting my work .ᐟ
the worst part is that they both look tired.
not evil. not wrong. not even slightly off in the easy, merciful way you need one of them to be.
they both stand under the flickering motel sign with dean’s face, dean’s blood on their knuckles, dean’s green eyes fixed on you like you are the only solid thing left in the whole ruined parking lot. rain dots the windshield of the impala behind them. somewhere far off, a dog won’t stop barking.
your gun shakes in your hands.
“sweetheart,” the one on the left says, breathless. “look at me.”
the one on the right flinches. “don’t call her that,” he snaps.
same voice. same rough edge. same wounded anger tucked under the words. your stomach turns. “stop,” you say, and it comes out smaller than you want. “both of you. stop talking.”
they do and it almost makes it worse.
the shapeshifter has dean’s memories. sam warned you, voice tight over the phone while you were still running through wet alleyways and trying not to throw up. it can know things. private things. motel rooms and bad jokes and the way dean hums under his breath when he thinks you’re asleep. the first time he kissed you. the first time he said i love you and then immediately panicked and pretended to check the car’s oil. all of it. stolen.
“ask me something,” left-dean says, stepping half an inch forward.
you lift the gun higher. “don’t.”
he stops.
right-dean’s jaw tightens. “ask me.”
your eyes burn. “you both know.”
“not everything,” right-dean says.
left-dean scoffs, and god, it sounds so much like him you feel sick. “that’s what i’d say too.”
your finger rests near the trigger. not on it. near.
you think of dean’s hands on your hips in the bunker kitchen, warm and grease-stained from fixing something that didn’t need fixing. you think of him stealing your fries, then pretending he didn’t. you think of the night he crawled into bed beside you without a word after a hunt went bad, pressing his forehead between your shoulder blades, silent until he finally whispered “don’t make me talk yet”.
you know him. you do. so why can’t you breathe? “what did you tell me,” you start, voice cracking despite the effort, “after jolene’s case? when i wanted to quit?”
both of them go still. left-dean answers first. “i told you that you could. that i’d drive you anywhere you wanted. no guilt trip.”
your chest caves a little. right answer. perfect answer.
right-dean swallows hard. “and then i said i was selfish.”
left-dean turns sharply. you freeze.
right-dean looks at you. “i said i was selfish because i wanted you to stay,” he says. “and then i got scared you’d hear that as pressure, so i made a joke about your terrible motel coffee and you threw a pillow at my head.”
no. it doesn’t. that’s the awful thing. it still doesn’t.
then left-dean softens his face, careful and familiar, and takes one slow step toward you. “baby, come on. you know me.”
baby. too easy. too clean. your dean almost never uses that when he’s scared. he gets rougher. quieter. meaner to himself.
right-dean’s eyes flick to your gun. then to you. “shoot me,” he says.
your heart drops. left-dean goes silent.
“what?”
right-dean’s voice is hoarse. “if you can’t tell, shoot me. leg, shoulder, whatever. silver’ll show you. don’t let him near you.”
“dean—”
“don’t argue with me.” his face breaks, just for a second. “please.”
there. not in the memory. not in the words. in the way he makes himself the sacrifice before he lets you become one.
your hand steadies.
left-dean sees the shift before you move. his expression hardens, dean’s face turning strange with something that is not dean at all. “you sure about that?” he says.
you aim at him. “yeah,” you whisper. “i am.”
the shot splits the rain. silver hits shoulder, not heart, because even now—stupid, stupid—you can’t shoot dean’s face without mercy. the thing screams with his mouth, skin rippling wrong under the streetlight, and then sam is there from nowhere, finishing it before your knees can give out.
after, dean catches you before you fall. the real dean. solid. shaking. warm. you grab his jacket with both fists and shove your face into his chest, furious at him, furious at yourself, furious that you ever had to learn him this way.
“you told me to shoot you,” you choke.
his arms tighten around you. “yeah,” he says, voice breaking at the edges. “i know.”
“i hate you.”
“yeah,” he whispers into your hair. “i know that too.”
you hold him harder anyway, because his heartbeat is under your ear and it is his. it is his. it is his.
ꔛ. all works ; writing guidelines ; writing schedule.
hear me out - zuko accidentally burning reader (aka the woman he loves, maybe secretly maybe not, you decide). they were in the middle of a fight and she got in the way of the flame zuko shot toward his opponent. it doesn’t have to be on the face, maybe the flame hit her shoulder, near the collarbone, that way he sees the mark every time her clothes shift a little. and he sees her wince and can’t live with himself. arghhh the potential to that!!
i looooove this prompt so much!! the angst !!!! the guilt!!!!! also - i hope you dont mind but i'm changing the how reader gets burned to add MORE angst !! :D :D (srsly i hope you dont mind)
also - uhhh- it was supposed to have a happy ending but then idk what happened. there's all angst and hurt and no comfort. sorry D:
You woke up with a confused groan. The bed was jostling and beside you, Zuko was clearly having a nightmare. He was breathing heavily, his fists clenched in the sheets that were starting to char.
"Zuko? Babe?" You tried to wake him but he didn't budge. You moved closer, and shook his shoulder, "Honey?"
Suddenly, he gasped awake and a fireball exploded from his chest. You screamed and fell backwards from the bed.
"What the-" It took Zuko a moment to orient himself but when he did, he saw you on the floor, clutching at your neck and shoulder. "Oh no-" Dread filled him and he jumped out of bed, screaming for the healers and physicians to come.
Quickly, the bedchambers were full of people fussing around you. Herbal healers, waterbenders that were working to soothe the skin- And all the while, Zuko stood in the corner, not even daring to come close to you. His hands wrung together as he watched everyone take care of you.
"Sire- Night terrors are not uncommon for benders who have experienced-" One of the physicians tried to speak to Zuko.
"Silence." He hissed and left the chambers.
You wanted to call for him, but the truth was that you were in pain and in shock. The healers and benders worked together on you but one of them whispered that there may be an everlasting scar since Zuko's fire was very potent, since he had been taught by the Dragons.
The following days were lonely and horrid. Zuko refused to visit the bedchambers. He wouldn't speak to you alone. He was terrified of coming near you. Meals were sent by the servants with small messages.
Did the healers visit you today?
Did the ointments help?
I hope you're resting.
I spoke to the benders, they said that you're healing well.
The pain had only lasted for two days. The healers had done wonders for the tenderness too. However, everyone had confirmed that there will be a scar. And that scar spanned over yoru collarbone area and snaked up your neck. So, unless you were as modest as a monk, it would always be visible.
And more than the pain, the worry of what Zuko was going through hurt you more.
By the end of the sixth day, you'd had enough. Zuko had once again not come to bed.
You walked through the corridors, a robe hastily tied over your nightgown. You were determined and angry.
"Your Majesty-" The guard outside Zuko's study stammered, averting his eyes for seeing you in such a state of undress.
"Out of my way." You glared at him, and he instantly bowed and moved aside. You slammed the doors open and saw Zuko hunched over some papers.
"I didn't wish to be bothered-" He said lazily but flinched and looked up when you closed the doors hard enough for the walls to shake. "What- What are you doing here? You should be resting-"
"I have been resting. Alone." You snapped. "Will you come to bed or not?"
"I have work-" He lied and the waver of his voice gave it away easily.
"Zuko-" Your jaw clenched and his eyes flicked down to your exposed neck and shoulder. "Is that what this is about?"
"I- I hurt you-" He shrank away.
"On accident." You offered gently.
"It still happened and now-" His eyes went to the scar again. "No. No, it's better if you sleep by yourself and-"
"Zuko-" You tried reaching for him but he moved away quickly. And that's when you saw it. How terrified he was. How guilty he was.
His hands were clasped together, he was shaking his head as he cornered himself away from you.
"I can't be near you. I shouldn't even be alone with you." He said quickly. "Guards-" He said loudly. Two guards entered and looked between you both. "Please escort my wife back to her-"
"Leave. Both of you. Now." You stated firmly and the guards stood there with confusion.
"I am your Fire Lord- You will listen to me-" Zuko was trying to be stern but it came out as pleading.
You opened your robe and dropped it to the floor. The guards scrambled out of the room and closed the door behind them. Seeing the Fire Lady in only her nightgown wasn't a crime they wanted to be held guilty for.
"Stop doing that!" You scolded Zuko. "It was an accident!"
"I burned you! I scarred you!" He yelled back, "I scarred you like-" He swallowed, his eyes glued to your scar. "Like my father did me." He whispered. "I am no better than him. I don't deserve to sleep in your bed or even breathe the same air as you."
Oh-
"Zuko... You are not your father." You spoke softly, your anger dissolving into sympathy. "He hurt people to feel powerful. You did this by accident. It was just a nightmare-"
"What if it's worse the next time? What if-" What if I do something so awful that you don't survive? The unsaid words hung between you both.
"Please." You begged. "I miss you. I'm so alone."
"It's for your own safety." He shook his head. "It's better this way."
"Zuko..." You tried again but it didn't matter, he had clearly made up his mind.
"No. I'm not risking it." He jaw was set.
"So... So that's it?" You swallowed, the tears stinging your eyes. "You'll exile yourself from me because of what happened?"
"Anything to keep you safe." He nodded. "I'll- I'll be around when I'm awake but it's better to not risk your safety in the bedchambers again."
"Please- Please, don't do this." You begged. "Don't leave me alone in that room- In our bed-"
"I'm trying to keep you safe." He turned away from you.
"I'm trying to be loved." Tears fell freely now. "Please don't-"
"Your safety is more important." He didn't face you and in that moment, you knew. That he'd never let it happen again. Even if it meant keeping himself locked away from you.
Thinking about bucky just like laying on you like a weighted blanket, head on your chest, either because he just likes it or because it helps you like relax/sleep or something (totally dont sleep with a weighted plush on me to keep nightmares and anxiety away xD) idk sounds nice and comfortable ya know? Sorry if you did something like this before
It one of those nights.
The kind where the apartment is too quiet. Where the dark feels heavier than it should. Where your brain won’t turn off, replaying conversations and worst-case scenarios and half-formed fears until your chest feels tight and your hands won’t stop fidgeting in the sheets.
Bucky notices.
You’re curled on your side when he slips into bed, careful as ever, metal arm cool against the mattress while his flesh hand finds your hip. You try to pretend you’re asleep. You try to regulate your breathing. But your inhale catches just a little too sharp, and that’s all it takes.
“Hey,” he murmurs softly, voice low and warm against the back of your neck. “You with me, doll?”
You hum noncommittally.
He shifts closer. Close enough that the heat of him bleeds into your back. His chest presses lightly between your shoulder blades, solid and grounding. “Bad night?”
You hesitate. Nod once.
He doesn’t ask you to explain. Doesn’t make you put words to it. He just makes a quiet little sound of understanding and then—without another word—he moves.
“Roll onto your back for me.”
There’s no edge to it. Just gentle instruction. You comply, blinking up at the ceiling, and before you can ask what he’s doing, he’s climbing over you.
He settles carefully, mindful of his strength, lowering himself until he’s half-draped over you. His metal arm braces beside your shoulder, but his flesh arm slides beneath your waist and tugs you closer. Then he lets his weight sink down slowly, chest to chest.
His head comes to rest right over your heart.
All of him.
Warm. Heavy. Solid.
You let out a soft, startled breath. “Bucky—”
“Shh.” His cheek presses against your sternum. You can feel the scratch of his stubble through your sleep shirt. “Tryin’ something.”
“You’re crushing me.”
“I’m not,” he mutters, adjusting slightly so the weight is distributed but still very much there. His thigh hooks over yours. His torso molds to yours. You are thoroughly, unmistakably pinned. “I know exactly how much I weigh.”
“You absolutely do not.”
He huffs, and you feel the puff of it against your skin. “Serum math. I got it handled.”
And then he just… stays.
His full, steady weight sinks into you like a living, breathing blanket. Not suffocating. Just enough pressure to make your nervous system go oh.
Your hands, which had been restless and curled into the fabric of the sheets, slowly move on their own. One slides up into his hair. The other settles at the back of his neck.
He exhales.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs against you.
“You’re heavy.”
“That’s the point.”
You can’t even argue, because as the seconds pass, something shifts.
Your breathing starts to match his. Slow. Deep. His ribcage rises and falls in a steady rhythm against yours, and your body unconsciously mirrors it. His heartbeat is strong and even beneath your palm, a low thud-thud that seems to drown out the noise in your head.
The pressure anchors you.
Keeps you from floating off into anxious spirals.
He rubs his thumb absently along your side, slow circles just above your hip. “You ever notice,” he says quietly, “that your heart races when you’re thinkin’ too much?”
You swallow. “Maybe.”
“It’s slower now.”
You hadn’t realized it was. But he’s right.
“Sometimes,” he continues, voice soft and thoughtful, “when I can’t sleep… when my head gets loud… I put something heavy on my chest. Back at the compound, it was usually a dumbbell.” He gives a faint shrug. “Grounds me. Reminds me I’m here. Not somewhere else.”
Your fingers tighten in his hair.
“Figured,” he adds gently, “maybe it’d help you too.”
Your throat burns a little.
“You don’t have to carry it by yourself,” he murmurs. “Whatever it is.”
You don’t even know what it is half the time. Just a swirl of old fears and stress and dreams that feel too real. But right now, with him draped over you like this, it feels… manageable.
Like the world can’t touch you under the weight of him.
“You’re basically a 200-pound security blanket,” you mumble.
“Rude. I’m at least 220.”
You laugh softly, and the sound vibrates between your bodies.
He tilts his head just enough to press a kiss over your heart. It’s slow. Tender. Like he’s sealing something there.
“You good?” he asks.
“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah, I think so.”
He shifts minutely, letting just a little more of his weight settle into you, as if testing. You don’t protest this time. You welcome it. Your legs wrap loosely around his hips. Your fingers scratch lightly at his scalp, and he practically melts.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, already sounding drowsy. “Just breathe with me.”
You do.
In.
Out.
His chest rises. Yours follows.
The tension in your shoulders loosens. The tightness in your jaw eases. Even your thoughts seem to slow, softened by the steady pressure and warmth and the quiet rumble of him.
He hums low in his throat when your nails drag lightly at the nape of his neck. “You pet me, I’m not movin’ all night.”
“Good,” you whisper. “Don’t.”
He smiles against your skin.
“I got you,” he says, so simple it almost hurts. “Long as you need.”
And he stays.
Heavy and solid and warm, breathing slow against your chest, metal arm curved protectively at your side. Every so often he presses another absentminded kiss to your collarbone or sternum, like he’s making sure your heartbeat is still there.
Like he’s counting it.
Your eyelids grow heavy. Your fingers slow in his hair.
The last thing you register before sleep finally takes you is the feeling of him shifting just slightly, careful even in his half-asleep state, making sure you’re comfortable. Making sure you can breathe easily. Making sure his weight never becomes too much.
But it never is.
Because with him like this—solid and present and impossibly real—your nightmares don’t stand a chance.
summary: twelve years after remus saved you from being killed in the underground, you’ve built a life beside him, james, and sirius at the center of one of the most powerful mobs in the country. but during a high stakes event, everything shifts when you become a target, and suddenly the life you’ve fought to keep is put at risk. ( 7.5k words )
tags: mafia au, reader has she/her pronouns, established relationship, angst, violence, blood and injury, murder, gun violence, fight scenes, kidnapping, hostage situations, torture, drugging, childhood trauma, starving kids, poverty, slut shaming, mentions of scars, healer reader, creepy snape, panic, fear, morally gray characters, remus centric, happy ending
a/n: this was written months ago and i just rediscovered it buried in my docs. might turn it into a mini series because mafia poly marauders has no business being this hot masterlist
You met Remus way before anyone knew his name, before the respect he earned and the reputation that made people step aside without thinking about it.
Back then, he was just another kid surviving off whatever the underground world didn’t manage to take from him.
Too thin, clothes hanging loose like they belonged to someone else, eyes dulled by exhaustion but still alert in a way that didn’t match the rest of him; no family, no one waiting, nothing tying him to anything except the instinct to keep going.
He didn’t beg, didn’t waste words, didn’t draw attention unless he meant to, which was rare. Most people passed him without noticing. The ones who did never looked long.
The first time you approached him, it wasn’t out of kindness. You were a starving teenager, and he looked worse.
You’d found half a sandwich behind a closed diner, warm and edible, something you should have kept. You meant to. But he was there, slumped against a rusted pipe, fighting sleep like it might take more from him than rest ever could, and before you let yourself think twice, you stepped forward, pressed the food into his hands, and walked away.
Remus never forgot you after that.
The next time you saw him, it was your blood soaking into the ground.
A group of men had him cornered deep in the tunnels. Even then, he knew how to fight; quick, efficient, and already dangerous in a way that came from necessity rather than skill, but there were too many of them and numbers always tipped the scale.
You moved fast despite your weak form, grabbed the nearest man, sank your teeth into his forearm hard enough to feel skin break, kicked, clawed, made noise, anything that would pull them off him long enough to save Remus.
It worked for a moment. Until one of them turned and drove a knife into your shoulder, clean and deep.
After that, everything blurred. Movement, sound, the sharp pull of breath you couldn’t steady; by the time your eyes could focus again, the men were dead, two at Remus’ hands, the third barely managing to crawl before the blood loss killed him.
Your parents didn’t make it either, they were both killed by an underground gang.
You weren’t given the chance to grieve them properly—not with your arm throbbing and your body struggling to stay upright.
Remus didn’t speak. Aside from a scatter of bruises and shallow cuts, he’d come out of it mostly intact—steady enough to catch you before your knees gave out, his arm firm at your back as he pulled you upright and kept you moving.
You went with him because there was nothing left to stay for, your weight leaning into him more with every step, the pain in your shoulder turning sharp and distant all at once. He took you deeper into the underground, to a man no one trusted unless they had no other choice—unreliable, difficult, but capable enough to keep people alive when it mattered.
Remus stayed.
Through all of it. While the man worked, cutting into your shoulder to get the bullet out, stitching what he could, wrapping the rest, Remus didn’t step away, didn’t look elsewhere, didn’t leave you with it alone
The days blurred into each other after that.
You spoke less, kept your head down, learned quickly what not to react to; blood stopped meaning anything beyond whether it needed to be dealt with. Remus didn’t offer comfort, not out of cruelty, but because it wasn’t something he knew how to give, and you didn’t ask for it.
What he did know was survival.
How to move without being noticed, how to find warmth when the tunnels turned unforgiving, how to take what was needed without drawing the wrong kind of attention, how to end a fight before it had the chance to turn against him.
So he handled it, for both of you, without making it into something worth mentioning.
He considered teaching you, once or twice. You could see it in the way his attention lingered when you tried to handle anything, but it never went further than that. You were small, your strength unreliable, your hands unsteady even with something as simple as a rusted pipe, and he wasn’t careless enough to pretend otherwise.
The idea dropped, without discussion. Instead, he made sure you didn’t need to fight.
And in return, you learned how to keep him standing.
Every time he came back injured, you were there. Your hands weren’t steady at first, and you didn’t always know what you were doing, but you worked through it anyway; gathering scraps of cloth, heating water when you could, learning piece by piece until it became routine.
You never asked where his injuries came from.
Pain was something he understood, something he carried without complaint. You didn’t have that same tolerance for it. Those early years wore you down in ways he couldn’t ignore, even if he didn’t know how to fix them.
You got sick often—lungs too weak, body too fragile for the cold and the damp—and there were nights when the coughing didn’t stop, when it dragged on until breathing itself felt like work.
He never tried to soothe you with empty words. Instead, he stayed, sitting beside you in the dark, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead as if that alone could tell him what to do next. It never did, but he didn’t leave.
For a while, that was enough.
Things held together, barely, until they didn’t.
The fight came out of nowhere and everywhere at once, built from too many nights without food, too little sleep, too much pressure sitting unspoken between you.
You had given away part of your food, not much, just enough to quiet the whining of a stray dog that had been trailing you for days. You hadn’t thought of it as a decision that needed weighing. Remus had.
He had already been worn down by a horrible day full of fights, his patience stretched thin, and when he realized what you’d done, the reaction came horribly.
He told you that you couldn’t afford choices like that, that you were careless, that keeping you alive was costing him more than he could sustain, and even if the dog had been the trigger, it wasn’t the reason. You understood that much without him saying it.
You didn’t interrupt him. You didn’t argue, didn’t raise your voice to meet his, didn’t give him anything to work against.
You stood there and let him finish, quiet in a way that should have forced him to hear himself, to stop before he crossed the line he was already approaching. He didn’t stop. By the time he was worn out from his lash out, he turned away from you as if it had been nothing more than another conversation, laid down, and let sleep take him without a second thought.
By the time he woke up the next morning, you were gone.
Your clothes were still there, your blanket exactly where you’d left it, the tin box of stolen medicine untouched. Everything remained in place except you. There was no note, no sign that you had planned it beyond the fact that you had followed through. The absence said enough on its own.
He understood immediately what he had done and what it had cost without needing to search for another explanation.
The realization hit hard, and there was no way around it. This was on him. By the time he was on his feet, he wasn’t thinking about anything else except finding you.
He searched anyway.
Weeks of it, moving through every part of the tunnels he knew and plenty he didn’t, cutting sleep down to nothing, food to whatever he could grab without slowing himself. Every girl he passed made something in his chest tighten; every still body in a corner forced him to look twice, just in case.
Remus found you five months later, by accident more than anything else.
You were sitting slumped against a wall outside a supply depot near the edge of the underground, so thin you barely looked alive, clothes caked in dirt, head tipped forward like holding it up took more effort than you had left.
He almost didn’t recognize you. Almost kept walking. He looked again, properly this time, and the moment it clicked, everything in him went still.
He crossed the distance in a few quick steps, dropped into a crouch in front of you, said your name to try and pull you back. When he reached for you, there was no reaction at first. Then, slowly, your head lifted, your eyes found his, and recognition settled in with a kind of silence that hurt more than anything louder could have.
You looked away.
He didn’t give you the choice to leave again.
When he pulled you to your feet, you didn’t fight him. There wasn’t enough strength left for that, your weight giving easily as he steadied you, lifting without hesitation when it became clear you couldn’t manage it yourself.
He took you back without saying a word.
You didn’t speak for three days.
Most of the time you stayed where he left you, too exhausted to move unless you had to, your body giving out in short stretches of sleep that never lasted long. You avoided lying down, staying upright even when it hurt, as if the effort of lowering yourself was more than you could afford.
Remus handled what needed handling.
He cleaned the dirt from your skin, worked through the worst of it carefully, fed you what little he had, kept watch without scaring you away. He didn’t ask where you’d been or what had happened.
“I didn’t think you’d care if I left,” you croaked out a week after he rescued you.
Remus had just handed you a tin of soup. He froze.
“You told me it’d be easier without me,” you added, eyes fixed on the wall. “So I made it easier.”
He stared at you for a long time before answering. “If I say anything like that again,” he said quietly, “don’t listen. Just hit me, beat me up if you have to. Don’t walk away, don’t leave me again.”
That night, for the first time, he cried in front of you. Quiet, broken tears that traced the scars littering his arms and chest, each mark a story you’d never heard. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice trembling. “I might be a monster, but I cannot live without you. You can’t leave me again. Please, don’t ever leave me again.”
It wasn’t an apology, not in the way words usually are, but it was everything. That night, you promised him that you wouldn’t. And it was a promise you meant to keep.
After that, things changed.
He kept you close. He wouldn’t admit it, but he was different after losing you. Sharper, more alert and dangerous. He fought harder, stole more, built a name for himself in places where kids like him usually didn’t survive long enough to earn one.
And you stayed. You learned. Your hands stopped shaking when you cleaned wounds. You taught yourself pressure points, bone breaks, ways to stop bleeding when there was no thread.
You became someone people trusted when they had nowhere else to go. A healer in a place that didn’t believe in healing.
Almost exactly a year after Remus had pulled you from that alley, he returned with two new faces behind him.
The first was Sirius Black; lean, loud, reckless. His body was thin and covered in faded lash marks, evidence of a life spent running. He had cut ties with his family and spent the last two years with the wrong crowd, dealing drugs and learning violence the hard way.
The second was James Potter. He looked more put together but had clearly been through hell. Broad-shouldered, tanned, with dark curls falling over his forehead and striking brown eyes hidden behind glasses.
Despite their differences, the two of them stuck together almost like brothers (ironic now that you think about it, because they’re anything but brothers). They both needed shelter, both needed someone to keep them alive, and though you had no idea why Remus had saved them—he never trusted strangers—you knew one thing: if Remus trusted them, so did you.
And just like that, the four of you were no longer alone.
You had no idea, then, how much they would come to mean. But you knew, in your heart, that your life had changed the moment Remus found you.
And it was about to change all over again.
It is almost too easy now, twelve years later, to understand the extent of their protectiveness.
Years have passed, yet their vigilance has only deepened with time. You have come to know each of them in entirely different ways, loved them not in halves or fragments but in full, as they are, as they choose to be in the shadows of a world that demands more than loyalty. It demands blood.
Their devotion to you doesn’t come from anything gentle. It comes from the same place that taught them how to shoot, how to lie, how to kill with their hands and walk away without blinking.
So now, as you sit beneath a gilded chandelier in the grand ballroom of an estate that smells of wealth and corruption, it is easy to forget, just for a moment, what tonight really is.
On the surface, it appears to be a charity gala. People are laughing into fluted glasses, dressed in fabrics worth more than most make in a year. But beneath the satin and the small talk, tonight is a congregation of power. The five most dangerous syndicates in the region have gathered in this single room, each dressed in their finest.
And you are seated alone, at a table cloaked in cream linen, with your back to the far wall and your eyes on the men you came with.
You spot James first, standing near the eastern archway. He is speaking with a man you don’t recognize, a thickly built figure with twitching fingers and a smile that does not touch his eyes. James is smiling too, but it’s mostly a facade.
Remus stands a few feet behind him, arms crossed, eyes trained not on the conversation, but on you. He offers a small smile when your gaze meets his. You return it without thinking.
A sudden warmth at your side draws your attention.
Sirius appears beside you without warning, already close enough that you feel him before you properly see him. He slides into the chair next to yours in one easy motion, then pulls you into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world, one arm settling firm around your waist, keeping you there.
His suit fits him too well, dark against the soft gold of the room, his hair tied loosely at the nape of his neck, eyes scanning the crowd before dropping back to you. He leans in and presses a brief kiss to your temple.
“There you are,” he murmurs, voice low against your skin. “Been looking for you. How’s my girl holding up?”
You let out a slow breath, fingers catching lightly on the edge of your dress. “Tense,” you admit, eyes still moving over the room. “I hate these things, Sirius. One wrong move and everything turns into a mess. There’s too many of them here tonight, too many people who don’t trust each other pretending they do. It’s unpredictable.”
He hums, his grip on you tightening just slightly, thumb brushing absent circles against your side. “Yeah, it is,” he replies. “But you know Remus. Strongest one in the room, and he’s watching everything. Place is locked down, including entrances, exits, security—we’ve got eyes on all of it. Nobody’s getting close without us knowing, love.”
You shift against him, a quiet, uneasy laugh slipping out. “I know. It just… doesn’t stop me thinking about it. I hate that you’re all targets half the time, even if I know you can handle it.”
Sirius tilts his head slightly, studying you, his hand coming up to rest more securely at your waist. “All I want is for you to sit, relax, look pretty, and enjoy yourself. Once we’re back home, I promise, we’re gonna make it worth your while.”
You glance toward James, scanning his posture across the room, and then back at Remus, whose calm presence seems to hold the room in balance. “How are they holding up?” you ask, a little edge of concern in your voice.
“James is fine,” Sirius says with a slow breath, almost smug. “He’s in his element. Man could sweet-talk a corpse back to life if he wanted. Remus, on the other hand, is playing the long game. He didn’t like the Russians showing up uninvited, or Malfoy bringing his own security.”
Your stomach tightens at the thought, a low thrum of nerves threading through your chest. “So what am I missing? What’s really going on?”
Sirius’s jaw tightens slightly, the playful edge fading into seriousness. “There’s a leak,” he says quietly. “Someone’s feeding intel to the other families. Names, operations, schedules. Remus thinks it’s someone close, someone he’s trusted. He’s been tracking it quietly, trying not to spook anyone.”
You shift slightly in his lap, glancing up at him. “And that’s why you came over here? To check on me?”
He lets out a quiet scoff, like the answer should be obvious, his grip on you tightening as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to your shoulder. “You think I’m only here for that?” he murmurs against your skin, voice dipping back into something lighter.
You huff a small laugh, shoulders lifting as his lips brush over your shoulder blades, the tension easing despite yourself.
Sirius hums softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. “We’re not leaving you sitting here alone while half the room’s watching us,” he adds, tone still easy but edged with something firmer underneath. “Remus didn’t want you worrying before we knew for sure, but that doesn’t mean we’re not paying attention. You’re covered. Always.”
You nod, though it barely soothes the knot in your chest, your eyes drifting back over the crowd, catching Remus’s faint nod across the room. You let out a slow breath, trying to sink into it, even as the tension continues to hum beneath your skin.
And then, as Sirius gently squeezes your shoulder and mutters something about needing to get back, a man in a waiter’s uniform approaches.
He’s smiling politely as he sets down a champagne flute in front of you with a subtle bow. You take a slow sip, the cold rim brushing your lower lip with familiarity.
In a life this precarious, where every shadow might hold a loaded gun and every handshake could be your final one, you've long known the value of perfection.The kind drilled into your bones by men who love you too much to be soft with you.
Remus taught you that lesson first, years ago in the blood-soaked corridors of the underground when he pulled you out from hell with his bloodied hands.
Mistakes weren’t small back then, and they certainly aren’t now. One slip can cost not just a life, but all the lives tethered to it.
And you do not make mistakes.
But sometimes, it's not about what you do. It’s about what you don’t notice. What slips through the cracks. What you forget to question.
And as the sip slides down your throat, smooth as liquid gold, something cold settles in your gut before the poison even begins to work.
You never ordered a drink.
And that realization alone is enough to make your spine lock. Your eyes flicker down to the flute still in your hand, now far more weapon than refreshment.
You force your breath to steady, to remain as it was, because movement—any movement—before confirmation could draw the very eyes you need to avoid.
You twist sharply, eyes scanning the floor, the servers, the crowd, until your gaze lands on the back of the waiter. It’s not his face that gives him away. It’s the hair. Slicked close to the skull, but a single braided rat’s tail hangs just above his collar.
Your breath catches as something hot coils low in your spine and spreads too quickly to ignore.
Your hand trembles, fingers curling in on themselves before you can stop it, your muscles tightening, then loosening in a way that feels wrong. You’ve felt this before. You recognize it immediately, even as panic tries to push in.
Paralysis. Fast onset. Your throat tightens, chest burning, your body slipping out of your control piece by piece. You force yourself to stay focused, to think through it instead of giving in.
Tetrodotoxin.
You know it from case studies and forensic files Remus made you read when he was teaching you how to recognize a killer’s fingerprint. Extracted from the pufferfish, odorless, tasteless, and lethal in micrograms. You have maybe—if you’re lucky enough—two minutes before your diaphragm stops working.
You turn, slowly and painfully, to the only three people who matter in this room. James, still mid-conversation, nodding at some low-level syndicate boss as if he doesn’t already know more than the man’s own mother. Remus, watching the exchange, smiling faintly with Sirius.
You try to get up.
That’s when the hand lands on your arm.
It’s firm, a companionable touch, like a friend leaning in with a secret or a lover about to steal a kiss. You brace, pivoting toward the stranger, only for his voice to drop into your ear, rich with condescension and amusement.
“Don’t make a scene, darling.” the command is low, velvety, and utterly sure of itself.
“You can’t fight it. Not anymore. And you don’t want to get anyone’s attention, now do you?”
Your hands twitch, useless. All you can do is turn your eyes toward him, only to meet a face you’ve never seen before. Which is far more terrifying than a familiar one.
He smiles, soft and tight. “There it is,” he murmurs, not unkindly.
You try to speak. Try to scream, but your jaw is already locked.
“You’ve been such a good girl,” he says, almost sweetly, as his hand snakes under your arm and gently lifts you to your feet like a dance partner. To anyone watching, it looks like nothing. A tipsy beauty and her suitor. “Let’s not ruin that now. Come on, walk for me.”
You barely register the way his hand tightens around yours, guiding you out of the ballroom step by step.
Your knees buckle more with each stride, your vision wobbling like water over glass. You catch a final glimpse—three suits like shadows across the marble floor, three sets of eyes scanning, unknowing. And then—
The sound falls away first, the chandeliers blur, and just before the velvet curtains swallow you whole, the world blurs away.
The last thing you think, before everything goes dark, is that you’re about to break the promise you made to Remus twelve years ago; you weren’t supposed to leave him again.
*******
James tilts his glass to his lips without really tasting the whiskey. He’s still engaged in meaningless diplomacy, his tone all faux charm as he converses with a Russian arms dealer too rich and too drunk to be useful.
His glass is untouched in his hand, his eyes flicking instinctively across the ballroom in search of you—just a habit by now. You were standing near the orchestra moments ago. Laughing and smiling in Sirius’ lap.
But you’re not there.
His smile falters.
James’s body goes still, the easy grin on his face freezing just slightly. His hand twitches. "Remus."
"Remus," James mutters again under his breath, turning toward the other man without taking his eyes off the spot. "Where’s she gone?"
"What?"
"I asked where she is." There’s a steel edge to his voice now. “She was just by the pillar.”
Remus follows his line of sight, frowning as he glances past the crowd. A cold flicker passes over his features when he doesn’t find you either. "I saw her not two minutes ago—" His words cut off. His eyes are moving faster now.
James doesn’t wait. "Sirius."
Sirius’ eyes snap up, finding James first, then Remus, then the empty space where you should be.
In an instant, he crosses the room eyes scanning, chest tight, every step measured for speed and control.
James is on his heels a second later. "Where the fuck was she standing?!” he hisses, scanning the crowd for the flash of your dress, your hair, anything.
“She didn’t leave through the front,” Remus mutters behind them. He’s pulled his earpiece into place, one hand disappearing inside his suit jacket. “James. Sirius. We lock this place down, now.”
There’s a subtle click beneath the music as James draws his sidearm and tucks it to his hip beneath his coat. His other hand lifts to press a button on his comms. "Code black. I want every single exit fucking sealed. No one moves unless I say. Shut the gates. Clear the floor. Confirm visuals on her—last seen by the east arch, ten minutes max."
The line crackles.
Remus’s voice crackles into the comms again, louder now, sharper. "Sweep the perimeter. Search every hallway, every service corridor. If someone touches her, I want them in pieces. James, Sirius—stay close.”
*******
Your world returns in pain.
Your head is forced downward, plunged into a basin of cold water with such force your teeth slam together. The water floods your mouth, shoots up your nose. You can’t breathe. Your lungs flare in agony. Your mind screams for air.
You are yanked back just as abruptly, choking and sputtering, water gushing from your lips as you cough uncontrollably. The sensation of drowning clings to your skin, your ears ringing with pressure, your throat raw from the violent intake.
Your blindfold is ripped away.
Light, white and sterile, floods your eyes. You blink rapidly, gasping, vision swimming as you try to adjust. Shadows dance around you until one shape sharpens into a man—tall, angular, hair black as oil slicked back from a pale, skeletal face.
Severus Snape.
You recognize him instantly. The face from every intelligence file you have flipped through, the name whispered in your boyfriends' meeting rooms like a curse.
"Ah. Welcome back," Snape says, his voice cold and composed, as if greeting an old patient. He circles you slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "Forgive the method of revival. I don’t usually favor theatrics, but you were quite... unresponsive, and I needed you awake."
You glare at him, throat burning. "You sick fuck. Let me go!"
He tilts his head, eyes assessing, almost bored. "No. I don’t believe I will."
"You don’t know what you’ve done," you hiss, struggling against the ropes. "You have no idea what they’ll do to you."
"On the contrary," Snape replies, and now there’s a flicker of amusement in his tone. "I know exactly what they’ll do. That’s the entire point, little mouse. They won’t come to negotiate or discuss business. They only come when something is taken."
His gaze drags over you slowly, taking his time, like you’re something he owns already. “So I took you.”
“It isn’t personal,” he continues as he steps closer, close enough that you can feel his breath against your skin. “From what I’ve gathered, you’re valuable. A truly skilled doctor, too. Useful in ways most people down here never manage to be. That alone would have made you worth taking.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you, then lets out a low, dry laugh. “A loyal—” he cuts himself off, the word turning into something ugly in his mouth. “No. No, that’s not right, is it?”
“Wouldn’t call you loyal when you’re spread between all three of them like a whore, would I?”
You try to spit at him, but it barely makes it past your lips, your body too weak to follow through.
“Lupin, playing leader like he’s holding everything together. Black, the poor little traitor who ran from his own family. And Potter…” His voice tightens on the name, real hatred slipping through this time. “Fucking Potter.”
There’s something off in the way he says James’ name, it makes you wonder why he might hate him so much.
“Tell me, do they take turns, or do you let them share?” His mouth twists faintly. “Or do you just not care who you crawl into bed with as long as they keep you safe?”
Your hands curl against the restraints, anger cutting through the weakness. “Go fuck yourself.”
He smiles at that, slow and thin. “There it is.”
You yank against the ropes, the fibers digging into your skin hard enough to sting. “You’re a coward.”
Snape doesn’t react the way you expect. If anything, he seems calmer, like he’s enjoying it. “I’m alive,” he says quietly. “That’s more than most people who cross them get to say.”
You twist again, fury rising, the words slipping out before you can stop them. “Let me go, you fucking—”
He moves faster than you expect, the blade already there, resting flat against your pulse.
“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low and almost bored. “You strike me as smart. Don’t ruin that by acting stupid.”
The knife shifts just slightly, enough for you to feel the edge bite. "You speak again, and I will open your jugular so cleanly you’ll bleed out before you even scream. Don’t test me."
You freeze. The metal remains against your skin for several seconds, the threat humming louder than your own heartbeat. Then it lifts. He tucks it back inside his coat with maddening nonchalance.
You scan the room with your eyes now, desperate for anything; an exit, a weakness, something to exploit. But the room is concrete, windowless, reeking of mildew and damp. The only door is behind him.
He flips a small device in his pocket, eyes glinting as he tilts his head.
“Well, well, look who’s finally here,” he says slowly, savoring each word, letting the pause hang. “Your little fuckers, coming to save their precious whore.”
Your heart lurches. For a moment, hope flares like a match. Then his eyes meet yours again, and he laughs. A slow, cruel laugh.
“Oh, don’t look so relieved,” he says. “You think they’re heroes, don’t you? That they can just walk in here and snatch you back? They’re idiots. All of them.”
He crouches slightly, letting his eyes roam your face. “Lupin, the big-hearted fool. Black, the reckless little shit. And Potter… Potter, you little whore, I’ve never hated anyone like him. Tell me, mouse, do you even know why I hate him so much?”
Your throat tightens.
“You’ll see soon enough,” he continues, voice low, almost a hiss.“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m going to vanish into the walls. Your lovers are going to come storming in ith their guns, fists, whatever pathetic courage they have. They’ll think they’ve got you. They’ll think I can’t touch them. And you’ll sit there, pretty little bitch, tied up, watching and listening.”
He crouches to your level. Tilts his head. “But right as they let their guard down—right when they’re stupid enough to save you—I will paint the walls with their blood. And then, when they’re all dead, you’ll watch me slit your pretty throat.”
You scream and kick and thrash until the ropes cut into your skin. You scream again, hoping someone will hear, hoping your voice can reach through concrete and steel.
Snape sighs. "I don’t want you ruining my plans, little miss smarty-pants." He walks over, pulls out a strip of duct tape, and tears it slowly, the sound slicing through the air like a warning.
"You’ll sit still, you’ll stay quiet, and you’ll watch. That’s all you’re good for now."
He slaps the tape over your mouth with brutal finality, pressing it hard against your lips until your screams become useless muffled noise. You sob through it, chest heaving, vision blurring with tears.
And then he’s gone. Slipping into a hidden passage behind a shelf of crates. You’re left alone. Chair bound, gagged, and shaking with fear—not for yourself, but for your boyfriends.
You hear the door bang open a minute later, and for the first time, you don’t feel saved.
Remus is first through the door, gun raised, eyes scanning—walls, exits, angles of light, you. Then Sirius. His breathing is ragged, like he ran the entire way. Suit jacket open, shirt wrinkled, hair falling into his eyes. Then James.
All three freeze the moment they see you.
Remus lowers his gun just a fraction. His mouth moves, but no sound comes out. Sirius swears under his breath, rushing forward to tug the tape from your mouth, hands shaking, careful not to hurt you more.
James doesn’t move. He just stares, like his brain can’t process the sight of you bound, shaking, soaked in blood.
And in that moment, you realize something horrifying.
Snape was right.
You want to scream, to tell them to run, to leave you, to not play into whatever trap this is. But you’re still bound, still gagged before a word can escape.
The door slams so hard it nearly tears off its hinges. Gunshots echo. Another. And another.
Gunshots, gunshots, gunshots.
You jerk violently in the chair, chest heaving, throat burning behind the tape. Your eyes sting from tears and the harsh light, but all you can see is them.
James is the first to reach you, dropping to his knees so fast the floor cracks beneath him.
“Oh god, you’re okay—” His voice is breaking. His hands fly to the ropes, fumbling over the knots, muttering under his breath. “It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You’re alright. Fuck, baby, breathe—just breathe—”
You shake your head violently. The chair rattles with you. Your legs are trembling uncontrollably beneath the restraints, eyes wild, trying to scream past the suffocating gag.
“James!” Sirius’s voice cuts through from the other side of the room, sharp, gun cocked. “Is she okay? Is she—”
“She’s not hurt! No blood—she’s clean, just panicking. Fuck, her wrists are bruised—” James’s hands work faster, snapping one of the bindings with a hiss. “I’ve got you, baby, just—just keep looking at me—”
The last restraint comes loose. James reaches for the tape around your mouth and peels it back slowly, trying not to hurt you.
“Hey—hey, it’s okay. You’re safe now, we’re here, baby, just talk to me—”
Your breath starts hitching harder, your chest seizing with sobs so loud they echo off the stone walls. You’re gasping like you're drowning, eyes darting wildly behind them.
“No—n-no—no, y-you—Remus—Remus, pl-please—” Your voice is torn raw, barely recognizable.
“Sweetheart—” Remus is beside you now, crouched so close you can smell the blood on him. His hands hover, unsure where to touch. “Where does it hurt? Tell me where it hurts. Look at me, love, please—what did they do to you?”
“I—I—y-you h-have to l-leave—” You clutch his shirt, shaking like a leaf. “N-not safe, n-not s-safe—he’s—he’s still—Remus, h-he’s still here—he’s here—”
Remus freezes.
James looks back sharply. “What?”
You’re clawing now, sobbing harder, shaking your head. “P-please, you h-have to run, y-you have to go—you can’t be here—he said—”
“No. No.” Remus’s voice drops, low and cold. “We’re not leaving you. I’m not fucking leaving you.”
“Y-you don’t understand!” You scream, or try to, but your throat cracks halfway through. “He’s—h-he’s watching, he’s going to—he said he’ll kill you!”
“Where is he?” Sirius growls, eyes scanning the room. “Where the fuck is he?”
“H-he said—he said you’d think y-you saved me and then—then—” You choke on your breath. “Then he’d kill you. A-and then me—he said that!”
“She’s not making sense—” James starts, but Remus’s hand shoots up.
“She is,” he says, eyes narrowing. “It’s a trap.”
Remus’s hands cup your face now, gently, firmly, grounding.
“Where is he?”
You’re sobbing too hard to answer. Words collide in your throat, hopeless. Your gaze flicks to the far corner, to the shadows. Remus follows it instantly.
A slow click echoes.
“DOWN!”
The next moment erupts. A shot tears through the air, a scream splits the room, and a flash blinds you. Remus throws himself over you. James shoves the chair sideways to shield you. Sirius spins, firing three sharp rounds into the darkness, each shot precise.
Your ears ring, your body curls sideways, half-tied, half-broken, blinking through smoke and tears. And somewhere in the haze, a voice laughs.
“Touching,” Snape drawls, slow and deliberate. “Really. I almost cried.”
Gunfire tears across the room again, louder, relentless. James and Sirius react instantly, weapons raised, moving with practiced precision.
Snape steps out of the shadows, his crooked smile chilling, his hand lifted as if conducting an orchestra of violence. “You didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?”
Triggers click overhead. From the mezzanine and behind stacks of rusted machinery, a dozen men emerge, rifles trained on all of you. Every angle accounted for.
James clenches his jaw, scanning the upper levels. “Sirius, floor two, west side. At least eight.”
Sirius shifts smoothly, eyes sharp. “I see them. Left flank’s mine.”
Shots snap through the air. Steel and wood splinter under fire. One of Snape’s men screams and drops. You barely register it, trembling, pressed behind the crates where Remus left you.
Your hands shake so violently you can’t lift yourself upright, body rattling with leftover adrenaline. Then he’s there again, dropping to his knees behind you, chest pressed close, shielding you from debris.
“Look at me,” Remus says, voice low, tight, controlled. He cups your face, thumbs brushing your tears, grounding you. “Look at me, love.”
You cling to him without thinking, sobs shattering out in broken bursts.
“Hey,” he murmurs, brushing your cheeks. “No tears, not now. Don’t cry, dovey. You’re safe. We’ve got you. I’ve got you. Just hold on a little longer, alright?”
You shake your head hard. “N-no… Remus, you don’t… you don’t get it, he’s—he’s going to—”
“I know,” he cuts in gently, trying to soothe you, but you pull at his shirt harder, and your voice finally rips out in a scream, muffled by the roaring gunfire.
“You have to go! Please Remus—go! It’s not safe, he has more—he has more upstairs! Take Sirius and James—RUN!”
Remus flinches, his body jerking ever so slightly at your words, as though you’ve struck him with something sharper than any bullet. He goes still, staring at you, chest heaving, eyes dark with hurt, fear, and anger all tangled together.
“I’m not leaving you,” he finally says, there’s an edge that makes it clear your words wounded him. “Don’t say that. Don’t ask me that again.”
“But, you’ll die!” Your voice cracks, choking on fear. Your fingers dig into his blood-soaked shirt as though you can hold him in place. “Please—please—I can’t—I can’t lose you—I can’t—”
He grabs your face, pressing it closer until your foreheads touch, his eyes locked on yours, burning with certainty. “You’re not going to,” he growls, voice thick and fierce. “Hear me? You’re not. I’ll make it out. James will make it out. Sirius will make it out. And so will you. I will never let anything harm you or them. Ever.”
“You hear me?” he breathes, forehead pressing to yours tighter. “I’ll burn this whole fucking place to the ground before I let that happen.”
His hands tighten at your jaw, grounding you, keeping you here, alive. “You stay hidden behind these boxes. Don’t move and don’t peek. I need you safe while I make sure Sirius and James are okay, alright?”
You nod, your panic subsiding just enough as you watch him lift, ready to move, and the thought of him protecting your other two keeps the knot in your chest from tightening completely.
Your breath is hiccuping. He kisses you like he’s grounding himself in it, fast and firm, like there isn’t time to mean it properly.
Then the crates behind you shudder violently and Sirius stumbles around the corner, one hand clutching his shoulder, blood running down his arm, teeth gritted against the pain.
“Got tagged,” he mutters. “Upper right. Took five down but I think there’s more.”
Remus doesn’t hesitate. He pulls you tighter to his chest for one last second, then shoves you gently toward Sirius. “Take her. Get the fuck out. Go now.”
Sirius looks at him, reluctant to leave James alone there, but understands that he has to get you out. “We’ll meet you outside. You better make it out with James.”
“We always do.”
You’re lifted up before you can resist. Sirius drags you around the crates, one arm firmly around your waist. Outside the warehouse, backup has arrived. You can hear more engines now. You don’t dare look back. You just cling to Sirius, face buried in his neck, heart hammering.
And then you see the black SUV parked at the far end of the lot.
The door slams shut behind you and Sirius. He barely wastes a second before throwing himself into the front passenger seat to unlock the back door and drag you inside, arms looping around your waist with a trembling urgency.
You’re half-limp from exhaustion, adrenaline still flaring in bursts, barely even noticing the click of the seatbelt as he fastens it over your chest. The world outside feels like a blur of motion and noise. You can hear the shouting, the echo of gunfire, the rush of footsteps behind you.
Sirius is breathing hard. You can see it; the subtle shake in his shoulders, the way he stares out the tinted windshield toward the warehouse as if sheer willpower alone could summon James and Remus out from that inferno. His hands are clenched tight, white-knuckled, and for a moment you’re afraid he’s going to jump out and go back in.
“Sirius,” you whisper, voice hoarse and dry like ash in your throat.
His head whips around instantly, his eyes bloodshot and wide as he turns in his seat to look back at you. “Fuck. Baby.”
He’s already unbuckling. A second later, he’s in the backseat with you, one hand cradling your jaw, the other holding the side of your neck as if to steady himself more than you.
“Are you okay?” he asks, and the words are not casual. They carry fear, guilt, and desperation. “Are you hurt? Did they—fuck, did he do anything to you?”
“I’m okay,” you say, the words fragile and barely convincing, but they are all you can manage.
His thumb grazes your cheek. “Then why are you crying, huh? What’s all this, baby? Look at me.”
Your breath catches, and you struggle to put it into words. “I… I thought I was okay, I really did. But when everything happened—being trapped, Snape, the fire—I just… I panicked. I couldn’t stop thinking what might happen to you and… everyone.”
Sirius’s jaw tightens. His voice drops low, dangerous and raw. “You were gone. You disappeared, and I swear, I thought I was losing my mind. We didn’t know if you were alive. I couldn’t…” His tone softens suddenly, almost breaking.
You flinch at the intensity, and he notices immediately. He presses a hand gently against your cheek, grounding you. “No, no, no. Don’t look at me like that. I’m not mad. I just… Jesus, you scared the shit out of me.”
“I… I didn’t know my drink was drugged,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I didn’t see it coming until it was too late.”
Sirius leans closer, pressing a reassuring shoulder to yours, wrapping an arm around you. “It’s okay, love. It’s okay. You’re here now, you’re safe, and that’s all that matters. Nothing else matters as long as you’re safe.”
Your eyes flick to the mirror, catching the orange flicker of the warehouse fire outside. A new surge of panic hits. “Remus… James…”
“They’re dealing with Snape,” Sirius says. “They’ll be fine. Most of our men went for backup, it’s more than enough to take down Snape. That piece of shit’s going to wish he never touched you.”
Sirius pulls you into his lap, one arm wrapped around your shoulders, pressing you close. Your ear rests against his chest, and the steady thump-thump of his heart slows the frantic rhythm of your own. His hand rubs small circles along your back as he speaks quietly into his phone, checking on the others.
You watch the fire fade in the distance, each pulse of his heart a quiet promise: they’re all alive, they’re all okay.
Minutes later, the doors slam open.
James throws himself into the driver’s seat, blood streaked across his shirt, breath coming fast. Remus climbs into the passenger beside him, eyes sharp. Both covered in ash and smoke. The warehouse burns behind them, glowing orange in the distance, and the SUV shudders with the weight of escape.
“What the fuck are you doing hunched in the backseat like a goddamn cryptid?” James snaps, spinning the wheel sharply as the tires scream against asphalt.
Sirius glances up, still crouched beside you. “I was making sure she’s okay!”
James looks into the rearview mirror, his gaze locking on you. “You alright, love?”
You nod, still breathless. “I am. Are you both okay?”
“Yeah,” James says, driving like a mad man. “We’re okay.”
Exhaustion hits you fully. You bury your face into Sirius’s chest, letting yourself feel safe for the first time in hours. He holds you close, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, steady and unyielding.
From the front seat, you hear the faint rasp of a lighter. Remus leans out the window, cigarette igniting, smoke curling into the night air. Behind it, the faint echo of James laughing, Sirius whining about wishing he’d been there to see Snape bleed out. The words are distant and unimportant.
All that matters is the warmth pressed into your body, the steady rhythm of Sirius’s heartbeat beneath your ear, and the eyes of Remus in the mirror, soft with love. You know now that despite the violence, the blood, and the scars each of them carries, there is enough love in the four of you to fill every corner of the world.
The last thing you see before you let your eyes close, finally for sleep, is Remus’ smile, gentle and full of adoration, as he exhales smoke from his cigarette.
You never knew that the Fire Lord could be so shy, not even as you continue to wash up in the clear water, humming a wordless song as you let the lake stain your skin.
It’s refreshing.
“Are you sure you don’t want to just join, Zuko? There’s really no need for you to keep watch.” You’re rinsing your hair out as you call out to him, trying to comb out the grime and dirt from today’s adventures.
And your all too stiff companion is making things slightly awkward, as funny as you find this situation to be.
Because… That would be odd, wouldn’t it? To have to ‘guard your comrades whilst they’re in a vulnerable position and unable to defend themselves because they’re inappropriately clothed’.
Or so he says.
“No— No.” He’s still streaked in dirt and mud, hair caked in sweat and ash as his ruined upper garb clung to his skin, your own clothes neatly folded as he hid behind a rock, back turned to you.
“I’m more than fine right here.”
“Eh? You sound kind of unsure.” The water splashes beneath you as you wade closer to the large formation he had taken cover behind.
“You really don’t have to wait for me to finish.” Because you’re so sure you would take far too long.
But also because you’re maybe just having a little too much fun.
“Zuko, is seeing me naked that unbearable?” There’s even a pout in your voice, a well-placed whine that made it sound like he was the one at fault.
And there’s a column of fire that burnt tinges of oranges against the blue of the night sky, your hand going over your mouth to suppress your laugh.
“Don’t laugh.” There’s a grumbled choke, clearly playing up the grumpiness as you hear the unbuckling of his boots.
“Are you always this forward with men?”
And you hum, elbows resting on the lake’s bank as you watch the Fire Lord himself slowly step out, eyes still so politely closed as he strips himself of sticky, dirty clothing to reveal the sculpted torso underneath.
“Just you~”
And you continue to marvel as he undoes the tassels by his thighs, the metal dropping heavily onto the ground as he gets ever closer— Stopping when he feels your hands gently grab at his hands.
And your voice by his ear.
“I’ll wash your hair for you, oh handsome Fire Lord~”
And Sokka wants to start praying that he never needs to pee ever again, chanting curses mixed with begs as his feet hurriedly stamp as quietly as they possibly could in place— All whilst he desperately hid behind an all too skinny tree.
Who was he to ruin such a sweet moment just because he desperately had to go? It’s not like it’s his fault that there were no appropriate bathrooms in the forest that would guarantee privacy.
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