summary; rafe is the president of the biggest party frat on greek row, and his sweetheart girlfriend meets his frat brothers for the first time, under less than great circumstances.
warnings; veryyyyyy ooc rafe (like sue me), sensitive!reader, slightly smut at the end but barely, so it would make me more comfy if mdni!
Rafe's hand was tight on your thigh while he drove you guys to the library on campus. Your english lit books stuffed into your tote, and your uggs snug on your feet as you prepared to have a full studying day with Rafe.
You were already sceptical of the idea the second he brought it up. He pushed the proposed study date the second you refused to hang out with him until your lit final was out of the way.
Rafe was smart sure, majoring in finance and on his way to securing a high position after graduation. However, he wasn't the most academic person you had come across, preferring study the playbooks for his next football game.
So, you knew not much focused study could come from his day, but your boyfriend refused to not see you for the 2 weeks until your final was over.
He picked you up in his far to massive truck, getting out of the drivers side to kiss you good morning and lift you up into the passenger seat next to him.
He was tapping the beat of the music that echoed out of his car speakers, a backwards cap resting on his head and his lettermans jacked slung over his broad shoulders.
You listened to him babble on and on about him and his fraternity brothers recent escapades on campus. A story about how they climbed up the flag pole that stood in the middle of the college and tied their fraternity flag to the top of it in the middle of the night.
His smirk was bright on his face, perking up when you laughed at his recount of that night. You lifted your pale pink water bottle out of his cup holder that you always kept there, remembering you filled it up only the day before.
What you didn't recall though, was the fact that you hadn't screwed the top all the way. Meaning, when you brought it over to your body, it spilled all over you before you could lift it up to your lips.
Rafe turned his head swiftly at your squeal, your waterbottle now empty in your hand and its contents all over you.
The water covered nearly the whole front of your top, the white fabric of your baby tee now turning see through due to the liquid, revealing the lace pink bra you threw on before leaving your dorm.
"Shit, baby" Rafe sighed, watching as your eyes went glossy as the tears rose through you.
It would be an understatement if you said you cried often. But with all stress pushing a heavy weight on you due to your looming final, you couldn't help but cry over spilt water.
Rafe's eyes went back to the road, pulling into an empty space and parking.
"Hey, hey. Don't cry. Please don't cry." He begged, bringing his hand up to your cheek and wiping a stray tear that had fallen. He turns away, rummaging around his truck to see if he could find anything to dry you with.
"Rafe, its cold" you whisper, cringing at how whiny your voice sounded. This would be the only moment in your life you regretted how well your water bottle kept your water cold.
Rafe's hands continued to search his glove box and console, failing to find anything but old receipts and sonny angels you had left in his car.
"Shit" He whispered, looking back at you and then the area he had pulled over in. "The frat is not even 2 minutes away, we can run in and get you a dry shirt, yeah?"
You nodded swiftly, any anxious thoughts about entering his frat failing to enter your mind as the feeling of your shirt sticking to your chest and shivers rushing through you overtook your senses.
Rafe pulled his truck out rather dangerously fast, the hand that wasn't gripping the steering wheel finding your hand to clutch it tightly.
His large hand swallowed yours, grounding you as the sensation of your sticky shirt clung to your like a life line. Your tucked your lip under your teeth to halt its relentless wobbling as the tears ran softly down your cheeks.
Okay, maybe your brother was right when she said you were a crybaby.
Rafe turned his head over to look out through his rear window, pulling in to his carpark at his frat, the 'Fraternity President' sign standing proudly at the front of the car space.
He turned off the engine, unbuckling his seatbelt and hopping out of his seat. Rafe walked around to your side, opening the door and reaching over to unbuckle your seat belt before placing his hands on your waist and effortlessly lifting you of his truck.
The fall breeze sent goosebumps down your thighs, nipping at the wet fabric of your shirt and threatening your teeth to chatter at the cold.
He held your hand once more as he guided you up the cobblestone walk way that brought you to the stairs that lead to his fraternity.
Your head craned up to the view of the massive house that stood on greek row. Large white columns stood in your view, vast windows spread across the walls, black greek symbols decorated the space that met the roof proudly.
You and Rafe had only been dating for 2 months now, preferring to stay in the cozy four walls of your dorm than his fraternity that was decorated by littered red solo cups and empty beer bottles.
It would be a lie to say Rafe wasn't putting off introducing you to his frat brothers. He wasn't embarrassed of you, far from it.
He loved his friends, alot. But he was, well, maybe just a tad worried they would scare you off.
You weren't in a sorority. You didn't frequent greek row for the weekend parties. You topped nearly all of your classes, spending the weekends cozied up with your roommate eating ice cream and clad in silk pyjamas.
Rafe knew you were too good for him. Too smart. Too pretty. Too pure.
His thoughts were interrupted as you stood at the front door that lead into his fraternity. Rafe reached into the pocket of his letterman jacket, pulling out his key card and moving to push it against the reader on the front door.
"Rafe, wait." You gasped, pulling your hand out of his and stepping back. He turned to you, looking down at your eyes that stared back up at him.
"Look at me" You voiced, his gaze following your hands that swept over your frame. He hadn't noticed during his frantic haze to do anything to cease your tears how your white shirt was fully see-through, your bra fully now visible.
His lips upturned into a smirk, raking his eyes up and down your frame. "Yeah, i am. And i'm loving it"
You reached up and smacked his shoulder, not finding this situation as amusing as he was.
"Ok, ok. Sorry baby. Here"
He shrugged his letterman jacket off his frame, resting it over your shoulders as the smell of his Cologne clouded your sense. You interested your arms into the jacket, the fabric nearly swallowing you whole as you used it to bring around your front and cover your shirt.
Rafe's hand was clasped into yours once again, his biceps straining against his navy tee as he pressed unlocked the door with his key card.
"Ok, We just gotta run up to my room real quick. We'll be in and out." He voiced, turning to give you a searing kiss on your cheek.
You were surprised to find the house rather cleaner than you expected. Rafe told you that there was a party here last night, that he kindly described as "Shit"
You half expected to see drunk guys passed out on the floor and empty liquor bottles resting on every surface.
But the floor was free from unconscious bodies and suspicious liquids. However, remnants of the night before still remained through the folded up ping pong table resting on the wall and trash bags brimming with beer cans waiting to be taken out at the door.
"Rafey! Back so soon?" A voice cheered, the floorboards of the stairs creaking as a body bounded down them.
A blonde boy only clad in checkered pyjama pants appeared in your view only seconds later, his expression dropping and his eyes found yours before darting back to Rafe.
"Oh my god!" The boy gasped, dramatically bringing his hands up to his mouth in exaggerated shock. "You're real!"
Your brows furrowed at the statement, looking up at Rafe next to you who was rolling his eyes. "Fuck off Top" Rafe spoke, his hand dragging down his face as an amused smile painted his lips.
"Well, Are you gonna finally introduce me?" The boy spoke, looking at Rafe expectantly.
Rafe rolled his eyes once more, looking down at you adoringly.
"This is Topper. Topper, This is my girlfriend" Rafe spoke, finishing of the sentence with your name. You smiled as the boy suddenly brought you into a bounding hug, grinning from ear to ear as he released you.
"We were starting to think our Rafe made you up!" Topper smiled, putting his hands up in surrender as Rafe placed his hand against his chest and pushed him away from you.
"Nope, I'm pretty real the last time i checked" You voiced, laughing softly.
"Hey, you're funny. I like you" Topper smiled, pointing at you jokingly.
"Ok, This was fun." Rafe stated sarcastically, reaching his hand to rest on the small of your back and guiding you up the stairs.
"Hey! The other boys are gonna want to meet her!" Topper yelled behind you, Rafe not even looking back as he replied with a middle finger directed back at Topper.
Rafe had never been more glad all of his friends were to hungover from the night before to leave their rooms.
"He's nice!" You whispered to Rafe as you two walked up the stairs as he lead you to his dorm. Rafe looked down at you, a smirk still present on his lips.
"He's annoying"
You smiled back, hearing the adoration thick in his tone despite his statement.
Rafe guided you down the long hallway of doors, reaching the end and using his keycard once more to open the door to his room. Pushing you inside softly and closing the door behind him.
His room was exactly what you pictured. Somehow messy but still clean.
It smelled exactly like him, like cologne and the soft scent of his occasional cigarettes he indulged in when stressed. Occasional picture frames decorated his dresser and desk, pictures of him and his friends holding up a football trophy and him and his little sisters when they were little.
One frame caught your eye, the only one that rested on his bed side table. In it, was you. Not even aware of the camera as Rafe shot the picture.
You remember that day vividly, because it was the day Rafe asked you to be his girlfriend.
A flower crown rested softly on your head, the sun kissing your skin as you looked up through the trees in the field Rafe took you to, an hour drive out of campus.
You stood out like a sore thumb in the muted tones of his room, standing awkwardly before Rafe rested you down on his haphazardly made bed, quickly going to rummage around in his draws for a shirt for you to wear.
You watched him as he found one, shutting his dresser draw before walking over to you.
He looked down at you intently as he lifted his letterman jacket of you, instructing you after the fact to lift your arms up.
You couldn't help but bite your lip as he peeled the still soaking wet top off of you slowly, watching as his eyes drifted down to your chest now only clad in your bra.
He reached for the top, halting as you suddenly spoke. "Rafe, wait"
You reached for his hand, guiding it slowly to the clasp of your bra on your back. "It's soaking too"
Rafe ticked his jaw at your statement, running his tounge over his teeth at your teasing.
He couldn't help but lean down to catch your lips in a heated kiss, swiftly unclasping your bra before pulling back and staring at your bare chest.
You pulled further away from his, reaching for the shirt he brought you and putting it on.
"You're such a fucking tease" He gasped, embarrassed his hard on was growing under his grey sweats further at the sight of you in his grey football shirt. Your college logo etched on the front and the list of the championship winning team on the back, his name proudly stamped first under Quaterback.
You giggled softly at his statement, reaching up to pull the collar of his tee-shirt and guiding him down to your lips once more.
His hands rested heavily on your thighs, picking you up effortlessly to switch positions so he was now sat at the foot of his bed. You now sat on his lap and bringing your legs around to straddle him.
Your hands lifted up to rest on his jaw, your tongues now interlocking as you made out.
He brought his hands down to the waistband of your leggings, hooking his fingers under the fabric as his touch left a searing heat on your skin.
You pulled out of the kiss, causing him to groan at the lose of contact. "I'm glad i could finally meet one of your friends." You sighed, out of breath as you rested your forehead onto his.
"Yeah? Me too." He smiled, feeling a weight now being pulled of his shoulders that he didn't even know was there.
He leaned forward once more to catch your lips in another kiss, the feeling of your ass on his dick making the tent in his pants grow even harder.
But the feeling was short lived, as you two were swiftly taken out of your little bubble.
The sound of fists banging on his door boomed through his room, making you jump and lift yourself off his lap and stand up straight.
"Rafe! We know she's in there" "Let us meet her!" "C'mon bro!" "Topper got to, It's not fair!" "Open up!"
Rafe rolled his eyes at the sound of his friends yelling through the door, lifting himself off his bed and adjusting his dick in his pants.
Summary: A bright, stubborn Hufflepuff refuses to stay away from the cold, guarded Mattheo Riddle.
Slow burn. Tension. Hidden softness.
9.9k words sheesh I don’t know when to stop :’)
—————————————————————————
The Great Hall buzzed with the usual morning chaos, owls swooping low over tables, the clatter of silverware, and the low hum of gossip that never quite died down at Hogwarts.
Sunlight filtered through the enchanted ceiling, casting a soft golden glow over the Hufflepuff table where you sat, though your eyes were already drifting toward the Slytherin side.
Mattheo Riddle was there, as always, lounging in his seat like the hall belonged to him.
Dark curls slightly tousled, uniform tie loose in that deliberate way that screamed I don’t give a fuck, and an expression that could freeze fire.
He hadn’t looked your way once. He never did, not really.
You didn’t care.
Grabbing a fresh apple from the bowl, you wove through the crowd with the easy confidence of someone who had done this a hundred times.
A few Hufflepuffs shot you curious glances, saying “again?” but you just smiled brightly and kept going. You weren’t afraid of him. Never had been. There was something beneath that cold exterior, something sharp and broken and real.
“Morning, Mattheo,” you said cheerfully, sliding into the empty seat beside him without waiting for an invitation. You placed the apple in front of him, perfectly polished. “They had the good ones today. Thought you might want it before Theo hogs them all.”
Mattheo didn’t even glance up from his plate. “Didn’t ask for it, Hufflepuff.”
His voice was low, edged with that familiar bite. Sharp tongued as ever.
Around you, his friends, Draco, Blaise, Theo, and Pansy exchanged looks. Theo smirked into his pumpkin juice.
You shrugged, undeterred, and reached for some toast. “You didn’t have to. You skipped dinner yesterday. Figured you might be hungry.”
He finally looked at you then, dark eyes narrowing. “Stalking my eating habits now? Cute.” The sarcasm dripped like venom, but you just beamed at him, biting into your own toast.
Across the table, Pansy snorted. “Merlin, she’s at it again. Give it a rest, sweetheart. He’s not going to suddenly turn into Prince Charming because you bring him fruit.”
“I’m not expecting charming,” you replied lightly, defending yourself with a small laugh. “Just making sure he doesn’t starve while plotting world domination or whatever it is you lot do before Potions.”
Draco raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. “Bold for a Puff. Most of your house would’ve run by now.”
You met his gaze steadily. “Most of my house doesn’t see the point in running from someone who hasn’t actually done anything to them.” Your eyes flicked back to Mattheo. “Besides, I like sitting here.”
Mattheo’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing. He took the apple though after a long pause and bit into it with more force than necessary.
You counted that as a win.
This had become routine. Weeks, maybe months now, of you orbiting him like a persistent moon.
Good mornings in the corridors, even when he responded with nothing but a grunt or a cutting remark about your “annoying cheerfulness.”
Little things: fixing the strap on his bag when it broke during Transfiguration, saving him a seat in the library (which he ignored and sat somewhere else, only for you to move anyway), defending him when some Gryffindor idiot muttered “Death Eater spawn” loud enough for the hall to hear.
His friends had started teasing you mercilessly at first.
“Another lap around the Riddle fan club?” Blaise had drawled one evening in the Slytherin common room after you’d somehow ended up there (Theo had dragged you along, claiming you were “funny” and “harmless”).
“Careful, love,” Pansy had added with a wicked grin. “He bites.”
You’d just shrugged and settled onto the couch like you belonged. “I’m not scared of teeth.”
Over time, the teasing softened. You laughed at their jokes, bantered back, helped Theo with Charms homework, and even managed to get Draco to admit your taste in Quidditch teams wasn’t completely abysmal.
You became part of the group, almost by accident. They got used to your presence. Mattheo… tolerated it.
Or at least, that’s what he showed.
Lunch was more of the same. You slipped into the seat beside him again, ignoring the way Lorenzo Berkshire raised his eyebrows across the table.
“Saved you the last treacle tart,” you whispered, sliding the plate over. “I know they’re your favorite.”
Mattheo exhaled sharply through his nose. “You keeping a bloody list or something?”
“Maybe.” You grinned, unbothered. “Someone has to notice these things.”
Theo kicked Mattheo under the table. “Mate, she’s literally handing you desserts on a silver platter and you’re acting like she hexed you.”
“Shut it, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, dangerous. But his hand closed around the fork anyway.
You chatted easily with the others, Pansy about the latest fashion disaster in the common room, Blaise about the upcoming match, Draco about some pureblood nonsense you mostly tuned out.
Every so often you’d glance at Mattheo, offering a comment or a small smile. He rarely responded with more than a grunt or a sarcastic jab.
He never spoke to you nicely. Not once.
Yet you kept showing up. After classes, in the corridors “How was Arithmancy?” even when he brushed past you with a muttered “Don’t you have badgers to hug?”
You sat with the Slytherins at dinner, laughing when they roasted each other, fitting in like a bright patch on dark fabric.
His friends noticed.
One evening in the Slytherin dungeons, after you’d left (having fixed a rip in Mattheo’s robes with a quick charm and a cheerful “See you tomorrow!”), Theo finally snapped.
“You’re a fucking idiot, Riddle.”
Mattheo leaned back in his chair by the fire, nursing a glass of firewhisky. “Problem?”
Blaise chuckled. “She does more for you in a day than half the girls throwing themselves at you ever have. Brings you food, defends your sorry arse, actually listens when you’re in one of your moods”
“I don’t have moods,” Mattheo cut in coldly.
Mattheo’s eyes darkened. “She’s just another girl hovering. They all do it eventually. Looking for the thrill of the ‘dark’ prince or whatever bollocks they tell themselves.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “She’s not looking for thrill, you dense git. She likes you. Properly. And she’s not scared off by your award winning personality.”
“She’s a Hufflepuff,” Mattheo said dismissively, though his grip on the glass tightened. “Too soft. Too… good. She’ll get tired of it.”
Theo laughed. “She’s been at it for months. Sat through your worst days. Defended you to McGonagall when you got detention for that stunt with the Gryffindors. And you still treat her like dirt.”
He was possessive by nature, territorial. But admitting she mattered? That was weakness. And Mattheo Riddle didn’t do weakness.
“She’s nothing,” he said finally, voice low and sharp. “Just background noise.”
His friends exchanged glances. They knew better. They saw the way his eyes followed her when she left the room, the subtle shift when she sat beside him. The hidden softness he buried under sarcasm and ice.
You, meanwhile, walked back toward the Hufflepuff basement with a small, satisfied smile. He’d eaten the tart. He’d let you sit there. Progress, in your book.
You weren’t naive. You knew he was cold, conflicted, carrying shadows most people couldn’t imagine. But you saw the good, buried, fighting to surface. You weren’t afraid. And you weren’t going anywhere.
Mattheo could pretend to tolerate you all he wanted.
You’d keep showing up until he couldn’t pretend anymore.
———
It was a rainy Thursday when things shifted, just a little.
You were waiting outside the Potions dungeon after class, two umbrellas tucked under your arm (one borrowed from the Hufflepuff common room because you knew he’d “forgotten” his again).
Students streamed past, giving you odd looks. A group of Ravenclaws whispered behind their hands.
Mattheo emerged last, collar up, expression stormy. His eyes landed on you and narrowed.
“Don’t,” he said before you could speak, brushing past.
You fell into step beside him anyway, unfurling one umbrella and holding it over both of you. “It’s pouring. You’ll catch a cold and then complain about it for a week.”
“I don’t complain.” His voice was clipped. “And I don’t need a bloody babysitter.”
“Too bad. I’m self appointed.” You smiled up at him, rain pattering loudly against the fabric. He didn’t take the umbrella from you, but he also didn’t speed up to leave you behind. Small victories.
Theo and Blaise caught up, grinning like idiots.
“Look at that,” Theo drawled. “Domestic already. Riddle, you gonna let her carry your books next?”
Mattheo shot him a withering glare. “Fuck off.”
You laughed softly. “I already did his Arithmancy notes last week when he was… occupied.” You didn’t mention the detention he’d earned for hexing a seventh year who’d called him a monster in the corridor. You’d simply copied the notes in your neatest handwriting and left them on his usual spot in the library.
Blaise raised an eyebrow. “See? She’s useful. Unlike you when you’re brooding.”
Mattheo’s jaw flexed. He said nothing the rest of the walk.
Dinner that evening brought new company.
A tall Gryffindor boy, Cedric’s old friend, Marcus something, had wandered over to the Slytherin table, apparently on some inter house project nonsense. He stopped right beside you, flashing a bright, easy smile.
“Hey, I’ve seen you around. You’re the Hufflepuff who talks to this lot without running. Impressive.” His eyes lingered. “We’re having a study group in the library tomorrow. Potions theory. You seem like you know your stuff. Want to join?”
You felt Mattheo stiffen beside you before you even answered.
“That’s sweet,” you said politely, “but I usually study with these guys. Thanks though.”
Marcus didn’t take the hint immediately. “Come on, it’ll be fun. Less… intense.” He glanced at Mattheo meaningfully.
You opened your mouth to respond, but Mattheo beat you to it.
“She said no.” His voice was low, dangerous, laced with that dark charisma that made people listen. He didn’t even look up from his plate, but the temperature around the table seemed to drop. “Run along, Gryffindor.”
Marcus hesitated, then shrugged with a nervous laugh. “Alright, Riddle. Didn’t mean to step on toes.” He left.
Silence fell for half a second before Pansy cackled. “Territorial much?”
“I’m eating,” Mattheo muttered. “Don’t need distractions.”
You turned to him, heart doing a small flip at the possessiveness he’d just shown, even if it was wrapped in irritation. “You didn’t have to do that. I could’ve handled it.”
“Clearly.” His sarcasm was sharp. “You were about to agree.”
“I wasn’t.” You poked his arm lightly. He didn’t pull away. “I like sitting with you lot. Even when you’re grumpy.”
Draco snorted into his goblet. “Grumpy. That’s one word for it.”
The real crack appeared two days later.
It was late evening in the Slytherin common room. You’d been dragged there again, this time by Pansy, who wanted your opinion on a dress for the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend.
You ended up staying, curled up on the couch with a book while the boys played a lazy game of Exploding Snap nearby.
Mattheo was in one of his moods. Silent, sharp edged, staring into the fire like it had personally offended him. You knew the signs by now something from his past, or a letter from home, or just the weight of his own name pressing down.
You stood up quietly and disappeared toward the dorms corridor (Pansy had shown you where the spare blankets were kept weeks ago). When you returned, you draped a slightly warmer one over his shoulders without a word.
He tensed. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“You looked cold.” You sat back down beside him, closer than usual. “And you always steal the good blanket when we’re down here.”
“I don’t steal…..” He stopped, exhaling through his nose. For once, he didn’t shrug the blanket off. His fingers curled into the fabric anyway.
Theo watched the exchange with open amusement. Later, when you stepped away to grab drinks for everyone, he leaned toward Mattheo.
“You know she’s in love with you, right? Properly. Not the silly crush shit.”
Mattheo’s eyes flicked toward your retreating figure. “She’s delusional.”
“Or you’re blind,” Blaise added quietly. “She defends you to teachers, to randoms in the hall, even to her own housemates who think she’s lost her mind. Brings you food, fixes your shit, sits with you even when you’re a complete bastard to her. And you still act like she’s nothing.”
“Because she is nothing,” Mattheo snapped, voice low and venomous. But his eyes betrayed him,they followed you as you laughed at something Pansy said across the room.
“She’ll wise up eventually. Get tired of playing saint to the villain.”
Draco shook his head. “You keep telling yourself that, mate. But the way you nearly hexed that Gryffindor for just talking to her? That wasn’t nothing.”
Mattheo didn’t reply. Inside, the conflict raged. You made things easier, yes. Mornings were less bleak with your stupid cheerful “good morning” and perfectly ripe apples. His robes didn’t fall apart. He hadn’t missed meals. And the way you looked at him… like he was worth saving… it terrified him. Because if he let you in, if he admitted how much he’d come to expect your presence, then you became leverage.
A weakness.
And people like him didn’t get to keep soft, bright things without breaking them.
He was possessive. The thought of you smiling at someone else like you smiled at him made magic crackle at his fingertips. Territorial. He wanted you close but he refused to give you anything back. It wasn’t fair. He knew that. He just didn’t care.
Or so he told himself.
The next morning you were there again, sliding into your usual seat with a bright, “Good morning, Mattheo,” and placing a small vial beside his plate.
“Pepperup Potion,” you explained before he could sneer. “Just in case. You sounded a bit off last night.”
He stared at the vial, then at you. Something in his chest twisted uncomfortably, warm, annoying.
“You’re exhausting,” he said flatly. But he took the vial. Tucked it into his robe pocket like it was nothing.
You just grinned. “You’re welcome.”
Across the table, his friends shared knowing looks. They were done watching him self destruct in slow motion.
One of these days, Mattheo Riddle was going to have to face the fact that the persistent Hufflepuff had already wormed her way past every wall he’d built.
And when that happened… well. Even he wouldn’t be able to pretend anymore.
———
Slytherin party,
The common room pulsed with music and low green light, the party in full swing after Slytherin’s narrow win over Ravenclaw.
Music thrummed from enchanted speakers, firewhisky flowed freely, and clusters of students laughed too loudly, danced too close, and forgot for one night about OWLs, NEWTs, and the shadows hanging over the wizarding world.
You’d shown up with Pansy, who had insisted on you wearing a simple but flattering black dress she’d “borrowed” from somewhere.
“Blend in for once, Puff,” she’d teased. You’d laughed and gone along with it. By now, no one batted an eye when you appeared in Slytherin territory. You were one of them. Sort of.
Mattheo sat in his usual spot on the large leather couch near the fireplace, legs spread, one arm draped lazily over the backrest.
A glass of firewhisky dangled from his fingers. His expression was the same half bored, half dangerous mask he wore most days.
You had claimed the spot beside him earlier, but the crowd had shifted. Now a Slytherin girl, sixth year, long dark hair, sharp cheekbones and sharper ambition had taken your place.
Literally. She was practically in his lap, one hand trailing down his chest, laughing breathily at something he hadn’t even said.
“Mattheo,” she purred, loud enough for you to hear over the music, “you really are the most interesting one here. All that mystery… I bet I could make you smile if you let me try.”
She leaned in closer, lips brushing his ear.
Mattheo didn’t push her away. He also didn’t pull her closer. He simply took a slow sip of his drink, eyes distant, like she was background noise. No smirk, no flirtation, no interest. Just cold tolerance.
You stood a few feet away, watching for a moment. A small sigh escaped you, not dramatic, not heartbroken, just… tired.
You knew this game. Girls threw themselves at him constantly. The dark aura, the dangerous reputation, the undeniable charisma, he attracted them like moths to a cursed flame. And he usually let them hover until they got bored.
You turned away and spotted Theo leaning against a stone pillar, nursing his own drink and watching the scene with clear amusement.
“Hey, Theo,” you said brightly, walking over and bumping his shoulder. “Think we’ll see another Exploding Snap disaster tonight, or has Lorenzo learned his lesson?”
Theo grinned down at you, glad for the distraction. “Doubt it. He’s already three drinks in and eyeing that pack of cards like an idiot. You good?” His eyes flicked meaningfully toward the couch.
You shrugged, leaning beside him. “I’m fine. She’s bold, I’ll give her that. Think she’ll last longer than the last one who tried?”
Theo chuckled. “Nah. He’s not even pretending tonight. Look at his face, pure ice. Poor girl doesn’t realize she’s talking to a statue.”
You laughed softly, genuine and light. Talking with Theo was easy. He had become a real friend over the past weeks, someone who actually listened when you rambled about Herbology or the latest book you’d read.
“I was going to ask Mattheo if he wanted to dance later, but… maybe not. He looks like he’d rather hex the music.”
Theo raised an eyebrow, studying you. “You’re really not bothered by that?” He nodded toward the girl, who was now tracing patterns on Mattheo’s arm while he stared into the fire.
You took a sip of your butterbeer. “Bothered? A little. But I’m not going to compete by climbing all over him. That’s not me.” Your voice stayed calm, sweet but honest. “He knows I’m here. If he wants me to leave, he can say it. He never does.”
Theo shook his head, half laughing. “You’re something else, you know that? Most girls would be over there hexing her by now. Or crying in the corner.”
You smiled, eyes drifting back to Mattheo despite yourself. “I’m not scared of him, or of this.” You gestured vaguely at the party. “Besides, I like talking to you lot. Even when he’s being… himself.”
Mattheo’s gaze had found you.
Even from across the room, even while the dark-haired girl whispered something in his ear, his eyes locked onto you and Theo. His jaw tightened. The girl’s hand slid higher on his thigh and he shifted away just slightly but didn’t stop her. His fingers flexed around his glass until his knuckles paled.
He didn’t like it.
Not the girl. Her touch felt like nothing, irrelevant, annoying. But you standing there, laughing with Theo, looking perfectly at ease in his common room, in his world… that twisted something ugly and possessive in his chest.
You were supposed to be orbiting him. Not chatting and smiling at Nott like it was the most natural thing.
Yet he said nothing. Did nothing. Just watched, brooding.
Later, the girl finally gave up with a dramatic huff and stalked off to find easier prey. Mattheo didn’t even watch her leave.
You eventually wandered back, sliding onto the couch beside him now that the seat was free. Your shoulder brushed his.
“Enjoying the party?” you asked lightly, offering him a fresh drink you’d grabbed on the way.
Mattheo took it without thanks, setting his empty one aside. “It’s loud,” he said flatly. His eyes flicked to you, scanning your face like he was searching for cracks. “You and Nott seemed cozy.”
There it was the sharp edge. Not quite jealousy admitted, but close.
You tilted your head, smiling softly. “Theo’s funny. We were just talking about how terrible Lorenzo is at cards.” You paused, then added, “You could’ve joined us. Or told that girl to give you space if she was bothering you.”
He scoffed, leaning back. “Didn’t need to. Not interested.” His voice dropped, sarcastic and low. “Unlike some people, I don’t need constant attention to feel important, Hufflepuff.”
You didn’t flinch. “Good. Because I wasn’t planning on giving her any competition.” You reached over and straightened his already loose tie with gentle fingers, a small habitual gesture.
“You looked bored. Thought maybe you’d want actual company instead of… whatever that was.”
Mattheo stared at your hands on his tie, then at your face. The conflict raged behind his eyes, wanting to snap at you, push you away, and simultaneously wanting to pull you closer so no one else could even look at you the wrong way. He settled for his usual defense.
“You’re too much,” he muttered, but he didn’t move away from your touch.
———
Weekend ends, and the new week already started badly for Mattheo.
A letter from his father’s old circle had arrived that morning cryptic, demanding, laced with expectations he wanted nothing to do with but couldn’t fully escape. Combined with a brutal detention from Snape and losing a Quidditch strategy argument to Draco, his mood was blacker than the dungeons.
The kind of day where the shadows around him felt heavier, and everyone with sense stayed out of his way.
Everyone except you.
You had noticed immediately during breakfast. His shoulders were tense, jaw locked, eyes darker than usual.
Still, you slid into your usual seat beside him with a gentle smile, placing a steaming cup of his favorite black coffee (extra strong) in front of him.
“Morning, Mattheo,” you said softly. “Rough night? I brought you….”
“Enough.”
His voice cracked like a whip. Louder and sharper than he’d ever been with you. The entire Slytherin table went quiet.
You blinked, hand still hovering near the cup. “I just thought….”
Mattheo turned to you fully, eyes blazing with barely contained fury and exhaustion. “You thought what? That your pathetic little acts of kindness would fix anything? That I want you here every single fucking day breathing down my neck like some lovesick puppy?”
The words cut deep. His friends froze.
“Mattheo…” Theo started quietly.
“No.” Mattheo didn’t even look at him. His gaze stayed locked on you, cold and unrelenting.
“I’m done with this. Done with you hovering, done with the apples and the notes and the stupid blankets and the defending me like I’m some broken charity case. Leave me and my group alone. Go back to your Hufflepuff flowers and mind your own business for once.”
The silence was suffocating.
You stared at him for a long second, heart twisting painfully in your chest. Your eyes stung, but you refused to cry in front of them. Not here. Instead, you swallowed hard and stood up slowly.
“Sorry,” you mumbled, voice small but steady. “I’ll leave.”
You turned and walked away without another word, head high even as your hands trembled at your sides. The Great Hall felt endless. A few people whispered, but you didn’t look back.
Mattheo didn’t watch you go. He gripped his fork until it bent, then shoved his plate away and stormed out. His friends exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing to him. Not yet.
Three days passed.
You kept your word. No more good mornings in the corridor. No more saving seats. No more sitting at the Slytherin table.
You ate with your housemates, smiled politely when people asked what happened, and threw yourself into Herbology and helping in the kitchens, anything to stay busy.
You missed them. You missed him. But you respected his wishes. If he wanted space, you’d give it to him, even if it hurt.
The Slytherin group felt the absence immediately.
Lunch on day one was too quiet. No one to laugh at Lorenzo’s terrible jokes or argue Quidditch with Draco. No soft voice reminding them about upcoming assignments.
By day two, Pansy was scowling at everything. “This is ridiculous. The table feels empty.”
Theo kept glancing toward the Hufflepuff table where you sat, surrounded by your housemates but somehow looking… dimmer. Less bright.
Day three, Blaise finally said it out loud in the common room: “She’s makes this lot tolerable. Can we bring her back”
Mattheo was there, slouched in his usual chair by the fire, pretending not to listen.
He hadn’t spoken much in three days. His mood hadn’t improved, in fact, it had soured further. The little things you used to handle were piling up. His bag strap had broken again. He’d missed dinner once because no one reminded him. The common room felt colder without your occasional presence.
He told himself it was better this way. Cleaner. No weaknesses.
His friends disagreed.
On the evening of the fourth day, the group made their move.
Pansy and Theo cornered you after Charms class, blocking your path to the Hufflepuff basement with determined expressions.
“You’re coming with us,” Pansy declared, linking her arm through yours.
You blinked in surprise. “Pansy, I can’t. He said…”
“He’s an idiot,” Theo cut in. “A miserable idiot. The common room has been dead without you. Draco’s even more unbearable. Lorenzo keeps losing at cards because no one’s betting against him properly. Come on. Just for a bit.”
You hesitated, biting your lip. “I don’t want to make things worse.”
Blaise appeared behind them, smirking. “Too late for that. Mattheo’s been brooding like the Dark Lord himself since you left. We miss you, love. Properly.”
After a few more minutes of gentle insistence (and Pansy threatening to drag you), you gave in. You let them lead you down to the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering the entire way.
And there, in his usual spot by the fireplace, sat Mattheo.
He looked up when the portrait hole opened. His eyes landed on you immediately, widening for half a second before the guarded mask slammed back into place. He said nothing.
The others moved casually, like this was normal. Pansy pulled you toward the couch. Theo dropped into the seat across from Mattheo with a pointed look.
“Look who we found,” Theo announced lightly. “Our favorite Hufflepuff.”
You stood awkwardly for a moment, offering a small, uncertain smile to the group. “Hi.”
Draco nodded at you, almost relieved. “About time. The silence was getting pathetic.”
You sat down carefully, not beside Mattheo this time, but on the opposite end of the large couch, giving him the space he’d demanded. Your hands twisted in your lap. You didn’t look directly at him, but you could feel his stare burning into the side of your face.
The conversation started slowly, Pansy complaining about homework, Blaise teasing Lorenzo, but it gradually warmed up. You laughed softly at one of Theo’s jokes, the sound familiar and bright again. For the first time in days, the common room felt alive.
Mattheo remained silent, watching you from the shadows of his seat. His jaw was tight, fingers drumming restlessly on the armrest. The conflict was clear in his eyes, the same storm you’d always seen, only sharper now. He’d told you to leave. You had. And now that you were back (because of them), the relief mixing with his anger and possessiveness was making his chest feel too tight.
He still didn’t speak to you.
Laughter echoed off the stone walls as Lorenzo dramatically retold his latest failed attempt at asking out a Ravenclaw, complete with sound effects.
Pansy was curled up beside you on the couch, showing you fabric swatches for some upcoming event, while Theo kept sliding in clever quips that made everyone groan or laugh.
You smiled and participated. You really did. You complimented Pansy’s choices, teased Lorenzo right back, and even debated Quidditch tactics with Draco when he dragged you into it. It felt good to be back among them.
They had become real friends, and their obvious relief at having you there eased some of the ache in your chest.
But with Mattheo… it was different now.
You stayed on the far end of the couch. You didn’t slide closer like you used to. You didn’t offer him the fresh drink Blaise had passed around. You didn’t reach over to fix the cuff of his sleeve when it rode up.
Every time your eyes accidentally met his, you gave a small, polite nod and looked away again. Careful. Guarded. Not cold, you couldn’t quite manage that but no longer shining that bright, effortless warmth directly at him.
Mattheo noticed.
He sat in his usual chair, legs stretched out, nursing the same glass of firewhisky he’d barely touched. His dark eyes followed your every movement. The way you laughed freely with Theo. The way you leaned into Pansy’s side comfortably. The way you existed in his space without orbiting him like before.
It irritated him more than he wanted to admit.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Pansy murmured to you at one point, low enough that only you could hear. Her eyes flicked toward Mattheo. “Still sore about what the idiot said?”
You shrugged lightly, tracing a pattern on the couch leather with your finger. “I’m here for you guys. Not… not to push anything. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t want the extra stuff from me. I’m respecting that.”
Pansy rolled her eyes. “He’s a dramatic prick. He didn’t mean half of it.”
“Maybe.” You offered her a small smile. “But I’m not risking it again. Not right now.”
Mattheo’s grip tightened on his glass. He’d heard enough.
When Theo stood up to grab more drinks and you naturally followed to help him carry them back, Mattheo’s voice cut through the air sharp, sarcastic, aimed straight at you.
“Careful, Hufflepuff. Wouldn’t want you overexerting yourself playing servant again.”
You paused, holding two glasses steadily. The group quieted a little. You met his gaze evenly this time, no flinch, but no smile either.
“I’m just helping a friend, Mattheo,” you said softly. Calm. Not defensive. “No big gestures. No hovering.”
You set the drinks down and returned to your spot without another word. No apple. No blanket. No gentle check in about his clearly still terrible mood.
The silence stretched for a beat too long.
Theo cleared his throat. “Smooth, mate. Really winning her back with that one.”
“Shut up, Nott.” Mattheo’s tone was flat, but his eyes stayed on you. That possessive streak was flaring hot under his skin. You were here, in his common room, surrounded by his friends, yet you were keeping him at arm’s length. It felt wrong.
The next few days followed the same careful pattern.
You sat with the group at meals again, but not directly beside Mattheo. You chose seats between Pansy and Blaise, or across from Theo.
You still defended the group when outsiders made snide comments, your Hufflepuff loyalty ran deep but you no longer singled Mattheo out.
No more personal good mornings whispered just to him. No more saving his favorite desserts. You were warm with everyone else, bright and kind like always.
With him, you were… polite.
“Pass the salt, please?” you’d asked at dinner the next evening, voice neutral when your eyes met his.
He’d slid it over without a word, jaw clenched so tight it ached.
Later in the common room, when you’d laughed at one of Draco’s rare jokes and bumped knees with Theo accidentally, Mattheo had snapped at Lorenzo over nothing, magic crackling faintly at his fingertips.
His friends saw it all.
“You’re an absolute bellend,” Blaise told him bluntly one night after you’d left for curfew (earlier than usual, another new habit). “She’s giving you exactly what you asked for and you look like you want to burn the castle down.”
Mattheo leaned back, staring at the dying fire. “She’s acting like I’m a stranger.”
Draco snorted. “You told her to leave you alone. Loudly. In front of the entire hall. What did you expect? Eternal devotion on command?”
“I expected….” Mattheo stopped himself, running a hand through his messy curls.
He didn’t know what he expected. He’d wanted space, wanted the annoying persistence gone. But now the absence of her specific light left everything feeling flat. The little comforts he’d pretended not to notice were glaringly missing. And worse, seeing her still smiling, still caring, but redirecting all of it away from him… it stirred something ugly and jealous and needy he refused to name.
He was emotionally conflicted on the best of days. This was torture.
A few nights later, the group was studying (or pretending to) in the common room. You were helping Pansy with her Transfiguration essay, heads bent together, your neat handwriting filling the page. Mattheo sat nearby, book open but unread.
You felt his stare again. Heavy. Burning.
When Pansy got up to fetch another book, leaving the two of you momentarily semi-alone, you glanced up. His eyes didn’t waver.
You offered a small, cautious smile. “Need help with anything? The essay’s brutal this week.”
Mattheo’s response was instinct sharp-tongued and defensive. “Don’t start that again.”
You closed your ink bottle slowly, expression softening but staying reserved. “I’m not starting anything. Just offering as a friend. Like I do for the others.”
The distinction stung more than he cared to admit.
He wanted to snap again. Push harder. But the words caught in his throat when he saw the careful walls behind your eyes the way you were protecting yourself now, even while sitting in his world.
You waited a beat longer, then turned back to your own work when he stayed silent.
Mattheo Riddle watched you, the same storm raging behind his guarded expression. He was possessive. Territorial. And right now, the girl who had always chosen him was choosing distance, even while staying close to everyone else.
It was driving him mad.
The common room was quieter tonight, the fire crackling softly as most students had retreated to dorms or the library for last minute revisions. Only the core group remained scattered across the couches and armchairs, Pansy flipping through a magazine, Theo and Blaise arguing over chess moves, Draco reading with a bored expression, and Lorenzo half asleep.
You had been sitting with Pansy again, but something had shifted in you. You’d watched Mattheo. Really watched him. The way his eyes tracked you when he thought no one noticed.
The tighter set of his jaw whenever you laughed with the others. The restless tapping of his fingers. He was regretting it. You could see it, the conflict, the stubborn pride warring with whatever softer thing lived under all that armor. He wanted you close again. He just didn’t know how to say it.
Time to test the theory.
You stood up casually, stretching, and moved across the room. Instead of your careful distance, you dropped down on the couch right beside Mattheo, close enough that your thigh pressed lightly against his. The same spot you used to claim every night before the blow up.
Mattheo tensed instantly, dark eyes snapping to you.
You didn’t look at him right away. You simply leaned forward, grabbing a spare quill from the low table and twirling it between your fingers like nothing had changed. “Theo, pass me that book on curses? I want to check something for Pansy’s essay.”
Theo raised an eyebrow but tossed it over with a knowing smirk.
As you settled back, your shoulder brushed Mattheo’s. You felt the sharp inhale he tried to hide.
He lasted maybe thirty seconds.
“What do you think you’re doing?” The words came out harsher than he probably intended, laced with that unwilling venom. “Decided to test how much shit I’ll take before I snap again, Hufflepuff?”
You turned your head slowly, meeting his gaze. There was no flinch in your eyes, only quiet understanding.
You saw it: the regret flickering behind the ice, the way his hand twitched like he wanted to reach out but refused to let himself.
“I’m just sitting here,” you said softly, voice even and sweet. “Like I used to. You haven’t told me to move.”
Mattheo’s jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jump. He tried again, the meanness spilling out despite himself, like a defense mechanism he couldn’t turn off.
“Maybe I shouldn’t have to. Thought I made it clear you’re exhausting. Always there, always fixing things no one asked you to fix. Find someone else to play hero for.”
The words stung, but you saw straight through them. His eyes betrayed him, lingering on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on your hand resting near his leg. He wasn’t pushing you away physically. He wasn’t standing up.
He was just… lashing out, the same way a wounded animal snaps at the hand trying to help.
You smiled. Small. Knowing. “You don’t mean that.”
He scoffed, looking away into the fire. “Don’t tell me what I mean.”
But he still didn’t move.
Emboldened, you shifted even closer, tucking your legs under you so your knee rested against his thigh. You reached over and gently tugged the loose thread on his sleeve that had been bothering you for days, something you would’ve fixed without thinking weeks ago. He froze under your touch but didn’t pull back.
“Mattheo,” you murmured, low enough that the others pretended not to hear, “you can keep saying mean things if it makes you feel better. I’m not leaving this time unless you really want me to. And I don’t think you do.”
His breathing hitched. For a moment, the guarded mask cracked completely. Something raw and conflicted flashed across his face, possessiveness, relief, anger at himself, that hidden softness he buried so deep.
His hand lifted halfway, like he might touch your arm, then dropped back down.
“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath. Then louder, sharper, still failing at kindness “You’re going to regret sticking around when I inevitably ruin whatever this is.”
You leaned your head lightly against his shoulder for just a second, testing, pushing, offering. “Maybe. But I’m still here.”
He didn’t shrug you off. Didn’t stand up. Didn’t tell the group to kick you out.
Instead, after a long, heavy silence, his body relaxed, just a fraction, against yours. His arm stayed draped along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. Territorial. Close. Accepting.
Pansy caught your eye across the room and hid a triumphant grin behind her magazine. Theo didn’t even bother hiding his smirk as he moved a chess piece.
Mattheo still hadn’t spoken to you nicely. Not really.
But he wasn’t pushing you away anymore.
Your theory had been right. He regretted it. He wanted you back in his orbit closer than before, even if his sharp tongue hadn’t caught up to that truth yet.
You’d rest your head against his shoulder for a moment here, brush his hand while passing a drink there. He tolerated it all with his usual gruff silence and occasional sharp remark, but the tension rolling off him was palpable.
His friends had had enough.
Pansy caught Theo’s eye across the room and gave the tiniest nod. The plan they made that morning was in motion.
“Truth or Dare,” Pansy announced suddenly, clapping her hands. “I’m bored out of my mind and someone needs to entertain me.”
Lorenzo perked up immediately. Draco rolled his eyes but didn’t protest. Blaise smirked like he already knew where this was going.
Mattheo narrowed his eyes but said nothing, he rarely backed down from a challenge, even a stupid one.
You smiled softly. “I’m in.”
The game started innocently enough. Lorenzo admitted to stealing Pansy’s favourite lipstick.
Draco chose dare and had to charm his eyebrows pink for the next ten minutes.
Theo got asked about his latest failed hookup and laughed it off.
Then Pansy turned her sharp gaze on you.
“Truth or Dare, darling?”
You felt the shift in the air. Mattheo’s posture stiffened beside you.
“Dare,” you said, because backing down in front of this group had never been your style.
Pansy’s smile turned wicked. “I dare you to kiss Theo. Proper kiss. Ten seconds.”
The room went still.
Theo raised an eyebrow, clearly in on it, but kept his expression playful. “Only if she wants to. I’m not above being used for a good cause.”
You glanced sideways at Mattheo. His hand had curled into a fist on the armrest, knuckles white. His jaw was locked so tightly it looked painful. Dark eyes burned holes into Theo, then flicked to you, possessive, stormy, conflicted.
Your theory had been right. He was cracking.
You leaned forward slowly, giving Mattheo every chance to say something. He didn’t. He just watched, breathing shallow.
You turned to Theo, cupped his cheek lightly, and pressed your lips to his. It was soft, brief, exactly ten seconds. Theo kissed back gently, more performative than anything, and pulled away with a dramatic sigh.
“Not bad, Puff,” he teased, winking.
You sat back, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, heart racing for an entirely different reason. You didn’t look at Mattheo immediately.
The crack appeared.
Mattheo let out a low, dangerous sound, almost a growl. Magic crackled faintly around him, making the fire flare for a second.
“Enough,” he said sharply, voice dripping with venom. “This game is fucking stupid.”
Pansy feigned innocence. “Jealous, Riddle?”
“I’m not jealous of Nott getting pity kisses,” he snapped, the words unwilling and too quick.
His eyes finally met yours raw, territorial, and something deeper. “She can kiss whoever the hell she wants.”
But he looked like he wanted to hex Theo into next week.
You saw the tiny fracture in his restraint. The way his hand twitched like he wanted to pull you into his lap and erase what just happened. The hidden softness bleeding through the anger. He cared. Deeply. He just wouldn’t admit it yet.
The game continued awkwardly for a few more rounds before dying out.
As people started heading to bed or pretending to study, the group quietly regrouped near the fireplace once you’d stepped away to grab water.
“Close,” Theo muttered, rubbing his jaw. “Did you see his face? He nearly lost it.”
“Not enough,” Draco said. “He’s still too stubborn. One little kiss isn’t cracking that reinforced concrete he calls emotional walls.”
Pansy crossed her arms. “New plan then. We need to push harder. Something that forces him to choose publicly. Maybe Hogsmeade this weekend. We get her to ‘casually’ flirt with someone else. Or we set up a situation where she has to be alone with one of us and see how long it takes before he drags her back.”
Blaise chuckled darkly. “Or we make him think she’s actually moving on. He’s possessive as hell. If he believes he might lose her for real…”
Theo glanced over at Mattheo, who was now staring into the fire like it had personally betrayed him. “He’s already regretting everything. We just need one more push and that restraint of his is dead.”
They all looked toward you as you walked back, none the wiser to their scheming.
Mattheo’s eyes followed you the entire way, dark and intense. The crack was there. Now they just had to widen it until he had no choice but to admit what everyone else already knew.
———
The Hogsmeade weekend arrived under a crisp, clear sky the first proper snow dusting the rooftops like powdered sugar.
Students poured out of the castle gates in excited clusters, scarves wrapped high and pockets jingling with allowance money.
The Slytherin group had claimed their usual spot near the Shrieking Shack path for pre butterbeer strategy, but today their energy was sharper, purposeful.
The new plan was simple and ruthless : push Mattheo until his restraint shattered completely.
Pansy had looped her arm through yours as you all walked down the snowy path. “Stick close to me at first,” she whispered, lips barely moving. “Then ‘accidentally’ wander off with Theo or Blaise when we reach the village. We’ll make it look natural.”
You glanced at her, then at Mattheo walking a few steps ahead, hands in his coat pockets, expression unreadable. “You’re really doing this?”
Theo fell into step beside you, grinning. “He needs it. The kiss barely made him twitch. Time to light a proper fire under his arse.”
You exhaled, a mix of nerves and reluctant amusement fluttering in your chest.
Part of you still felt the sting from his harsh words days ago, but another part, the one that saw every hidden crack in his armor, wanted him to finally admit what was so obvious to everyone else.
“Just… don’t go too far. I don’t actually want to hurt him.”
“Too late for that,” Blaise murmured from behind. “He’s been hurting himself plenty.”
Mattheo slowed slightly, eyes flicking back toward you. You offered him a small, neutral smile the same careful one you’d been giving him since returning to the group. He didn’t return it, but his gaze lingered.
The village was bustling. Honeydukes was packed, Zonko’s even louder. The group moved as one at first, weaving through the crowd.
You stayed near Mattheo out of habit, your shoulder occasionally brushing his in the narrow street. He didn’t pull away.
Inside the Three Broomsticks, you all claimed a large corner booth. Firewhisky for the boys, butterbeers for everyone. Conversation flowed easily until Pansy executed the first move.
“I need to check out that new robe shop,” she announced, standing up. “Come with me, Draco? I want a second opinion.”
Draco sighed but followed, shooting the rest of you a knowing look. Lorenzo tagged along “for snacks.” That left you, Mattheo, Theo, and Blaise.
You took a slow sip of butterbeer, then turned to Theo with a bright, deliberate smile. “Theo, didn’t you say there’s a new shipment of cursed artifacts at Dervish and Banges? I’ve been wanting to see that silver dagger you mentioned last week.”
Theo’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Absolutely. Let’s go before the good stuff disappears.” He stood and offered you his hand.
You took it without hesitation, letting him help you out of the booth. Your fingers lingered in his just a second longer than necessary. “Mattheo, Blaise, we’ll be back soon,” you said casually, like it was nothing.
Mattheo’s entire body went rigid. His glass hit the table harder than needed. “Since when do you give a fuck about cursed artifacts?”
You shrugged, still holding Theo’s hand. “Since Theo told me they’re fascinating. You know I like shiny, dangerous things.” Your tone was light, playful the same sweetness you used to direct only at him.
Theo tugged you gently toward the door. “We won’t be long, mate.”
Blaise stayed behind, nursing his drink and watching Mattheo like a hawk.
The snow crunched under your boots as you and Theo walked down the high street.
You didn’t go straight to Dervish and Banges. Instead, Theo led you on a slow, meandering route stopping at a stall selling enchanted jewelry, laughing loudly at your jokes, standing a little too close when showing you a necklace with a tiny snake charm.
“You’re enjoying this far too much,” you muttered, cheeks pink from the cold and the performance.
Theo grinned down at you. “It’s for the greater good. Look behind us, don’t turn too obviously.”
You risked a glance. Mattheo was stalking after you both, coat flapping open, expression thunderous. Blaise was a few paces behind him, failing to hide his amusement.
Your heart skipped. The plan was working.
Theo leaned in closer, pretending to examine the necklace around your neck, his fingers brushing your collarbone. “Smile at me like you mean it,” he whispered.
You did, soft, warm, the kind of smile that used to be reserved for Mattheo’s rare good moments. Theo laughed like you’d said something brilliant.
That was when Mattheo snapped.
“Having fun?” His voice cut through the snowy street like a blade. He stopped right beside you, eyes locked on where Theo’s hand still rested near your shoulder. The possessiveness rolled off him in waves, dark and electric. “Didn’t realize you two were suddenly so fucking cozy.”
Theo raised an innocent eyebrow. “Just showing her the artifacts, like she asked. Problem?”
Mattheo’s jaw worked. He looked at you, really looked.
There was that storm again : jealousy burning hot, restraint fraying at the edges, the unwilling mean streak fighting against something deeper.
“You’re really doing this?” he said to you, voice low and sharp. “Parading around with Nott after everything? Thought you were supposed to be the one who saw ‘good’ in people. Not throwing yourself at the first idiot who smiles at you.”
The words stung, but you saw right through them again. His hands were clenched. He was one breath away from dragging you away from Theo. The crack from the truth or dare game had widened significantly.
You stepped just a little closer to Theo, testing. “I’m not throwing myself at anyone, Mattheo. I’m just… spending time with friends. Like you told me to do. Remember? Stop hovering. Stop fixing things for you.”
Mattheo’s eyes darkened dangerously. For a second you thought he might actually hex Theo. Instead, he grabbed your wrist not painfully, but firm enough to feel possessive.
“We’re going back to the group,” he growled. “Now.”
Theo smirked. “Whatever you say, Riddle.”
You let Mattheo pull you along, his grip staying locked around your wrist the entire walk back to the Three Broomsticks.
He didn’t let go even when you reached the booth. He sat down and tugged you into the seat directly beside him closer than you’d been in weeks. His thigh pressed against yours. His arm draped along the back of the booth, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder like a silent claim.
He was still being an arse, muttering sarcastic comments under his breath and shooting Theo lethal glares, but he wasn’t pushing you away.
The plan had started. And it was already cracking him open.
Pansy and the others returned shortly after, taking in the scene with barely concealed triumph. Mattheo didn’t speak to you nicely. Not yet.
But the territorial hold on your wrist, the way his body angled toward yours like a shield, and the raw, conflicted heat in his eyes said more than his sharp tongue ever could.
The restraint was dying.
The rest of the Hogsmeade afternoon passed in a charged haze.
Mattheo didn’t release your wrist for a long time. Even after you all returned to the Three Broomsticks, his arm stayed slung possessively behind you on the booth, fingers occasionally brushing the back of your neck like a silent warning to everyone else.
He was still sharp tongued, snapping at Lorenzo for talking too loud, throwing barbed comments at Theo, but he kept you glued to his side.
The group wasn’t done yet.
As the sun began to dip and snow started falling heavier, they all gathered outside, Pansy with a calculated sigh “It’s getting late. We should head back, but some of us still need to pick up things from Honeydukes. Theo, you mentioned wanting more of that fizzing whizzbees?”
Theo caught on instantly. “Yeah, and I could use help carrying stuff.” He looked straight at you. “Come with me? You’ve got better taste in sweets than these lot.”
You felt Mattheo’s body coil like a spring beside you.
Before you could answer, you turned to him with that same soft, testing smile you’d been using. “Do you mind? I’ll be quick.”
His dark eyes flashed. The crack was widening dangerously. “Yes, I fucking mind,” he bit out, the words escaping before he could stop them. “You’re not going anywhere with him.”
They went quiet. Even Draco raised an eyebrow.
You tilted your head, pushing just a little more. “Why not? You’ve made it very clear I’m exhausting. That I should stop hovering around you. I’m just hanging out with friends, Mattheo. Like you wanted.”
That struck hard. Mattheo’s hand slid from the to your waist, gripping firmly. Territorial. Needy in a way he’d never allowed himself to show.
“You know that’s not ” He stopped, jaw clenching. The internal war was visible, the mean, guarded part of him fighting the part that had grown addicted to your presence, your care, your unwavering light.
Theo slowly, offering his hand again with an exaggerated grin. “Ready when you are, love.”
Pushing further Theo says “It’s just sweets, mate. Unless you’ve got a problem with that?”
Mattheo’s eyes darkened. He pulled you flush against him in one sharp movement, right there on the snowy street in front of everyone. No grand speech. No soft vulnerability. Just raw, irritated truth wrapped in his usual barbed tone.
“Yeah. I’ve got a fucking problem with it.” He glared at Theo, then looked down at you, jaw tight. “You win, alright? Happy now?”
You tilted your head, staying close but testing him one last time. “Win what?”
Mattheo let out a sharp, sarcastic breath, his breath visible in the cold air.
“This. You. The constant hovering and fixing and defending my sorry arse like I’m worth the effort.” His grip didn’t loosen. If anything, it became more territorial.
“I told you to fuck off because it was easier. Because you make shit… simpler. And I hate how much I’ve gotten used to it.”
He glanced at the group, who were all watching with barely hidden smirks, then back at you. His next words came out gruff, almost annoyed at himself for saying them.
“I don’t want you orbiting anyone else. Not Theo. Not some Gryffindor prick. No one. You’re annoying as hell and far too soft for someone like me, but I want you next to me. Where you’ve been. Stop with the careful polite bullshit you’ve been doing since I snapped at you. Just… be there again. Like before.”
It wasn’t flowery. It wasn’t sweet. It was Mattheo, reluctant, possessive, laced with sarcasm and that dark charisma.
He leaned in closer, voice dropping so only you could hear the rest. “And if Nott tries to hold your hand again, I’ll break his fingers. Clear enough for you, Hufflepuff?”
You smiled softly, reaching up to fix the collar of his coat like you used to. He didn’t stop you.
“Crystal clear,” you murmured.
Mattheo huffed, but he didn’t move away. Instead, he slung his arm firmly over your shoulders and started walking back toward the castle, keeping you tucked tightly against his side. The others fell in behind you, Pansy looking victorious and Theo chuckling quietly.
“Fucking finally,” Blaise muttered.
Mattheo shot them all a sharp look. “Say another word and I’ll hex every single one of you.”
But his hand stayed on your shoulder the entire walk back. No more pushing you away. No more pretending he didn’t care. He still wasn’t nice, not really, but the walls had come down in the only way Mattheo Riddle knew how.
And you were right where he wanted you.
———
The castle was quiet by the time you slipped through the Slytherin dungeons, heart hammering against your ribs.
It had been a long evening after Hogsmeade. Mattheo had kept you close the entire way back, but he hadn’t said much more after his gruff admission. The weight of everything still felt new and fragile.
You were nervous. Actually nervous, for the first time in months around him. Your fingers tightened around the rolled up essay you’d finished copying for him (Arithmancy, due tomorrow).
It was a small thing, an old habit, but it gave you an excuse to see him before bed.
You knocked softly on the door to his dorm. Theo and the others were still downstairs, giving the two of you space.
Mattheo opened it in a loose black shirt and trousers, hair messy like he’d already been running his hands through it. His dark eyes softened a fraction when they landed on you.
“Essay,” you mumbled, holding it out. “I know you hate this topic, so I made notes on the side.”
He took it without a word, stepping back to let you in.
The room smelled faintly of him, smoke, cedar, and that sharp edge of magic that always clung to him.
You lingered for half a second too long, then leaned in quickly, pressing a soft, shy kiss to his cheek before immediately turning to leave.
“Sorry, goodnight,” you whispered, cheeks burning as you tried to rush back out.
A flick of his wrist and the door slammed shut, locking with a sharp click.
You froze, back to him. “Mattheo, I’m sorry? I didn’t mean to push, I just”
He was on you in two strides.
His hands came up on either side of your head, caging you against the door with his body. The wood was cool behind your back; he was burning hot in front.
That stern, smug look was fixed on his face, dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction, one corner of his mouth curved in that dangerous half smirk.
“Do it again,” he ordered, voice low and rough.
You blinked up at him, still flustered. “I… what?”
“Kiss me again,” he repeated, leaning closer until his breath brushed your lips. “Properly this time. Don’t run.”
Your heart stuttered. The nervousness melted under the intensity of his gaze. You rose onto your toes and kissed his cheek once more, slower this time.
Then, gathering your courage, you turned your head and brushed your lips softly against his.
Mattheo made a low sound in his throat, half satisfaction, half relief. One hand left the door to slide into your hair, tilting your head as he deepened the kiss, claiming your mouth like he’d been waiting weeks to do it. Possessive. Hungry. But there was something almost gentle underneath the fire.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. The smug look had softened into something warmer, more private.
“You’re still an idiot for thinking I’d let you run after that,” he muttered, sharp tongued as ever, but his thumb stroked your cheek. “Told you earlier, you’re mine. That means you don’t get to kiss me and bolt, Hufflepuff.”
You laughed breathlessly, the last of the nerves dissolving. “I was scared you’d regret it tomorrow morning.”
Mattheo huffed, pulling you away from the door and toward his bed. He sat down and tugged you into his lap, arms wrapping around you like he had no intention of letting go anytime soon.
“I regret a lot of things,” he admitted gruffly. “But not this. Not you.” He pressed another kiss to your temple, almost absentmindedly. “You make my life easier. Better. Even when I’m a moody bastard. So stay.”
You nestled into his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his shirt. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Good.” His voice dropped, that dark charisma curling around the words. “Because I’m territorial as hell, and I’ve decided you’re stuck with me now.”
From outside the door, you both heard Theo’s muffled voice “Finally! Can we come in yet or are you two still snogging?”
Mattheo didn’t even look up. “Fuck off, Nott!” he called back, but there was no real heat in it.
You giggled against his neck. He squeezed you tighter, a rare, quiet chuckle rumbling through his chest.
For the first time in a long time, Mattheo Riddle looked… content.
Still guarded, still sarcastic, still carrying shadows, but with you curled in his arms, the weight seemed lighter.
You had seen the good in him from the start. Now he was finally letting himself believe it too.
And as the two of you stayed wrapped up together long into the night, talking in low voices between kisses, everything felt exactly right.
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.
Behind Closed Doors ~ John Logan x Fem!Reader - (Part One)
Synopsis: Behind closed doors, Logan kisses you like you're the only thing he wants.
The problem is, being private feels a little too much like being hidden.
When you unexpectedly show up at a Briar athlete house party, and Logan suddenly acts like he barely knows you, every insecurity you've tried to ignore comes crashing down at once and Logan is forced to realize your relationship stopped being casual long before either of you admitted it.
Pairing: John Logan x reader
Part two here: read here.
My other Logan fic here: read here.
A/N: Was going to write a one-shot but it got long, so it's a two-parter!
PART ONE
The first thing you became aware of was warmth.
Not the blanket, not the weak gray light slipping through the curtains in John Logan’s room.
It was Logan. He was warm everywhere.
His chest pressed against your back, one heavy arm wrapped around your waist beneath your shirt, his face buried against the back of your neck like sometime during the night he’d unconsciously decided breathing you in was necessary for survival.
You smiled before you could stop yourself.
Mornings made it impossible to pretend this was casual in the same way Logan kept insisting it was.
Casual didn’t feel like waking up in a hockey player’s bed with his bare chest against your spine and his lips brushing sleepily across your shoulder before he was even fully awake.
Casual definitely didn’t feel like the quiet little noise he made when you shifted carefully, trying not to wake him up.
His arm tightened immediately. “You can’t leave.”
You laughed softly. “I have class.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I literally do.”
“Drop out.”
You rolled your eyes even as warmth spread through you and turned over to face him. He finally lifted his head enough to look at you, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked so unfair in the mornings. Soft in a way nobody at Briar ever really got to see.
His gaze dropped to your mouth immediately.
“Come here,” he said, his voice raspy.
Before you could say anything else, he kissed you. Slow, sleepily, and warm. It was the kind of kiss that made you feel like you were being melted into the mattress beneath you.
Your fingers slid into the hair at the back of his neck automatically. He made that quiet, satisfied sound again and deepened the kiss lazily, pulling you fully onto your back beneath him.
It still startled you sometimes how affectionate he was in private. It seemed impossible for him to stop touching you while you were alone.
His thumb rubbed softly against the side of your waist while he kissed you again and again, like he had nowhere to be.
You had dated other men before, but no one had ever kissed you like Logan did. It was like every kiss accidentally turned into five more because he kept forgetting to stop.
The room was quiet, but you could hear distant movement downstairs, probably his teammates waking up. His hand slipped back up under your shirt just for skin contact, his warm palm flattening against your stomach.
Your chest tightened painfully because this was the problem. You were absolutely, hopelessly, falling in love with him. And that was the problem, because Logan still called whatever this was, casual.
A loud yell downstairs broke through the quiet. He groaned dramatically and dropped his forehead against your collarbone.
“They’re ruining my life.”
You laughed, your fingers sliding through his dark brown curls again. “It’s their house, too.”
“They should stop.”
Another voice could be heard downstairs, just a little bit louder now. It had gotten closer.
Reality started to creep back in. You felt the shift in him almost immediately. It was subtle, and tiny, but it was there. Logan lifted his head, glancing toward the bedroom door.
Suddenly, he wasn’t kissing you anymore. He wasn’t curled around you the same way, and his hand disappeared from under your shirt. It was small enough that maybe another girl wouldn’t have noticed it. But, you did. You always noticed him.
He looked back at you quickly, like he knew you’d felt it too.
“You should probably sneak out before they all start barging in here and getting me up for practice.”
There it was. The reminder. Everything was private and hidden.
You forced a smile anyway. “Wow, you really know how to make a girl feel special.”
His expression softened instantly. “Come here.”
Before you could dodge him, he caught your wrist and pulled you back into him, kissing you hard enough to steal the breath from your lungs.
You melted despite yourself. This was the problem, too. Even when he confused you, even when he accidentally hurt your feelings, he kissed you like you were something precious.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.
“You know I like having you here,” he said, his big brown eyes staring up at you.
Your chest hurt a little at how sincere he sounded.
“I know,” you said softly, as you looked back down at him.
The thing was, you did know. At least, privately. That was never the issue.
--
You ended up being ten minutes late to class because Logan refused to let you leave without another kiss, which turned into three, which then somehow turned into him pinning you against the bedroom door while you laughed breathlessly into his mouth.
“You’re the actual worst,” you told him.
He only grinned, his smile taking over his entire face, as his hands were warm against your waist beneath one of his old generic Briar University hoodies.
“You like me,” he said, knowingly. You swatted at him as he stole another kiss.
By the time you finally escaped his place, your lips were swollen, your hair was more tangled than normal, and Logan’s sleepy grin was still burned into the inside of your skull.
As you walked into your midday lecture, your roommate, Cassie, immediately narrowed her eyes.
“You stayed over again.”
You slid into your seat, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Well, you didn’t come home last night, and you’re wearing his hoodie.”
You looked down. Right.
The giant gray Briar University hoodie that Logan had tugged over your head that morning because you’d complained about being cold.
“I forgot to give it back.”
Cassie snorted, “Sure.”
You tried to focus on class after that, but it was impossible, because every five minutes your phone buzzed.
Logan: thinking about your mouth still
Heat rushed to your face instantly. You glanced around before typing back quickly.
You: I hate you
Three dots appeared immediately.
Logan: liar
Logan: also you left your book here
Her annotated copy of Pride and Prejudice.
The one filled with highlighted passages and sticky notes and embarrassing margin comments.
You: DO NOT TOUCH IT
A picture arrived seconds later. Logan was sprawled across his bed shirtless, her book balanced against his chest.
Your stomach flipped traitorously.
Beneath the image, sat another text.
Logan: too late
Logan: your annotations are intense
This was another thing about him. He quietly noticed everything, like he genuinely paid attention to you. He remembered what coffee you liked, which fantasy series made you cry, that you got easily overwhelmed in crowded places and preferred corners of rooms, and he listened when you rambled about books he’d never read but somehow remembered details weeks later.
Last week, he’d given you a little gold bookmark because “It reminded me of that dragon book you like.”
You had almost died on the spot.
Your phone buzzed again.
Logan: come over tonight?
You bit your lip.
Then another message appeared.
Logan: after practice
This was how it always happened lately. You’d tell yourself that you needed space. That you needed to stop letting this become so relationship-like when he still insisted you were ‘keeping things easy.’
Then, he’d look at you. He’d touch you, and kiss you, and suddenly, you were back in his bed again, pretending that your feelings weren’t becoming catastrophic.
Cassie leaned over to you, “You’re smiling at your phone.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re literally blushing.”
You shoved the phone face down onto the desk. Unfortunately, your roommate only looked more smug.
“So are you finally going to admit you’re basically dating John Logan?”
Your stomach tightened automatically.
“Shhh!” you said as you looked around, “It’s casual.”
Cassie stared at her for a long moment.
Later, walking across campus alone, the words lingered uncomfortably in your head, because privately? Nothing about John Logan felt casual anymore.
--
Practice ended late. You knew because Logan texted you an update when he had a small break.
Logan: coach is trying to kill us. If I die tell Garrett he still owes me twenty bucks
About a half an hour after that, you received another text.
Logan: miss you. Get over here.
This is how you found yourself climbing the stairs at his place just after ten, the tote bag heavy against your shoulder and your stomach still full of nerves that you couldn’t seem to control around him.
The house was quieter than usual for once. He had told you to let yourself in because no one else was home.
You slipped into his room without knocking. He looked up immediately from where he was sprawled across his bed in gray sweatpants, his hair still damp from the shower.
He smiled at you. Not a polite smile, not casual, that smile. It was the one that always hit you in the chest.
“There’s my favorite nerd.”
You rolled your eyes automatically even as warmth flooded through you.
He moved to the edge of the bed and held out a hand immediately. You took it before he even fully closed his fingers.
He tugged you between his knees until you stood directly in front of him, your hoodie-clad body fitting easily between his legs. His hands slid beneath the hem of the hoodie automatically, finding your waist.
“Did you eat?” you asked him.
“Mhmm.”
“You lying?”
A grin appeared on his face.
“Maybe.”
You sighed, “I brought food.”
“See? This is why I keep you around.”
You tried to glare at him, but it would’ve probably worked better if he hadn’t immediately tilted his head up and kissed you. It was slow at first, then deeper when you melted into him.
His grip tightened against your waist, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the warmth of his skin.
This right here is why you kept losing perspective around him. These little moments of when Logan kissed you like someone who genuinely wanted you.
His mouth softened against yours when you made a quiet sound into the kiss, and suddenly, he was smiling against your lips.
“What?” you whispered.
“You make that noise every time I kiss you for more than ten seconds.”
You immediately covered his mouth with your hand. “I hate you.”
He laughed into your palm before pulling it away and kissing the inside of your wrist casually enough to make your stomach flip.
You took out the food you brought him, and the two of you talked for a bit while you ate. After you finished, he handed you the copy of your book before tugging you down onto the bed beside him.
You barely got settled before he stretched out and dropped his head directly onto your lap like it belonged there.
You looked down at him, and you pulled out your book to read it as he closed his eyes, half-dozing against you. One of his hands lazily hooked around your stomach.
Sometimes, he’d open his eyes and interrupt just to ask questions about whatever you were reading, despite insisting romance novels were “overrated”.
Tonight, though, he just looked tired.
Your fingers drifted into his damp hair, playing with his curls. The reaction was immediate, and he practically melted.
A soft exhale left him as he tilted his head more firmly into your touch. Your chest tightened painfully because you became more aware that this was relationship behavior; it was terrifyingly intimate.
Logan acted like this only when you were alone. That’s what scared you the most.
As if sensing a shift if your mood, he opened one eye slightly.
“What’s that face?”
“What face?”
“The thinking-too-much face.”
You looked back down at your book quickly, “I’m literally reading.”
Before he could respond, voices erupted downstairs. They were loud and excited.
Then, you heard Garrett yelling, “Party Friday! Nobody trash the kitchen this time.”
You stilled slightly, and Logan noticed immediately. His hand tightened around your stomach.
“You don’t have to come,” he said.
You looked down at him. “I wasn’t invited.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She nodded.
You tried not to think about Friday after that, but it was difficult because Logan kept making it impossible to think about anything else.
After the conversation died off, he’d sat up just enough to tug you into his lap, stealing lazy kisses between pages of your book while mumbling complaints about practice into your skin.
And you? You were weak, especially when he was affectionate like this. At one point, he’d gently pulled the book from your hands altogether and dropped it onto the floor beside the bed.
“Logan.”
“You’re not paying attention to me.”
“You’re literally attached to my body right now.”
“Still.”
You laughed softly before he kissed you again, slower this time. The kind of kiss that made you forget what you’d been saying halfway through it.
His hands settled at your waist, thumbs rubbing lazy circles against the skin just above your jeans while he tipped his head slightly to deepen the kiss. Your hands slid across his jaw, which elicited a moan from him, before making your way to his hair and lightly tugging on it.
The smile Logan gave her then was small, real. It was dangerous.
--
Friday came too fast. You spent a stupid amount of time staring at your closet, which was ridiculous.
You never cared this much about parties because you usually avoided them entirely. Cassie had been invited to the party by a football player, Beau, and she’d told him the only way she would go was if she could bring her friend. So, you decided to go so that Cassie could be with Beau.
Cassie appeared in the doorway holding up two tops.
“Wear the black one.”
You looked down at your oversized sweater.
“I was thinking this.”
Cassie blinked slowly. “To a party?”
“I like this sweater.”
“Babe, you look like you’re about to alphabetize a bookshelf.”
“That’s not an insult to me.”
“It is tonight.”
The girls who went to these parties always looked effortless in ways that you never managed to be. Tiny dresses, with loud confidence and perfect hair. They fit naturally into the world orbiting Briar athletes.
You usually felt like you’d wandered into the wrong building by mistake.
And now there was the added problem of secretly sleeping with one of the star hockey players.
Twenty minutes later, you stood in front of the mirror feeling deeply unlike yourself in a black top that showed more skin than you normally preferred.
You tugged awkwardly at the hem. “I look like I’m trying too hard.”
“You’re literally dating John Logan.”
“Cassie, we’re not dating, and no one even knows so you have to be quiet about it.”
“Mhmm.”
--
The boys’ place was already loud when you arrived.
Music was vibrating through the walls, and you could see through the windows as you walked up that the house was packed. You immediately regretted coming.
“You’ll be fine,” Cassie yelled over the music, already dragging you inside.
You barely had time to adjust before you saw him. Logan stood across the living room, talking to Garrett and Dean, a drink in hand, and gray long-sleeves shoved up his forearms.
Your breath caught stupidly. Even now, even after weeks of being with him and sleeping in his bed, looking at him still felt unfair.
As if sensing it, Logan glanced up, and your eyes met instantly.
You watched the exact moment recognition hit his face, followed by immediate surprise, then something else.
It was small, and it was quick, but you recognized that look. It was panic.
Your stomach tightened. Instead of smiling, instead of coming toward you, instead of looking anything like the boy who made you moan his name two nights ago, he just froze.
He gave a small nod.
“Didn’t know you were coming,” he mouthed, as he took a drink.
“Last minute thing,” you mouthed back.
He nodded once, and then turned back to Garrett and Dean.
You stood there for another second longer than you should have, just waiting. You were waiting for him to look back. For him to wave you over. Something.
But he kept talking to Garrett and Dean like nothing happened.
Cassie leaned toward you immediately, “Okay, he’s being weird.”
You forced out a laugh, “He’s just talking to his friends.”
“Babe, he looked like you caught him committing a crime.”
You tried to smile, but discomfort was already crawling slowly up your spine. Logan wasn’t usually weird with you, at least not privately. Privately, he couldn’t stop touching you. But now? Now, he looked almost… careful.
Heat flooded your face as you suddenly felt painfully aware of yourself. The black top you already regretted wearing, the loud music, the girls draped effortlessly across the hockey and football teams like they belonged here naturally. Unlike you.
“You want a drink?” Cassie asked.
“Yes,” you said immediately.
Mostly because it gave you something to do besides stand there, wondering why Logan suddenly looked uncomfortable acknowledging your existence.
You ended up in the kitchen, which somehow felt even worse. It was more crowded, hotter, and there was nowhere to hide.
You leaned against the counter while Cassie asked you if she could go talk to Beau, and you, wanting to be a good friend, told her you’d be fine.
Every few minutes, despite yourself, your eyes drifted back toward the living room. Toward him. You caught him looking at you a few times, and that was the worst part. He kept glancing over at you like he wanted to come talk to you, but every time you were able to meet his eyes, he’d look away first.
Your stomach twisted harder every single time.
A girl slid next to him near the couch. Blonde, a tiny dress. Pretty in the effortless way that you never managed. She leaned close to say something in his ear over the music. Logan answered absently, his gaze drifting toward you again. But, he still didn’t move.
You looked away first this time as humiliation burned hot beneath your skin. It wasn’t long ago that he’d held you against his bedroom door and kissed you goodbye like you were something precious to him. And now? You felt like you were some awkward girl who misunderstood everything.
“Hey.”
You looked up quickly. A guy you vaguely recognized from one of your elective classes stood beside you.
“Cassie said you were abandoned over here.”
You laughed softly, “That obvious?”
“A little. I’m Connor, by the way.”
“Y/N.”
“I know. You answered a question in class once and made the professor look stupid.”
You groaned and covered your face, “Please don’t remind me.”
Connor grinned. “No, it was impressive.”
The conversation was easy after that. It was easy in a way that you desperately needed right now. Connor looked directly at you when you spoke. He seemed genuinely happy you were there.
You found yourself relaxing despite everything. The knot in your chest loosened a little with every passing moment you stayed in the kitchen. For the first time since arriving at the party, you stopped thinking about Logan for almost thirty full seconds.
Then, you made the mistake of looking up. Logan was already looking at you from across the room. It wasn’t casual, either. He was staring.
Your stomach flipped hard enough to make you angry. Now he looked interested. Now he noticed you. Heat crawled up your neck.
Fine. If he wanted to act like you were just another girl at the party, then she could act that way, too.
So, you looked back at Connor.
“What’s your major again?”
“Pre-med,” he said with a dramatic sigh, “Unfortunately.”
You laughed softly. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Logan shift abruptly and break off from his group.
Your pulse skipped traitorously. Don’t look at him. Don’t.
You forced yourself to keep listening while Connor talked about one of your professors, but suddenly, you could feel Logan somewhere nearby without even seeing him.
“You hiding in the kitchen?”
You turned. There he was.
He still had a drink in his hand, and he was looking unfairly good in the low lighting. However, there was something tight in his expression now.
Connor glanced between them, “You guys know each other?”
You opened your mouth automatically, but then hesitated. You had no idea what Logan wanted you to say.
Logan answered first.
“Yeah,” he said casually, “she hangs around the house sometimes.”
The words hit like a slap. You actually felt your expression falter before you caught it.
She hangs around the house sometimes.
Like you were random, temporary. Just some girl floating around hockey parties instead of someone who’d spent nights in his bed with his mouth against your throat whispering for you to stay.
Connor nodded easily, “Oh, cool.”
You couldn’t breathe suddenly.
Logan’s eyes flickered toward you briefly, like maybe even he heard how wrong it had sounded after it left his mouth. But then someone across the room shouted his name, and he looked away, just for a second.
You stepped back immediately, it was all too much for you.
“I’m gonna get some air,” you said quietly.
Neither of them stopped you. The cold outside hit your skin hard enough to sting.
You wrapped your arms around yourself as the back door shut behind you, muffling the music from inside.
Your chest hurt, which felt ridiculous. Technically, Logan hadn’t done anything wrong. You weren’t official, you weren’t public. You’d agreed to keep things casual.
So, why did you suddenly feel so humiliated? The answer came immediately, cruel, and honest. Because privately, Logan never treated you casually.
Privately, he kissed you like he missed you after one day apart. He fell asleep wrapped around your body. And then the second other people were around? She hangs around the house sometimes.
You laughed under your breath once, miserable. The back door creaked open behind you a minute later, but you didn’t turn around.
“Hey.”
It was Logan.
You stared out into the dark. “Your party misses you.”
There was silence for a second. Then, “What’s wrong?”
That almost made you laugh again, because if he genuinely didn’t know, that somehow hurt worse.
You turned and looked at him suddenly.
“John, you’ve been ignoring me.”
Logan blinked. “What?”
“You saw me walk in and acted like I was interrupting your life.”
“That’s not—”
“And then you introduce me as somebody who hangs around the house sometimes?”
His face changed immediately. You saw the exact moment realization hit him.
“Oh.”
“Yeah,” you said quietly. “Oh.”
“Y/N—”
“No, it’s fine.”
“It’s obviously not fine.”
You swallowed hard. You hated this. You hated feeling needy, and how much power he suddenly had to hurt your feelings without even trying.
“You know what the worst part is?” you asked softly. “Privately, you act like…” you stopped yourself.
Logan stepped closer automatically. “Like what?”
You looked away. “Like I matter.”
The words landed between them heavily.
Logan went still.
“And then we get around other people and suddenly it’s like you don’t know what to do with me anymore.”
“That’s not true.”
“It kind of is, though, John.”
Your throat tightened painfully.
“Do you know how crazy it makes me feel?” you whispered. “Because two nights ago you touched me like you couldn’t stop, and the next morning you practically begged me to stay in your bed longer and then tonight—”
Your voice cracked slightly. You looked down, mortified.
“Tonight, I felt stupid for thinking that any of that actually meant something.”
The words hung between them in the cold air. You hated how vulnerable they sounded out loud. You saw his face fall immediately.
“Y/N.”
Suddenly, you couldn’t do this anymore. You couldn’t stand there letting him look at you with those soft, conflicted eyes while your chest cracked open in real time. You stepped back before he could touch you.
“I should go.”
His brow furrowed instantly, “Wait.”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s obviously not fine.”
You laughed once under your breath. “That’s kind of the problem, Logan. I don’t think you realize how not fine it is.”
You saw him reach for you again, but you stepped back before he could. The hurt that flashed across his face almost made you stop.
Almost.
But if he touched you right now, you’d cave immediately. You knew yourself well enough to know that.
So instead, you shook your head once.
“I can’t keep feeling like your secret until it’s convenient, if ever, for you not to hide me anymore.”
He went still. You swallowed down the lump in your throat.
Then, you turned and walked away before he could say anything else.
One minute, you were laughing in the kitchen with a friend from Sarah’s sorority who was visiting for the day, about how Wheezie now had better hair than all of you combined, the next, you’d glanced out the french doors, caught sight of the tree silhouetted against the string lights, and something in your chest had…broken into little pieces.
God, you were so drunk.
We used to live up there, you thought, staring at the weathered planks clinging to the lower branches of the tree house.
Rafe would go and hoist you up first, you were smaller, and the supposed lookout. He'd grin down at you from the platform, hand outstretched, palm calloused from skateboarding and whatever dumb thing he’d convinced Kelce and Topper to try that week.
“C’mon, shortstack. Don’t make me carry you like a baby again.”
Then you'd all be up there, and he immediately would start bossing everyone around while Sarah would complain the whole time that her dress was getting sap on it. You argued about who got the best spot for comic books, made a blood pact with a safety pin and orange juice because you didn’t have anything else.
Now Rafe was twenty-one, broader than the doorway, always smelling faintly of expensive cologne and bad decisions. Sarah was dating John B and pretending it wasn’t serious. You were all, especially you, wishing you hadn’t grown up too fast, yearning for summers in the Outer Banks to still felt the same.
You swiped at your cheeks with the heel of your hand and let out a wet, hiccuping laugh. You hugged your knees tighter, chin resting on them, eyes fixed on the lowest rung of that rickety ladder nailed into the trunk.
One of the boards had split years ago, the summer Rafe decided he was “too old” for tree houses and tried to jump from the platform to the hammock instead. He’d landed half in, cursing loud enough to wake Figure Eight. You and Sarah had laughed until you cried while Ward dragged him inside by the collar of his shirt.
That version of Rafe felt like someone else now.
Somewhere between fourteen and sixteen, he’d stopped waiting for you at the bottom of the ladder, stopped texting you, and started showing up at parties with red-rimmed eyes. Started laughing at things that you didn't find any humour in and looking at you like you were a little kid who used to follow him around, not someone who’d grown up right beside him.
You’d felt it happen in slow motion.
The summer before your junior year, you’d waited by the tree for an hour after texting him to meet like old times. He never showed. Later, you saw his Jeep parked at the country club, heard the bass thumping from inside while he and Barry leaned against the hood, passing something back and forth.
When you walked by later, he’d lifted his chin in that nod way guys do when they don’t want to talk, and that was it. No explanation.
Sarah had noticed too; she’d squeeze your hand under the dinner table when Rafe came home late, smelling like smoke. You’d stopped waiting by the tree after that summer or asking him to come surfing with you and Sarah.
Eventually, Sarah had drifted too.
Not because she stopped loving you, she never would, and you knew that bone-deep. She was your person, the one who knew every embarrassing middle-school secret, the one who’d text you dumb TikToks at 3 a.m. even when you were both in different time zones.
But college had been brutal for both of you since day one. New cities, new roommates, schedules that didn’t line up. New people who wanted your time, your attention, your energy. You’d both tried so hard at first with weekly FaceTimes, group chats that died after a month, promises to visit that got pushed back because of midterms and internships.
You still loved her to pieces. She’d always be your best friend, the one you’d drop everything for if she called crying. But the space between phone calls had stretched longer. You’d see her post pictures with her new sorority sisters—laughing at tailgates, arms around each other—and feel this tiny, ugly pang… missing her.
Missing the version of summers where the three of you were inseparable, before everyone’s lives started pulling in different directions.
You missed the way she used to braid your hair while you all watched bad horror movies in the living room, how she’d steal your hoodies and wear them for days until they smelled like her vanilla shampoo instead of yours. Missed how she’d look at you across the dinner table and know exactly what you were thinking without a word.
Now you texted “miss you” and she’d reply “miss u more!!!” with a string of hearts, and it was sweet, but it wasn’t the same as her sitting right here, shoulder against yours.
Rafe wasn’t the only one who’d slipped away; sooner or later, you’d all let the years carry you a little farther from each other, promising you’d swim back together someday. Someday kept getting postponed.
And now here you were, twenty, drunk on cheap vodka and cheaper nostalgia, sitting under the same stupid tree crying because you miss your friends.
You let out a shaky breath, wiped your nose on the back of your wrist like a child. Get it together. You’re at a party. People are shotgunning beers ten feet away .
Another wet laugh bubbled up, turning into a hiccup.
That's why you didn’t hear someone approach at first, but then there were footsteps, slowing as they got closer. Please don’t be some drunk guy asking if you're okay. Please don’t be—
“What the hell are you doing out here?”
Rafe.
His voice was gravelly from yelling over the speakers all night. You kept your face buried in your knees, hoping if you didn’t look at him he’d leave.
The grass crunched again as he dropped down right next to you, his shoulder brushed yours immediately, through the thin fabric of his button-down. You could smell the faint tequila on his breath mixed with that cedar cologne he’d worn since he was seventeen, the one that used to make you secretly lean in closer when he’d sling an arm around your shoulders.
He didn’t say anything at first, knees bent, forearms resting on them, staring at the same ladder you’d been staring.
“You crying?”
You shook your head immediately. “No.”
“Bullshit. Your mascara’s halfway to your chin.”
You swiped at your face again—pointless—and rose your head to glare at him through blurry eyes. “Go away.”
Rafe tilted his head, squinting at you in the dim glow from the string lights. Your eyes caught on the jagged white line under his jaw—barely noticeable unless you knew exactly where to look. The scar from that stupid fall he got the summer after eighth grade, when he’d insisted he could backflip off the platform “no problem” to impress a girl whose name none of you could remember now.
He’d missed the landing, clipped his chin on a branch on the way down, blood everywhere. You’d freaked out, Sarah had run screaming for Ward, and Rafe, bleeding like a horror movie extra, had laughed through the pain and told you both to “chill, it’s a scratch.”
He’d gotten four stitches.
You’d sat in the waiting room holding his skateboard, convinced he was going to die from a tree-related injury. When he came out with the tiny bandage and that cocky grin, you’d punched him in the arm and called him an idiot. He’d ruffled your hair and called you dramatic.
Now the scar was faded, invisible in most lights. But tonight, under the warm glow and your vodka-blurred vision, it looked brand new, real, tangible proof that the golden times between you three had actually happened.
Your lip trembled, and your whole face crumpled. The first sob ripped out of you loud and ugly, shoulders shaking so hard you nearly toppled sideways.
Rafe’s entire body went rigid beside you.
“Whoa—whoa, hey—” His hands shot out, not knowing where to put them. One landed on your back, the other hovering uselessly near your face. “What the fuck? Did someone hurt you? Who? I swear to God—”
You couldn’t answer, crying harder, snotty and hiccupy and completely beyond dignity. He looked terrified. The big bad Rafe looked like he was two seconds from either calling the cops or throwing hands.
“—Hey, talk to me,” His hands finally settled: one cupping the back of your neck, the other awkwardly patting your knee like he was trying to comfort a spooked horse. “Did someone say something? Touch you? I’ll fucking kill them, just point—”
You shook your head frantically, tears streaming, words coming out in broken gasps between hiccups.
“N-not—not s-someone—" You shook your head so fast it made you dizzy, tears flying off your cheeks. “I—I m-miss you g-guys,” you managed to spit out between sobs. “I m-miss you s-so much—”
“Huh?”
That was all he got out before you completely lost it again with another wave of pitiful cries crashing over you.
Rafe looked like he’d been hit in the face with a brick, confused didn’t even cover it.
“Okay—okay, c’mere—” One arm hooked under your knees, the other around your back, and suddenly you were being lifted, pulled into his lap until your legs were draped over one of his thighs and your face was buried against the side of his neck.
You didn’t fight it, nor did you register how intimate it looked from the outside, how his hand automatically curled around the back of your head to hold you there, how your arms looped around his shoulders, how your cheek pressed against the warm skin under his cheek.
He rocked you to try to soothe.
“Miss me?” he repeated, quieter now, “What’re you talking about? I’m right here.”
You shook your head against him, nose smushing into his collarbone, your mascara definitely ruining his shirt. You didn’t care.
“N-not j-just now,” you whimpered. “B-before. When—when we were—when it was u-us and—and Sarah and the t-tree and—and you didn’t h-hate me—”
A low, involuntary snort escaped before he could catch it.
Your eyes narrowed instantly as you lifted your head, giving yourself whiplash from the motion. “Are you—laughing?”
He pressed his lips together so hard they went white, his shoulders already shaking.
“No,” he managed, voice strained. “No. Not at all.”
“You are!” You sat up straighter, outraged, shoving at his chest. “You’re laughing at me crying about missing my best friends! That’s so mean, Rafe!”
Head tipped back against the tree trunk, eyes squeezed shut, the sound rumbling out of him in that stupidly attractive way that used to make you laugh too back when you weren’t the one being mocked.
“I’m sorry,” he wheezed, not sounding sorry at all. “It’s—you’re sitting here telling me you miss me like I’m dead or some shit, and I’m literally holding you right now—”
“Stop!” you wailed, fresh tears spilling over because now you were mad, drunk and embarrassed, which was the worst combination. “It’s not funny! I’m s-serious! You both ditched me in college and parties and—and John B and—and whatever! And I’m the only one who still cares about the stupid tree!”
That only made him laugh harder, head dropping forward so his forehead bumped yours gently.
“Okay, okay—fuck, I’m sorry,” he said through another chuckle, but his hand was cupping your cheek, thumb sweeping under your eye to catch a tear. The other stayed firm on your lower back so you couldn’t dramatically storm off (which, yeah, you were definitely trying to do, but your legs felt like cooked spaghetti).
You swatted at the one wiping your tears.
“Don’t—don’t touch my face if you’re gonna laugh!”
You slapped his wrist again, weak coordination not on your side, and pouted so hard your bottom lip practically touched your chin.
“I take it back. I don’t miss you. I hate you. Go away.”
“Mm-hm.” He didn’t move an inch, using both thumbs now, rubbing away the mascara rivers on your cheeks, sighing under his breath. “Hate me all you want, shortstack."
You stayed like that for a minute, diving in to sniffle into the crook of his neck while he soothed your back, even though the tears had mostly slowed to a pathetic drip-drip.
Your lips were permanently pursed, brows furrowed, every bit the sulky kid you used to be when he stole the last slice of pizza.
"Y-You don’t miss being kids? … at all?”
He raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching again.
You weren’t having it.
“I’m being serious!” you insisted, poking his chest with one finger. “You don’t miss the tree house? And—and how you used to make us all call you ‘Captain Rafe’ and you’d make us salute before we could eat the snacks you stole from the kitchen?”
His hand on your back paused, his fingers pinched your waist, playful, to make you squeak and squirm in his lap.
“Ow—hey!” You swatted at his hand, but there was no real force behind it. “That hurt!”
“Did not,” he retorted, grinning now, “I made you salute because you kept eating all the good stuff before I got my turn.”
“I was sharing,” you huffed, crossing your arms even though it pressed you closer against him. “And you used to hog the hammock anyway. Remember that time you fell asleep in it and Sarah and I tied your shoelaces together so when you tried to get up you face-planted?”
Rafe barked a laugh, head tipping back against the tree again. “Yeah, and then you two ran screaming because I chased you around the yard. You tripped over the sprinkler and ate dirt. Cried for ten minutes straight.”
“I did not cry,” you lied, nose in the air.
“Uh-huh.” He pinched your waist again, nicer this time, almost ticklish and you yelped, twisting in his lap like a cat that didn’t actually want to escape.
“Stop that!” You were giggling now, the frown fighting a losing battle against the smile creeping in. “You’re so annoying.”
"Yeah…I miss it. Sometimes. The dumb shit we used to do, even though you and Sarah would gang up on me every single time.”
You sniffled, resting your forehead against his collarbone again because looking at his stupid fond smile was too delicate for your inebriated brain.
“You were the worst.”
He tugged on a strand of your hair. “Who else let you paint his nails sparkly pink because you said it matched your new backpack?”
You cringed, mock-horrified. “You swore you’d never speak of that again!”
“Swore under duress,” he shot back. “You threatened to tell Kelce I was scared of the dark.”
“You were scared of the dark."
“Was not.”
“Was too.” You tilted your head up, blinking at him with those big, still-watery eyes. “So you do miss it?”
He looked down at you and something in his expression went all warm and stupid, a look that would make anyone watching from the porch think the two of you were already halfway to something more than childhood best friends who remembered how to hug.
“Every day, shortstack,” Rafe confessed, then he leaned in and pressed an exaggerated peck to the top of your brown like he used to when you were little and scraped your knee. “Especially the part where you’d fucking cry over literally anything and I’d have to carry you around like a human backpack.”
“I did not cry over everything!”
Rafe’s grin widened, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made him look unfairly boyish even at twenty-one. “Sure you didn’t. The time Topper’s dog ate your ice cream cone? The time I said your new sneakers looked like clown shoes? The time—”
“Okay, okay!” You slapped a hand over his mouth to shut him up, palm flat against his smiling lips. “You’re the worst storyteller, and your memory is selective.”
He mumbled something against your hand then gently pried your fingers off, lacing them with his own before letting go. Your brain, still swimming in vodka and nostalgia, snagged on something else.
His hair.
Before this afternoon, you hadn’t seen him since Christmas.
Five, six months? Long enough that the buzz cut he’d had back then, almost military, had grown out completely. It was longer again, shaggier, falling over his forehead in strands that curled a little at the ends.
Without thinking, drunk you had zero impulse control, you reached up and threaded your fingers into the strands at the side of his head.
Rafe's eyebrows lifted, you didn’t notice, or you did and didn’t care.
Your front teeth sank into your bottom lip, chasing away the pink until you relased it to speak and the color rushed back.
“Your hair’s so long,” you murmured, twirling it around your finger absentmindedly. “It was...buzzed at Christmas. You look like you again.”
He let out an amused snort, and if anything, he bent his head further into your touch like a domesticated animal demanding more pets.
“You used to hate it when I touched your hair."
“That was because you’d yank it, shortstack."
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did.” His voice dropped, “Missed the floppy look?”
“Mhm.” You tugged on the wave, watching it bounce back. “You looked too serious. Like you were auditioning to be your dad.” Your nose wrinkled at the thought. “This is better, like old Rafe.”
He inhaled sharply, seemingly surprised you were bringing it up.
“Old Rafe, huh?”
“The good one,” you clarified, playing with his hair, fingers sliding back to card through the longer pieces at the nape of his neck. "Who'd sneak me extra marshmallows when Rose wasn’t looking.”
“I still sneak you marshmallows,” he retorted. “You don’t notice because you’re usually busy yelling at me about something'”
“You ate the whole bag last Christmas and blamed Wheezie.”
“Wheezie did eat half of them,” he shot back, grinning. “I finished the job.”
“Thief.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
You rolled your eyes but didn’t stop touching his hair. It felt nice—proof that time hadn’t erased everything. Your thumb brushed the shell of his ear by accident; he shivered, and you pretended not to care.
He’s warm, you thought fuzzily. And he smells like tequila and home. And his hair is stupidly soft. Why did you wait so long to do this? Oh right. Because he was being a dick for the most part of the last six years.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly, catching your gaze.
“Am not.”
“Are too.” His free hand came up, fingertips grazing your skin tilting your face so you couldn’t hide. “What’s going on in that head?”
You bit your lip, suddenly shy despite the vodka. “You really do look like you used to. Before everything got weird. I like it.”
His hand slid from your jaw to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing your pulse point. "Good."
You grinned a little lopsided and gave his hair one last affectionate tug, letting your hand slide to rest against the side of his neck. Your fingers curled there loosely, brushing the warm skin below his ear.
The string lights overhead flickered, casting little golden flecks across his face. Everything felt… hazy.
You tilted your head a fraction, suddenly amazed at the way his lashes caught the light.
“You have really long eyelashes too,” you mumbled, your tipsy brain deciding that was important information to share. “That’s unfair.”
Rafe’s mouth twitched. “You’re drunk.”
“So are you.” Your thumb kept moving—absent touches along the line of his jaw, tracing the faint scar without meaning to. “I'm being observant, always have been. Even when you were being a jerk.”
He exhaled through his nose, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Yeah. I was.”
“Still are, sometimes.”
“I know, m'sorry.” he agreed quietly.
Your faces were close now, closer than they’d been in years. Foreheads almost touching. Your heart did a lazy, drunken flip—nothing dramatic, a reminder that you were very much pressed against his chest, legs tangled over his, his hand warm on the small of your back.
“Rafe?”
“Hm?”
His hand slid higher, cupping the back of your neck fully, brushing the sensitive spot below your ear. Over and over. Hypnotic. You felt your eyelids droop more heavily, forgetting whatever you were about to spew.
You didn’t know who moved first.
Perhaps it was you, greedily leaning in that extra inch, his mouth looking familiar. Maybe it was him, tilting his head down because your thumb had paused right over his bottom lip and he’d stopped breathing for a second.
Your noses brushed, then your lips.
An accident, really. Or a natural next step when two people who used to share everything suddenly remembered how close “everything” could feel. For one long, suspended second, it was simply that—lips on lips, still and surprised.
The party noise had faded to a dull beat somewhere far off; all you could hear was the rustle of leaves overhead and the unevenness of your own breathing mixing with his.
Then Rafe made a rough sound in the back of his throat, involuntary, you're sure of, and decided to finish the job. Hesitantly so at first, wondering if this was allowed, if the alcohol would let you both pretend tomorrow that it never happened.
But it did deepen.
He was coaxing you to follow and you did. You always did with him, even when you were too stubborn to admit it.
Your fingers slid into his hair again, angling his head so the kiss fit better. His hand on your back, sliding up to cradle the nape of your neck. Tequila and vodka and nostalgia mixing on your tongues.
Like the tree had been waiting for this too.
Rafe's tongue gave a gentle sweep along the inside of your bottom lip, asking permission even though you were all but melting into him. You sighed into his mouth involuntarily, and his tongue curled around yours—languid circles, tasting faintly of lime. Yours answered without thought, sliding against his in an unknown rhythm that made something pool in the pits of your belly.
You shifted in his lap without breaking the kiss, turning more fully into him until your chest pressed flush to his. Your fingers found his hair again, guiding him closer. He groaned into your mouth at the pull, the sound vibrating against your lips, and you felt it everywhere: in your fingertips, in the way your thighs clenched around his hips, in the sudden thump-thump-thump of your heart trying to climb out of your throat.
The kiss slowed even more, wet drags, then parting enough for a shaky breath before meeting again. His teeth grazed your bottom lip, a scrape, then soothed it with another slow lick. You whimpered, and he doubled down by sucking on your tongue, drawing it deeper into his mouth until you were both trembling like untouched teenagers.
You mirrored him without thinking, curling yours around his, sucking lightly at the tip, then letting it slip free only to chase it again. Every time one of you pulled back a fraction, the other followed, unwilling to let the contact break for more than a heartbeat.
When you finally needed air, you didn’t pull away far.
Your lips stayed brushing his, swollen, tingling. Foreheads pressed together, noses nudging. Eyes half-lidded and locked on each other.
Rafe’s pupils were blown wide enough to swallow the blue you always loved to stare at. His chest rose and fell in shallow pants that matched yours.
You stared.
He stared back.
Then your lips parted on another tiny, involuntary kiss, more of a brush because neither of you could seem to stop. Your fingers tightened in his shirt over his heart, and his hand slid down to cup your cheek, tilting your face so he could look at you properly.
Another slow kiss, tongues meeting in the middle, once, twice, then lingering so achingly tender it made your eyes sting all over again, but not from sadness this time.
Your thighs clenched around his hips on instinct; his fingers flexed against your waist in response, pulling you down harder until you were seated fully in his lap, every inch of you pressed to every inch of him.
A helpless sound slipped out of you; Rafe caught it and swallowed it like it was his favorite thing he’d ever tasted. Your hands moved without permission to fist the longer strands at the back of his head, the other slipping under the open collar of his shirt to press flat against the warm, bare skin of his chest.
Your hips rocked forward on instinct, and he hissed into your mouth, the vibration traveling straight down your spine. It made his hips jerk up under you once, both of you gasping into each other’s mouths.
He broke for air first this time, to drag his open mouth along your jaw, breathing ragged against your skin. Then he was back, sealing his lips over yours in a deep, rolling kiss that felt like sinking into warm water.
Your nails scraped down the back of his neck, and he shuddered, full-body, securing you harder into his lap until you could feel how much this was affecting him.
One hand left your waist to cup the side of your throat, stroking the frantic pulse there, while the other sneaked up under the hem of your dress, against the bare skin of your thigh.
“Rafe! Rafe, where the hell are you? John B’s trying to do a keg stand and he’s gonna break his neck, you need to—oh my god, there you are!”
The voice hit you like a good ol' bitch slap.
Your eyes snapped open as you finally came to your senses, realizing you were straddling Rafe Cameron, your friend, of all people, under the old oak tree, dress rucked up.
Oh fuck. Oh fuck fuck fuck.
Panic took over your veins faster than the vodka ever had. You jerked back so hard your balance gave out completely, drunk legs, zero coordination and you started to tip sideways off his lap like a felled tree.
“Shit—” Rafe’s arms shot out, hooking around your waist, the other grabbing your hip to haul you back before you face-planted into the grass and ate shit. “Easy, easy—”
You were scrambling away now, crawling, stumbling off him, knees wobbling like a newborn giraffe. Your dress twisted awkwardly, mascara still streaked down your cheeks, lips red and glistening.
Sarah was walking closer, barefoot, red solo cup sloshing dangerously in her hand, cheeks flushed and eyes glassy.
Thank god—thank fucking god—she was too far gone to clock the details. She just saw her brother and her best friend sitting under a tree looking… disheveled.
“There you are!” she crowed, voice loud and slurry. “I’ve been looking everywhere! Kelce said you were out here brooding or some shit—wait, why do you both look like you fought? Did he make you cry again? Rafe, I swear to god if you made her cry—”
"Cry again?"
“No—no fight,” You cut in fast as Rafe gripped your elbow in mild confusion, while the other raked through his hair, fixing how fucked-up it looked.
His shirt was untucked, collar askew, lips swollen and shiny.
He looked as panicked as you felt.
You swayed, clutching his forearm for balance.
What the hell did you do? The thought looped on repeat, nauseating. You—you made out with Rafe, like teenagers. Under the tree house. And Sarah’s right here. And tomorrow everyone’s gonna know. And Sarah’s gonna hate you. And Rafe’s gonna pretend it never happened. And you're gonna have to see him every summer for the rest of your life knowing you kissed your best friend’s brother—
“—and then Topper tried to shotgun a beer and sprayed it all over Kelce’s new shirt, it was hilarious, you should’ve seen his face—” Sarah was babbling, swaying on her feet, completely oblivious. She grabbed your free hand, wanting drag you both back to the house. “Come onnn, come inside, we’re doing shots! You two look like you need them. Especially you,” she poked Rafe’s chest, giggling. “You’re all red. Are you blushing? Oh my god, I need a picture—”
“Sarah, chill the fuck out,” Rafe snapped, but there was no mean, usual bite in it— "We’re coming."
Sarah squinted at him in disdain for his choice of language. “Whatever. Shots first.” She looped her arm through yours, pulling you forward.
Your legs were jelly; you nearly tripped again. Rafe caught you under the other arm, steadying you between them like bookends. His fingers touched yours behind your back secretly, and your stomach flipped all over again.
You were going to throw up.
He was touching you after that. And Sarah was right there, and you could still taste him. You kept your eyes on the grass, cheeks burning, trying to breathe through the mess in your head.
Sarah kept babbling—something about John B’s terrible balance and how Wheezie, who was very much absent, was her designated driver for the summer because was sixteen and not drinking“—and she’s so responsible now, it’s weird, right? Like when did she grow up? Wait, when did we grow up?”—as she dragged you both toward the glowing house.
You couldn’t look at Rafe. Couldn’t. Your eyes flicked sideways, even for a second, you caught the way he was staring—half-lidded, lips shining with your gloss, cheeks flushed in a way that had nothing to do with tequila.
God, it was doing things to you. Terrible things.
Then—thank fucking god—Kelce and Topper appeared out of nowhere like frat-boy guardian angels.
“Rafe! There you are, man!” Kelce slung an arm around Rafe’s shoulders, already steering him away. “We need backup. Topper’s trying to shotgun with a Red Bull chaser and he’s gonna explode. Come on, you’re the only one who can talk him out of it.”
Topper was right behind him, red-faced and grinning like an idiot.
Rafe blinked, dazed, waking up from a trance. “What? No—I’m—”
Kelce was dragging him backward, not bothering to listen.
“Nah, you’re coming. You’ve been hiding out here long enough. What, were you giving life advice to the tree or something?”
Rafe’s eyes flicked to you—desperate, trying to say a thousand things in one look. His mouth opened, then closed again. Your stomach lurched.
Go. Please go. If he kept looking at you like that you were literally going to puke your guts out right there on the lawn.
Sarah tugged you harder. “See? Problem solved. Boys being boys. Come on, shots!”
Rafe let himself be pulled away reluctantly; you could tell. His hand slipped from your arm last, fingers dragging along your wrist one more time before Kelce yanked him fully into the yard.
He shot you one final look over his shoulder, and then he was gone.
You exhaled so hard it hurt.
Sarah was too busy humming off-key and trying to walk in a straight line.
“God, he’s so dramatic sometimes. Always brooding. You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”
You forced a laugh—high and shaky. “Yeah. Too much vodka."
“Tell me about it.” She squeezed your arm. “But hey, at least Rafe was nice. Progress!”
Things turn out to be weirdly peaceful and...overwhelmingly normal.
The first week back in the OBX passes like someone hit fast-forward with bonfires on the beach until 3 a.m., Sarah dragging everyone to get soft-serve at the pier at midnight even though most of the group is dead from the heat, Kelce attempting (and failing) to teach Wheezie how to skateboard in the Tannyhill driveway while Topper films it for “content" aka trying to get chicks to like him after recovering from his very regretable crush on Sarah.
Rafe is always there, on the same couch arm, in the same porch railing, cracking jokes that make John B roll his eyes in disbelief, when he joins your friend group, and Sarah laughs so hard she snorts.
You’re there too, in the middle of it, always in cut-off denim and whatever tank top smells like laundry instead of sunscreen. You laugh, you pass the aux cord when Sarah demands her throwback playlist. You even shotgun a beer with Topper one night to prove you can (you can’t, really—you almost choke and everyone still cheers).
Normal. So fucking normal.
It’s good. Great, even. No one’s pulling you aside for "the talk" or “we need to talk about what happened” texts at 2 a.m.
There's no weird silences when you walk into a room with just the boys in, and Rafe doesn’t avoid your eyes; you don’t avoid his.
You’re not hiding in your room pretending to have period cramps for the third day in a row. You’re participating, adulting.
Whatever.
Except.
When he asks you to pass the salt at dinner, your fingers touch his knuckles in the process, and your entire nervous system seems to lose common sense. You nearly drop the shaker into the mashed potatoes, and Rafe goes back to arguing with Topper about whether the Yankees are overrated.
Or when you’re sprawled on the beach towels after dark, bonfire popping, someone passing around a warm White Claw nobody wants.
Rafe’s sitting two people down, legs stretched out, forearms resting on his knees. He’s laughing at something Kelce said, head tipped back, throat working, and the firelight catches the new length of his hair, how it falls messily into his eyes before he shoves it back with an impatient hand.
You stare.
He catches it across the orange glow for four heartbeats, you counted.
You wonder if he's thinking about the same thing you are: the tree, the kiss. You feel so ill, so violently, you have to look away first, pretending to be very interested in picking at the edge of your towel.
If he’d say something, anything, about how you mauled him under the oak tree or ask why you ghosted his face for two days after (you were simply… extremely busy with absolutely nothing), then at least you could be angry or embarrassed or something productive.
Instead, he’s acting normal. You, on the other hand, need to stop overanalyzing every time his knee bumps yours under the table like it’s a clue in a mystery novel.
When the group starts to thin out, people heading inside for another round, Sarah and John B disappearing to “check on the playlist,” Kelce and Topper arguing about who’s driving the boat tomorrow, you feel it.
Rafe doesn’t move closer or talk. He continues to sit there, staring into the fire, jaw working...perhaps he’s chewing on words he hasn’t decided to spit out yet. And you sit there too, hugging your own knees, pretending the sudden chill in the night air is why you’re shivering.
One night, the eighth or ninth, you’ve lost count, everyone is over at Tannyhill for a low-key movie night that inevitably turned into shots and screaming at the screen during some terrible horror flick from the early 2000s.
You end up squished on the sectional between Sarah and Rafe because Wheezie called dibs on the beanbag, and no one else would move.
His thigh is pressed against yours from hip to knee.
You try not to think about it and fail.
Every time someone gets up to refill or go to the bathroom, his arm brushes your shoulder when he moves to let them pass. Once, his pinky hooks over yours on the cushion between you before he pulls it back
Sarah’s head is on your other shoulder, giggling sleepily at how bad the CGI blood looks. She keeps whispering commentary in your ear, and you keep nodding, pretending you’re listening when in reality you’re trying not to grind your moles together, because Rafe’s breathing is even and his exhales ghosts across the shell of your ear when he turns his head to murmur something to Topper on his other side.
When the movie ends, the big lights come on. Everyone groans about how late it is, how they have to be up early for golf or surfing or whatever rich-kid bullshit they’re doing tomorrow. Sarah yawns hugely, stretches, then slings an arm around your shoulders.
“You staying over?” she asks, hopeful and slurry from the tequila seltzers.
You hesitate.
Rafe’s standing over, gathering empty cans, back to you. But you think you spot his shoulders tensing, waiting for your answer.
“Yeah,” You hum, saying no would feel like running and you want to knock out as soon as possible. “I’ll stay.”
Sarah cheers, and when you stand to follow her upstairs ten minutes later, you catch him in the hallway, carrying a stack of blankets Wheezie asked for. Your eyes meet again.
He exhales through his nose.
“Night, shortstack."
Your throat clicks when you swallow.
“Night, Rafe.”
Then he’s gone, disappearing down the hall toward his room.
You stand there, heart hammering, wondering if “normal” is supposed to feel like this, holding your breath, waiting for the next time the tree lights flicker and everything changes again.
Because it will.
You simply don’t know who’s going to break first.
The sun’s brutal the next day, it makes the water look like shattered glass and turns your skin darker in under twenty minutes. Everyone’s out on the lineup, Sarah popping up clean on every shoulder like she never left the water, John B showing off unnecessary airs to make Kelce yell “poser,” Topper wiping out dramatically for the gram.
They’ve all kept up; college towns with decent breaks or at least a drive to one. You? Landlocked nightmare. The last time you touched a board was last summer, and even then it was more floating around gossiping than actually riding.
You’re on your third (fourth?) attempt.
You're hoping up too late, nose diving straight into the whitewash, and your board shoots. You surface sputtering, hair plastered to your face, coughing up half the Atlantic. The wipeout was cartoon-level messy—arms windmilling, legs kicking.
Now you’re straddling the board way out back, thighs burning from the paddle, ego more bruised than your ass.
“Motherfucking son of a bitch,” you mutter, slapping the water hard enough to make it sting your palm. “Stupid piece of foam garbage—”
Rafe paddles up beside you, effortless, board cutting clean through the chop. He’s been out here since dawn, probably, hair dripping saltwater, that chain glinting against his chest.
He doesn’t pretend not to be musing on your disaster reel.
“You kiss your mom with that mouth, shortstack?”
You flip him off without looking, momentarily forgetting the only person you'd been kissing recently was him. You're so pent up with all your failed attempts, you overlook the fact that this is your first proper "adult" interaction since the kiss.
If you could call it that.
“Kiss my ass, Cameron.”
Not your best choice of words.
His laugh echoes through the air; it used to make you laugh, too, especially when you were mad. Then he nears your board, forearm braced on his, you can smell coconut sunscreen, and whatever expensive body wash he uses now.
“You’re rusty.”
“No shit,” You shove wet hair out of your eyes, mouthier than usual, but it's a bad day. “Some of us have to survive in places where the biggest wave is the one in the campus fountain during orientation week.”
He snorts. “Excuses.”
You glare harder. He grins wider, that boyish, infuriating one that reminds you why you used to follow him around like a lost puppy when you were tiny bity children.
Another set rolls in, and Sarah catches the first one clean, carves a neat bottom turn, throws a little spray. You watch her go and feel that familiar pinch, your pride bruised from missing the version of yourself who could keep up.
Rafe nudges your board with his knee.
“C’mon. Next one’s yours.”
“I’m good right here.”
“Bullshit.” He reaches over, flicks a droplet off the tip of your nose.“You’re pouting like you did when I wouldn’t let you have the front of the tandem board.”
You swat his hand away.
“I was eight. And you were a dick about it.”
“Still am.” He shrugs, unapologetic. “Get back on the waves. I’ll help.”
You squint your eyes in mid-suspicion. “Help how?”
“Don’t question me.”
“Rafe!"
He rolls his eyes so hard you’re surprised they don’t fall out the back of his head.
“Paddle when I tell you to paddle. Pop when I tell you to pop. Or are you scared?”
Your jaw drops. “As if.”
He lifts both brows, challenging. “Prove it.”
You gawk at him, mildly insulted, mesmerized by the water dripping off his lashes, the same ones you drunkenly fawned over.
He already knows you’re gonna do it because you’ve never backed down from him.
“Fine!” you snap, chin high, digging your hands into the water. “Let me warn you, if I eat shit again, I’m blaming you.”
“Deal.”
The next wave builds behind you, slowly first, then stacking.
Rafe’s voice booms through the roar as he projects it with his hands around his mouth.
“Paddle. Hard. Now.”
You dig in, arms screaming, board picking up speed. The wave lifts you, that familiar stomach-drop moment when gravity forgets you exist for a second.
“Pop!”
You do, knees to chest, feet planting, shaky but there. The board planes, you’re up, wobbling like a newborn giraffe.
“Lean back—shift your weight!” Rafe’s yelling from behind you, paddling parallel. “Knees bent, look where you wanna go, not at your feet, dumbass!”
You giggle, a startled thing, he sounds exactly like he did when you were kids, and he was trying to teach you how to ollie on his skateboard in the driveway.
Same bossy tone, stupid nicknames, the refusal to let you quit.
The wave starts to close out, and you bail early, jumping off the side instead of letting it slam you. You surface, coughing, board coming up beside you.
Rafe paddles over fast, grinning so wide it’s disgusting.
“Not bad,” he concedes, reaching out to shove your shoulder playfully. “For someone who hasn’t surfed since the Stone Age.”
You’re grinning too, cheeks hurting from it.
“I stayed up longer than last time.”
“Barely.”
“Still counts!"
Without warning, Rafe grabs the nose of your board and snatches you closer until your boards bump. His knee knocks yours under the water.
“Next one,” He starts, eyes mapping over your face, "You got it. I’m right here.”
You’re catching your breath from the ride, chest heaving, water streaming off your face in rivulets.
You’ve been so caught up in the humiliation parade, cursing the board, cursing yourself, pouting so hard your bottom lip probably has a permanent indent—that you completely missed how unfairly, mouth-wateringly good Rafe looks right now.
You swallow. Nod. “Yeah. Okay.”
Rafe's shoulders are broad enough to block out the horizon, tan skin stretched over muscle he definitely didn’t have the last time you paid real attention (which, okay, was never this sober).
His arms flex when he braces on his board, veins standing out from the paddle, forearms corded, wrists thick enough that your drunk brain from the other night suddenly makes a lot more sense.
He’s talking your ears off about weight distribution and not looking at your feet next time, but the words are background noise because your pulse is very loud in your ears and your thighs are clenching around the board for reasons that have nothing to do with balance.
His eyes flick to yours, a knowing tilt that makes your stomach bottom out worse than any wipeout.
“Are you listening?”
"Yeah," you croak, then clear your throat, "'Course I am."
“Next set’s coming. You ready to stop brooding and listen to me this time?”
You narrow your eyes, “I don’t brood.”
“You’re literally doing it right now.” He reaches over, using the pad of his thumb to smooth the furrow between your brows. “C’mon. Up. I’m not letting you sit here.”
You huff, mostly for show. “Bossy.”
He nods toward the horizon where the next swell is building.
“Paddle out a little deeper with me. I’ll call it again.”
You hesitate long enough for him to arch another challenging brow.
“Still scared?”
You meet his eyes. They’re that stupid blue, bright against the new tan.
“Fine,” you relent, hands back into the water.
He grins, it crinkles his eyes and makes your heart do something embarrassing.
“That’s my girl.”
It's tossed out like it’s nothing. Part of you is tempted to sink straight to the bottom, let the current take you, bash your head against one of those jagged rocks on the point to reset whatever this is you're feeling.
The other part feels warm all over, like the sun cranked itself up another ten degrees. You don’t answer, focusing on the paddle like your life depends on it.
Rafe falls in beside you one more time, matching your strokes without trying. The next set is bigger, cleaner, it makes the whole lineup whoop.
Sarah’s up on one farther down, carving lazily, showing off for John B. You don’t look at her. You look straight ahead, at the wall of water rising behind you, and listen for his voice.
It comes right on cue. “Paddle—now! Hard, hard, hard!”
You throw everything into it, body aching, lungs screaming, board planing fast. The wave picks you up clean this time.
“Pop!”
You explode up, your knees driving, feet finding the sweet spot, weight centered. You’re riding.
The board glides, the lip curls, and for once today, your body remembers what to do before your brain can overthink it. You lean back, shift your hips, carve a small, shaky turn that throws a little spray.
Not pro-level, but clean.
Behind you, Rafe’s whooping like an idiot.
“Hell yeah! That’s it—look at you go!”
You can’t help it—you raise your fists along, whooping, the sound ripping out of you while you’re still on your feet. The wave starts to section, but you milk it, riding the face until it flattens, then you kick out clean over the back, jumping off with another overjoyed scream of your own.
You surface, cheesing, shaking water out of your eyes.
Rafe’s there, board abandoned for a second so he can grab yours before it drifts far. He hauls it toward him one-handed like it weighs nothing, then reaches for you next. His fingers close around your wrist, and he pulls you through the water until you’re right in front of him.
He's maneuvering you up onto the nose of his board. Your legs are jelly anyway. You end up perched there, knees bent, facing him, your board bumping against his side. His hands stay on your waist for balance.
It's innocent, practical.
You need the balance, or you'll slide right back into the water.
You’re both breathing hard, chests moving in sync from all the physical activity, the salt water from his hair dripping onto your collarbone. He’s looking at you as if you landed the sickest aerial of the day instead of a basic turn.
“Told you you still had it.”
You’re beaming so wide it feels ridiculous.
“That was barely anything.”
"You looked good doing it.” His hands flex on your waist, not moving away. “I'm a great teacher.”
You snort, shoving at his shoulder. “You’re so full of yourself.”
“Am not.” He tilts his head, his cheeks pink from the sun.
It’s you and Rafe, boards knocking softly. You’re both so wrapped up in the high—the wave, the sun, the salt, the fact that you’re here, together, back in the outer banks with the same people who’ve always been your people—that the touchiness doesn’t register as anything more than… home.
You swallow ocean and pride in the same breath.
“Thank you,” you manage, bashfully, “For the push."
Rafe’s mouth quirks, “Anytime, shortstack.”
There it is again, that old nickname, worn smooth from years of use.
You feel the change in the air, the same exact way you expect an incoming set before you see it.
“You remember that summer we tried to build that shitty raft out of pallets behind the country club?”
The non-sequitur catches you so off guard.
“The one that sank in four minutes?”
“Yeah.” His grin is nostalgic, eyes crinkling at the corners. “You screamed bloody murder when the nails poked your foot. Made me carry you all the way back to the parking lot.”
“I was bleeding,” you protest, cheeks heating despite the refreshing water dripping off you. "You were the one who said ‘it’ll hold, trust me.’"
“Still carried you, though.”
The memory is unspooling—sticky August heat, creosote smell on your hands, Rafe’s skinny teenage shoulders straining under your weight while you clung to his neck and pretended you weren’t terrified of tetanus. He’d smelled like cut grass and teenage-boy sweat and the coconut oil Sarah swore by.
“You were heavier than you looked,” he adds, teasingly.
You flash him the sweetest, most sickly-sweet smile you can muster and before he can process the change in your expression, you plant both hands on his chest and shove.
Rafe’s eyes go wide for a glorious second, arms windmilling as his balance deserts him. He tips backward with a startled
“What the fu—” that cuts off when his ass hits the water.
A spectacular splash erupts around him, your board flipping nose-over-tail before it pops back up a few feet away.
You cackle unhinged, head thrown back, clinging to the nose of his board so you don’t slide off too. Your stomach hurts, and your eyes water, and you can’t stop.
He surfaces right after, hair flat to his skull, glaring at you with the stunned, boyish disbelief he used to get whenever you managed to one-up him.
“You little—” He lunges forward, grabbing the rail of his own board and hauling himself halfway, about to drag you in with him.
You scoot back fast, knees sliding along the slick fiberglass.
“Still carried me, though,” you mimic in a mocking falsetto, batting your lashes. “My hero!”
Rafe growls and crowds into your space, hands bracketing your hips on either side of the board as he shoves you off.
You yell whent he board shoots out from under you and he hauls you off it, into the water with him in one smooth, effortless motion. The ocean swallows you both in rush; bubbles explode around your ears, salt stings your eyes, and when you break the surface, he’s right there—grinning like the devil.
“Rafe!” You whine, slapping uselessly at his shoulder while treading water. Your legs are dead from hours of paddling, wiping out, and popping up again. Every muscle from hip to calf is screaming, and the sudden drop into deeper water makes it ten times worse. “I can’t—my legs are literally on fire, you dick—”
He’s treading easily, looking annoyingly fresh despite the dunking. Water runs in rivulets down the column of his throat, and you spot the faint freckles the sun’s pulled out across his nose.
“Aw, c’mere, whiny baby,” he murmurs, voice gone soft. One arm hooks around your back; the other slides under your thigh. “Wrap those legs around me before you drown complaining.”
You’re too exhausted and, honestly, comfortable with the idea. You hook your ankles behind his back, arms looping around his neck on instinct.
Rafe adjusts his grip, one big hand branched across your lower back, the other on the back of your thigh. His chin dips, forehead brushing yours while he catches his breath.
“Better?” he asks quietly, lips so close you feel the word more than hear it.
You huff against his jaw, attempting to sound indignant even as your body melts against his.
“My legs hurt so bad I’m gonna make you carry me to shore."
You're only jesting.
“Deal. But only if you say ‘pretty please, Rafe'.”
You pull back to scowl at him, nose brushing his. “In your dreams."
His smile turns wicked. “Already are.”
You're suddenly very aware of all points of contact: the rock of the water lifting you both, his heartbeat under your palm where it’s flattened against his chest, his fingers caressing your thigh.
It’s soothing at first, the warmth of his palm soothing through the cool water, but then he presses a fraction harder over a spot above the back of your knee, and an unexpected discomfort shoots up your entire leg.
You wince involuntarily, a hitch in your breath, and Rafe stills instantly, eyes snapping to your expression with that razor-sharp focus he gets when something’s wrong with the people he cares about.
“What?” His voice drops, all the teasing gone. “Did I hurt you?”
You shake your head, knowing he’s analyzing you like you’re made of glass.
“No, no—it’s fine. I probably pulled something. It’s nothing.”
His brows pull together, frown deepening. He changes his grip immediately, gingerly, sliding his hand lower to cup the back of your thigh without pressing on the sore spot.
“Bullshit. Where?”
“Rafe, seriously.” You play it off. “I’ve been paddling like an idiot all day on legs that haven’t seen a board in months. Everything hurts. It’s not a big deal.”
He doesn’t buy it, fingers brushing wet hair off your forehead so he can see your eyes better. “Tell me exactly where.”
You sigh, defeated.
“Back of my thigh.” You tap the spot lightly yourself, the one that twinged when he touched it. “Probably overworked the hamstring or whatever. I’ll stretch it later."
“You should’ve said something earlier.”
“I didn’t even feel it until now,” You protest. “Adrenaline, I guess. And then you had to go full caveman and dunk me, so thanks for that.”
Rafe adjusts you in his arms again, higher this time, so your weight isn’t pulling as much on the sore leg. Your ankles stay locked around his waist, but now your thigh rests more comfortably against his side, no pressure on the tender part.
“Better?”
You nod, swallowing the sudden lump in your throat. “Yeah. Thanks.”
He mutters, almost to himself, “Should’ve noticed. You were popping up weird on that last one.”
“Liar. You were too busy whooping like a lunatic to notice my form,” you tease, trying to lighten it.
"I’m not letting you paddle back in like this.”
“Rafe, I was joking before—"
“No.” He cuts you off, firm but not mean. “I’ll tow both boards and carry you the whole way back.”
Your legs feel like overcooked noodles, and the idea of trying to kick through the chop to shore sounds miserable. Instead of fighting him, you tiredly drop your forehead to his shoulder, hiding your face against the curve of his neck.
“You’re being dramatic.”
"I’d rather be dramatic than watch you limp around for the next three days because you’re too stubborn to admit you’re hurt.”
“Pot. Kettle.” You huff against his skin, throwing the words from that night right back in his face.
He snorts softly. “Fuck off."
You hum, the sound light and breathy despite how bone-tired you are.
“Right back at you,” you echo at him.
Your fingers play absently with the damp ends of his hair at the nape of his neck, twirling one curl around your fingertip like you’re winding up a music box. It’s such a small, whimsical thing, but it makes his shoulders loosen under your arms.
This is normal, you remind yourself firmly. The way it’s always been.
Friends. Annoying each other, nothing new.
“I’m okay,” you tell him. “Promise.”
He exhales the breath he's been holding since you winced.
“Good.” A beat. “But you’re still not paddling back. Get on my back."
“Fine, caveman. Tow me to shore."
His pupils are blown wide despite the bright afternoon light.
“Careful,” he warns, “Keep calling me names and I’m not towing you to shore. I’m dragging you under.”
You gasp dramatically, pressing a hand to your chest like a scandalized Southern belle.
“Rafe Cameron, are you threatening to drown me? In broad daylight? My, my. What would the ladies at the yacht club say?”
You beam at him unfiltered, a smile that lights up bonfires and makes people want to bottle summer. It's your one smile that makes tourists stop and stare, and old ladies pinch your cheeks at the market.
It’s your default when you’re happy, when you’re safe, when you’re with people who’ve known you forever.
This is simply talking, you insist to the little voice in your head that’s starting to sound suspiciously like Sarah when she’s trying to get you to admit something. This is banter, how you've always talked to each other. It’s not— It’s not flirting.
“Pretty please, Rafe,” you murmur, voice gone velvet and playful all at once, “My big strong hero… carry me to shore before I melt into the ocean and become a permanent mermaid exhibit?”
Not flirting! You repeat to yourself, more desperately this time.
He lets out a defeated groan, hoisting on his chiseled back so your weight settles more comfortably against him. Both arm bands securely under your thighs, careful not to prode at the injury.
“Evil, evil girl.”
You hum happily, tucking your face back into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his pulse point in a feather-light kiss that’s more gratitude than seduction.
"Wasn't that what you requested?"
"Shut up."
Definitely gratitude! He’s literally towing you and two boards through the ocean because your useless leg hurts. That deserves a kiss. On the neck, platonic. Friends kiss necks sometimes.
He starts kicking toward shore like it’s nothing. Both boards trail behind him on their leashes, bumping against each other now and then. Every few kicks, he glances down at you, checking, making sure the wince doesn’t come back.
“Thanks, Rafe," you mumble, already drifting, lulled by the rhythm of his heartbeat and the roll of the waves.
He chuckles—quiet, warm—and keeps going.
This is fine, you think one last time.
This is Rafe being Rafe. And you being… you.
Nothing’s changed. Nothing at all.
At some point, you start to mumble, “You know…”
“Mm?”
“You didn’t have to carry me.”
He hums quietly, offering no counter-arguments.
Your fingers lazily trace the chain at his collarbone.
“You could’ve hauled me onto my board and dragged me behind yours like a jet ski?” You gesture vaguely toward the boards trailing behind him. “It would've been more efficient.”
You don't know how he isn't drowning with the weight he's carrying.
“Yeah,” he agrees. “Could’ve.”
You slap his shoulder, annoyed that he's being so curt. “So why didn’t you?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
“This is… objectively the harder option.”
He keeps kicking toward shore, waterline getting lower with every few strokes. “Maybe I wanted the workout.”
You roll your eyes. “You literally surfed for five hours.”
“Still.”
“You’re insane.”
The water shallows enough that his feet start touching sand between waves. The change seems subtle at first, then his kicks turn into long strides, body rising higher with each step.
Your arms tighten automatically around his neck, your legs around his waist, as the ocean stops buoying you both.
The sun hits the water behind him, reflecting up into his face in flashes. It makes the blue of his eyes stupidly bright when he glances down to watch his footing,
“Careful,” you mumble, suddenly more awake.
“I got you.”
Another wave rolls in and breaks around his waist. He steadies himself without bothering to look, his grip on you tightening instinctively so you don’t slip. By the time you reach the wet sand, the sun feels hotter.
Rafe doesn’t put you down immediately, walking up the beach, past the place where most people would’ve stopped.
You lift your head again.
“Rafe.”
“Yeah?”
“You can let me down.” You glance back toward the water, where the others are still scattered across the break. “They’re gonna see.”
“They already saw me dragging two boards and you across the Atlantic,” he says dryly. “I think the damage is done.”
Fair. Still, you wiggle a little in his arms. “My leg isn’t that bad.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s not!”
You're sixteen again, on a summer afternoon, with his sunburned shoulders. Rafe is carrying you somewhere because you twisted an ankle again, jumping off the dock, or stepped on something sharp, or refused to walk out of stubbornness.
Eventually, he reaches the pile of towels and bags everyone abandoned earlier. He lowers you slowly onto one of the towels, careful with your leg.
You sit there blinking up at him while he crouches to unclip the board leashes. Your brain, traitorous thing that it is, immediately takes note of how the movement complements the muscles in his back.
The boards drop onto the sand beside you with muffled thumps.
Rafe straightens, pushing hair back out of his face; it's always darker when it’s wet, sticking to his temples, before he shakes them for good measure, with a small toss of his head.
It leaves his forehead exposed for a second before the wind pushes a piece forward again.
“Does it still hurt?"
You flex your leg experimentally, and it still aches, but it’s not the end of the world.
“A little."
Rafe's eyes stay on you a second longer, making sure. Satisfied, he grabs a bottle of water from the cooler and tosses it your way.
You catch it clumsily. “Thanks.”
You take a long drink, cold water shocking your system back to life. Meanwhile, Rafe drops down onto the towel beside you with a heavy exhale, stretching his legs out in front of him.
Sand sticks to the backs of his calves, and there’s a faint white scar near his ankle that you no longer remember the story behind.
You realize suddenly how quiet it is up here compared to out in the waves.
“Hey,” you say after a minute.
“Yeah?”
You nudge his knee with yours. “Thanks for not letting me drown.”
Even from the corner of your eye, you catch the way the sun lights up his face.
“Anytime, shortstack.”
You very deliberately look back at the water before your brain can start noticing how pretty he looks again, like the good friend you are.
it's a date gone wrong when you get into an argument with your aloof boyfriend. but will he save you when it counts?
genre/warnings:
tw. street harassment, catcalling. hurt/comfort, arguments and reconciliation, protective!megumi and fluff !
note:
i miss my emo boi :(
general masterlist
“Stay back!”
This is an utter plot twist. When you came out of your apartment today, all dolled up and ready to go on a date with your boyfriend, you never imagined you’d end up cornered by two creeps in a deserted alley.
“Easy, girl,” one of the guys in front of you cackled, lips curling into an unsettling sneer. “We’re just trying to get to know you better!”
“Listen— My boyfriend is super scary, you know!” you barked, willing yourself not to shake. “Now you better not come any closer or else—!”
“Or else what?” the other creep mocked with a snort. You gripped your umbrella—now your makeshift weapon—tightly, pointing it at him as a threat.
“Or else my boyfriend will be here in any minute and he’ll kick your ass!”
It was partly a lie you hoped sounded convincing, because how could Megumi suddenly show up and find you in this dingy alleyway... right after both of you had a petty disagreement in the middle of Shibuya's shopping district?
Oh lord, how you regretted raising your voice and running away from him earlier.
"You are late!" you scolded him heatedly as he yawned, showing up twenty minutes later than your agreed time. "Can't you at least text me beforehand? I'll match your time if you do!"
Megumi sighed, fixing you with a blank stare as he scratched his head. "My bad. I overslept. I rushed here so didn't think of it."
It was so easy for him to say, and you would've understood if it was the first time, but you had noticed this pattern over the past two weeks. Whenever you asked him out for dates, his face always soured, and he didn't bother to be on time. If you didn't know any better, you'd think he was reluctantly agreeing.
And by this point, you thought you knew better and that was really it.
Finally, you blurted out the burning accusation: "You never realize it, but it shows, you know? You never seem happy when we go out together."
He exhaled in exasperation, green eyes darkening at you. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly that."
It seemed he had run out of patience. Standing your ground, you braced for his next words. But the glare he sent your way and the words he spat pierced your tender heart more than you thought—
"You're always nagging. Can't you stop being annoying just once? What a pain."
Perhaps he was right, you were annoying him all this time and dealing with you was a pain. You could imagine it if you were in his place, but you couldn't handle the very implication that you had done so, and you screamed at his face:
"So be it then! Fushiguro, you are the worst!"
—and ran off with tears in your eyes, deserting him altogether.
You knew you weren’t exactly a model of maturity, but in your defense, it stung deeply that he saw you as annoying and a pain. What girlfriend wouldn’t be hurt by that?
Anyhow, you loitered near the Shibuya station afterwards, and at first you heard some catcalls you didn't really pay mind to. But when those two guys started whistling and edging closer, it hit you—you were their target.
You quickened your pace, turning down several corners, only to find yourself trapped in a dead end. Just how much worse could your day get?
"Aha, the girl says she has a boyfriend!" Creep #1 snickered, turning to Creep #2 with a smirk, before pretending to scan the area. "But I don’t see him?"
"Miss, I swear we’re not up to any trouble," Creep #2 chimed in, his eyes gleaming with a predatory delight. "Won’t you be our friend? You’re too pretty to be alone—this is Shibuya, after all!" he said, eyeing your legs and whistled. "And ooh, have I told you that skirt suits you well?"
These guys were straight-up perverts!
"Get lost!" you yelled, your fingers trembling as you swung the umbrella at him when he tried to close the distance. "Can’t you just leave me alone?!"
You were at your wits' end, and it was clear this situation wasn’t going to improve with them still blocking your way. You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing heart, and decided to do the only thing you could.
In hindsight, a stupid move—
You barreled towards the two of them with your umbrella—managing to push past them. For a moment, you thought you had a chance and ran as fast as you could—
"Ack!" —until you tripped and crashed on the ground.
You rose and immediately winced, looking down at the site where it hurt the most. Oh, you had scrapped your knees badly.
"Ahh, miss! Don't be too hasty~!" you heard the second guy's sing-song voice, and you really wanted to cry. Why did this have to happen to you?
"Don't come c-closer!" you stammered, backing away as they approached. Your whole body shook, desperately trying to think of ways to save yourself. "Or— I'll scream!"
"Whoa, whoa, wait just a minute! Why don't you just—"
You really thought you would scream, until suddenly the familiar scent of mint filled your sense and a strong arm pulled you from behind, and a broad back shielded your view from them—
"What do you need from her?" Megumi's voice boomed, his eyes glaring at the two men who had been harassing you. His breathing was ragged, as if he had run all the way here. "Fuck off."
At that moment, you couldn't help clutching his sleeve, hiding behind him further as you kept trembling. Megumi sensed it, and turned over to have a look over you—
You looked disheveled, spooked, and his eyes widened when he saw the blood trailing down both of your knees.
"Hey man, your girlfriend practically asked for it! Just look how she is dressed—"
Before you could process what was happening, Megumi had yanked the man by his collar and thrown a punch at him. You yelped and immediately got a hold of his arm to stop him further. "Megumi!"
The other guy quickly caught his friend, who spat out a string of curses, his lips bloodied from the punch.
"Fuck. Off." Megumi glowered at them, and they finally got the message, scurrying away in hurry. The moment they did, he faced you again and you finally let out a sob, throwing yourself into him. His body was warm, his heart pounding hard— yet it meant reassurance for you.
"Are you okay...?" his voice was noticeably softer as he wrapped his arms around you and returned the hug. "Did they touch you—?"
Megumi froze when he felt his chest dampen with your tears and heard your sniffles, your figure shaking like a leaf in his embrace. A wave of guilt washed over him, realizing how scared you must have been. Instinctively, he held you tighter.
"I'm sorry... I'm sorry," he muttered, his breath warm against your ear. It was as if there was an invincible knife that twisted his chest when it dawned on him what you just got into. "I'm here now, okay? You're safe now."
If it weren’t for his harsh words earlier, you wouldn’t have run off. He kept shushing you, his own heart breaking at the turn of events.
And when you nodded against him, he knew he had to make it up to you somehow.
Later, Megumi tended to your minor injury while crouching down before you, as you sat on a bench near the convenience store where he had picked up the first aid kit.
Your eyes were swollen, your outfit was dirtied, but you ignored the curious looks from passersby. Still shaken, you kept your gaze fixed on your lap.
You recoiled when the disinfectant touched your torn skin, tears welling up again in your eyes. "Ow..."
"It'll hurt just a bit," Megumi looked up at you worriedly, seeing you struggling to hold back tears. He gently blew air on your wound. "It’ll be over soon."
Megumi noticed how you were uncharacteristically quiet. Between the two of you, you were the chatty one and he was the silent listener. But now, you were completely silent, and he knew it was definitely not a good sign.
And so he thought it was a good time to finally explain himself. With a sigh, he began. "I... was on back-to-back missions last week."
You glanced at him, both surprised and confused.
“I was so burnt out— that’s why I’ve been oversleeping lately. Sorry for not meeting you on time.” Megumi applied the ointment to your knees, and you stiffened from the sting. He blew air on them again to ease the discomfort.
"You never told me," you pointed out.
“Yeah, uh, sorry...” he winced. “It’s so... lame. I’ve been exhausted for a week straight whereas Itadori bounces back so easily. Stupid, I know.”
"You... didn't tell me because you don't want to look uncool?"
As soon as you worded it that way, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Megumi remained silent, looking down, and you knew that his silence was a definite yes.
Totally stupid. But exactly how Fushiguro Megumi was always wired. A part of you was exasperated, but also forgave him for it.
When he met your gaze again, he finally saw the light returning to your eyes. It was a relief to him, so he let out a small sigh and put on a strained smile.
"How did you find me anyway?" you asked quietly.
"You didn't pick up my calls. I was worried. And then I ran around until I heard your voice." His eyes narrowed into a frown. "Did they do anything to you?"
You shook your head, and Megumi let out the breath he had been holding, gripping your right hand in his. "I’m glad."
You brushed away the trace of tears on your cheeks as he finished applying band-aids to your knees, awkwardly fiddling with your fingers.
"Sorry for being annoying," you mumbled softly, not meeting his eyes, feeling yourself so small all of a sudden. "Will totally happen again though."
"You..." Unwittingly, he cracked a smile at your blatant remark. "Just... don’t run off again, dummy. Do it where I can see you."
He ruffled your hair gently, then intertwined your fingers with his. "And sorry... for getting mad at you too."
Your cheeks felt warm, so you looked away, puckering your lips together. "...I'm hurt. You have to make it up to me."
He hummed, the beginnings of a smile on his face. "Let's go have that shaved ice you’ve been craving then."
“Huh? You remembered! But you don’t like them?”
“You like that kind of sugar dump, don’t you?”
Hand-in-hand, both of you traversed the Shibuya shopping district together. Your eyes were still puffy, but you were smiling and talking his ears off again just like you always did.
“I told those pricks my boyfriend will definitely kick their asses,” you giggled to yourself, swinging your joined hands in joy. “And you really did~”
“What are you talking about…?”
Sometimes you were beyond his comprehension. Sometimes you were also cute beyond comparison.
And Megumi thought... he liked you the best this way.
hiiii! sorry english isn’t my first language, so i might have a limited vocabulary and make some grammar mistakes.
could i request a story where Rafe is busy in his study and the reader is clingy and wants to be close to Rafe all the time? Rafe accidentally snaps at her and eventually she gives in, giving Rafe some space like he wants, but then Rafe feels guilty after he snapped.
thanks in advance love! ❤
a/n: hiii, you’re totally okay, your english is great, don’t worry at all 🫶 and i love this idea
it starts small. it always does with you.
rafe’s in his study, door half open, papers spread across his desk like something important—something that has his full attention.
he’s been in there for hours. you noticed and you don’t mean to be clingy.
you just like being near him. even if he’s not talking. even if he’s busy. even if all you’re doing is sitting on the couch, scrolling on your phone while he works.
it’s not about attention. it’s about him. so you knock softly, barely even a sound. “rafe?”
he hums in response, not looking up. that’s your invitation. you slip inside quietly, like you don’t want to disturb anything. your steps are light, careful, like you’re entering something fragile. “can i sit in here?” you ask, already moving toward the couch.
“yeah, sure,” he mutters, still focused.
you sit curled up, glancing over at him every now and then. he’s concentrated, brows slightly furrowed, pen tapping against the desk in that way he does when he’s thinking. you love watching him like this.
but then you miss him. it’s a subtle feeling at first. he’s right there, only a few feet away but he’s not with you.
“rafe?” you say softly.
no response this time. he’s too focused. you hesitate, then get up, padding over to his desk. “hey,” you murmur, leaning lightly against the edge.
he glances up briefly. “yeah?”
“nothing,” you smile. “just… hi.”
he huffs out a quiet breath. “hi, baby.”
and then he’s looking back down again so you linger. just for a second. “what are you working on?” you press.
“stuff.” he replies shortly. it's your sign: you should go back to the couch. you know you should. but instead, you stay.
you reach out, gently brushing your fingers over his arm. it’s instinct. something you’ve done a hundred times before.and that’s when it happens.
“can you not?”
his voice is sharper than you’ve ever heard it. you freeze. your hand stills against him before you pull it back like you’ve been burned. he sighs immediately after, rubbing his face. “i just—i need to focus, okay? you keep interrupting.”
it’s not yelling. it’s not even that loud. it's not even that deep, and still you wince like you got hit.
he doesn’t notice or maybe he does, but he’s too frustrated to react to it. “just—give me a bit, yeah?”
“yeah. sorry.”
you don’t go back to the couch, closing the door a little more than it was before.
rafe doesn’t notice right away. he goes back to his work, trying to pick up where he left off but something feels off.
it takes him a few minutes, maybe more before it clicks. you didn’t come back.
he frowns, glancing toward the couch. empty. that’s when the guilt starts to settle in.
he replays it in his head. your voice. soft and careful, with no intent to piss him off. the way you said “just hi.”
the way you touched him like it was something natural. something safe and the way he snapped. “shit,” he mutters under his breath.
he pushes his chair back, running a hand through his hair because it wasn’t just that you interrupted him. you always interrupt him. you always come in, sit close, ask little questions, touch his arm like you need to remind yourself he’s there.
and he’s never had a problem with it before. not really. so why now? well, he already knows the answer. stress. pressure. whatever he’s dealing with—it doesn’t matter.
none of it had anything to do with you and he took it out on you anyway. when he steps out into the hallway, it’s quiet.
he finds you in the bedroom. you’re sitting on the edge of the bed, curled up on the side and reading a book.
you look up when he walks in and you smile. that’s the worst part. “hey,” you say softly like nothing happened.
“hey…”
there's a pause and so you fill it before he can. “i’ll leave you alone, okay? i didn’t mean to bother you. i just—” you shrug a little, eyes dropping. “i know you need space sometimes.”
that word again. space. he hates how easily you give it to him now after everything.
“hey,” he says again, stepping closer. “no, don’t—”
“it’s okay,” you interrupt gently. “really. i get it.”
you don’t. that’s the problem. you think this is your fault. “it’s not okay,” he says, more firmly this time.
you look up, surprised.
“i shouldn’t have snapped at you like that.”
you hesitate. “you were busy.”
“doesn’t matter.” his voice softens. “you weren’t doing anything wrong.”
that makes something in your expression shift. “i was kind of bothering you,” you admit quietly.
he shakes his head immediately. “no. you were… being you.”
and there’s something in the way he says it—something almost regretful like that’s exactly what he misses already.
you swallow. “i can give you space, though. if you need it.”
he exhales, sitting down in front of you. “i don’t want space from you.”
your brows knit slightly. “but you just—”
“i know what i just did,” he cuts in, softer now. “and i’m sorry.”
you search his face, like you’re trying to figure out which version of him is real. the one who snapped or the one sitting here now, looking at you like he regrets it more than anything. “i didn’t mean it like that,” he continues. “i was frustrated, and i took it out on you. that’s on me.”
you don’t answer right away and he lets the silence sit this time. doesn’t rush you through it. “i just like being near you,” you say eventually, voice small.
he nods. “i know.”
“i’m not trying to be annoying.”
“hey,” he murmurs, reaching for your hands. “you’re not annoying.”
you let him hold them, but there’s hesitation there now.
“come here,” he says softly.
you hesitate for half a second then lean into him. his arms wrap around you immediately, pulling you closer, tighter than usual like he’s making up for something.
“you can sit with me,” he murmurs into your hair. “even when i’m working. you always can.”
“even if i interrupt?” you ask quietly.
he huffs out a small, guilty laugh. “yeah. even then.”
.𖥔 ݁ ˖ » RAFE MAKES YOU SQUIRT FOR THE FIRST TIME.
"jus' lay there baby, yeah?" rafe cooed, pounding into you from behind, his hand bracing you on the small of your back. "gonna make you take it."
rafes stroke game is award worthy. he's rocking his hips back and forth, hitting all the right angles. "mmmmph" you sob out into the pillow where your head was buried.
"i know baby, i know." he comforts you as he thrusts deeper. you drool into the pillow as he drills you. "you like that dick in your guts? hmm?" rafe asks.
theres not a single thought in your brain. you moan in response to his question. "fucking answer me." he grunts, slowing his thrusts, making them deeper, harder.
"love it s'much!" you squeak out. he resumes his punishing deep, fast strokes. each thrust punching the air out of your lungs.
"can tell. your fucking creaming round' my dick." rafe mutters. he desperately tries not to look at where you connect, knowing he'll cum from the sight of your pearlescent cream collecting at his base.
after one particularly deep thrust you feel his mushroom tip thump against your sweet spot, over and over again. "that the spot? your fuckin' suffocating my cock baby." you nod feverishly, nearing your orgasm.
"cum baby. fuckin' cum around my dick y'hear me?" he thrusts harder and faster. the room now being filled with the constant sounds of plap plap plap plap.
"ohhhh" you shake, your vision going white hot as your toes curl and you squirt around rafe. "ohh fuck, s'so wet. im gonna cum, gonna-" rafe moans loudly as he plants one of his feet up on the bed to get a better angle, fucking you both through your orgasms.
his thrusts slow, before coming to a complete halt. rafe groans when he pulls out of you, his softening cock still twitching. he spreads you open as he watches your mixed cum leak out of you.
"m'sorry." you mutter, voice groggy from all of the screaming you'd done. "fuck are you talkin' about?" he sighs, laying down next to you.
"i've never- done that before. i didn't mean to-" you stutter. "are you fucking with me? that shit made me cum my brains out." he laughs.
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ language, pet names, reader was in a situationship with jj, toxic frat!jj, rafe’s a d1 yearner, choking, shower oral (m. receiving), first-time protected p in v, jealousy, possessiveness, praise + exhibitionism
5,039 words
You catch yourself smiling at your phone and immediately roll over, pressing your face into your pillow like that is going to erase it. Your cheeks are warm, and you hate it.
You did not want to do this. You wanted a minute to be by yourself and reset, not get pulled into something else the second things ended.
The worst part is that it’s working. He’s charming you without even trying, and you can feel it happening in real time, which only makes you more annoyed with yourself.
You pause for a second, reading his message again, because he is not even trying to hide it. He’s being direct about what he wants, and somehow that feels more comforting than anything else.
You’ve always had a thing for Rafe Cameron, even when you tried to ignore it. JJ never treated this like it was something real, and now you know why. He was hooking up with one of your sorority sisters the entire time and still acting like you were supposed to be okay with it.
It is nice to finally feel wanted, especially by Rafe.
The knock barely lands before you’re flinging the door open, breathless and excited. Your pulse jumps the second you see him—the man flushed and grinning, his hand still lifted mid-knock.
You don’t even say hello. Grabbing the front of his shirt instead, you drag him to your lips. Rafe’s big arms wrap around you in one smooth motion as he lifts you clean off your feet. Your legs hook around his waist as his mouth crashes into yours, stealing your breath as you kiss him for the very first time—riding high off the feeling that you’ve been waiting for this exact moment longer than you ever let yourself admit.
The kiss is messy and deep, all tongue and heat, breathless laughter whispering in the spaces between as he carries you inside, kicking the door shut behind him with his heel.
“Fuck,” he murmurs as he breaks the kiss, reaching for breath, his voice low and thick.
He turns and presses your back against the wall, his body settling against yours with a heavy weight that makes your breath catch as your spine meets it. His mouth drags along your jaw before finding your lips again, teasing you with a kiss before drawing back ever so slightly, leaving you chasing his lips.
“You sure?” He whispers.
“I need it,” you breathe back, the words coming out soft and breathless against his mouth. “I need you.”
He takes his turn smiling into the kiss, sending chills down your spine, cocky and stunned all at once. He dips in again, kissing you slower this time, deep enough to make your head spin and everything else fall away.
“Need it, huh?” He mumbles. “Need what?”
“You,” you breathe. He lets out a low laugh against your skin before he sets you to your feet, your body still pinned against the wall, his rough hand cupping your cheek as the other holds you close, kissing you again.
“Still need that shower?” He murmurs into the kiss.
“Mhmm,” you answer softly. “Do you?”
“You kiddin’ me?” He says as his hand wraps around your waist, the other gripping your ass, pulling you off the floor, into his arms again.
Your head swims as you kiss your way to the bathroom; your body melting into him, legs wrapping around his waist. Light spills in from the bedroom, leaving the bathroom half-lit.
He sets you down on the edge of the countertop, the cool top sending shivers up your spine as your upper thighs press on top of it. Rafe presses in closer, widening your thighs, looking down at the slight space between you—the soft fabric of your shorts shifting just enough to give him a teasing glimpse underneath.
He shakes off his jacket, his clothes falling with a thud to the floor. Your hands skate around his waist while your tongue sweeps along his, your fingers curling into the hem of his shirt as you pull him closer.
He tugs the shirt over his head in one smooth motion, already leaning back toward you, chain swinging between you. You hum a satisfied sound against your kiss; your fingers tracing down every dip and line of his cut abs, sliding lower, teasing the skin just under his waistband, leaving him yanking at his belt for more.
His pants drop to the floor, the belt clattering as your hands reach for him. Your fingers rake up into his hair, pulling him back into another kiss, deeper this time, and the two of you move toward the shower.
Rafe pushes open the glass shower door, twisting the knob, sending water hissing out of the head, pattering onto the floor. His cock presses heavy against his briefs, long and thick, his tip weeping against the thin fabric.
His hands move over your body, dragging up your thighs, bunching the material in his fists, before drifting up your back. He smiles as he brushes the satin straps off your shoulders.
He exhales as your set falls off your body, leaving you in next to nothing—lace hugging the swells of your breasts, his thumbs quickly hooking and snapping your panties teasingly against your hips.
“Look at you, huh?” He murmurs, smiling when your arms wrap around his neck. He tilts down, kissing you as the steam starts to rise around you, the heavy heat and moisture clinging to your skin and his.
He tugs at your panties—caught on the discarded clothes on the floor, his greedy hands pinching the clasp of your bra, undoing that as well.
There’s a split second where he just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re actually standing there letting him this close. “You fuckin’ kidding me?” He mutters hungrily under his breath, helping you hastily as you reach for the band of his boxers, pulling them down his strong thighs.
You look down, the two of you watching as your fingers curl around his long, thick dick. The ridges of his abs cut more as you stroke, letting his messy tip brush against your warm skin, dangerously close to your clit—close enough that he could scoop you up and take what he wants, but you can tell he’s holding back.
“Stop teasin’ me,” he mumbles, through the thick air between you, the corners of his lips curving into a smile, contrasting his dark words.
His hand wraps around the back of your neck, pulling you toward the shower and into his lips as you stumble past the glass. You gasp when the water hits your skin, whimper into his mouth when he backs you into the tile.
“You gotta stop me,” he mutters, his voice rough and deep.
His breath catches the moment your hand moves between you again; fingers closing around him as you smile.
“Goddamn,” he moans, the sound echoing around you before his forehead drops, resting against yours.
“Let me make you feel good, Rafe,” you whisper, unable to see his lips for how close you are but you can hear how his breathing quickens, the hold on your body tightening.
“Anything—Do anything you want to me,” he breathes as your lips kiss down his neck, brushing over his collarbone, his chain cool against your lips as your hands follow the water down his body.
It hits you all at once, somewhere between your hands on him and the heat of the water—how easy this feels, how right, like you skipped all the parts that were supposed to be complicated and landed exactly where you wanted to be.
You follow the line of his stomach, your tongue tracing lightly over his skin as you sink to your knees in front of him. Water wicks off your lashes when you look up at him.
“Fuck…” He murmurs; head tipping back against the tile as the water runs through his hair and down over his broad shoulders.
You look up at him through the rising steam, watching as his jaw tightens the moment your hands settle on his thighs, nails tracing over his skin, his body going tense when your mouth hovers close enough for him to feel your breath.
You press a slow kiss to one hip and then the other, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides while he watches you. And you just know if you were his, he’d be putting you right where he needs you—just a fantasy for another night.
“You’re really gonna do this?” He asks needily, words trailing off when you press a kiss on his tip, swirling your tongue around the fat head of his cock. His hips twitch forward before he can stop them, one of his hands coming to rest at the back of your head, holding you there, urging you forward as his eyes roll back.
You hum softly around him as your hand moves over him, the sounds of his pleasure running straight through you, and you haven't even taken more than the tip. His head lolls back against the bathroom wall while his hips push forward at a steady pace, getting deeper and deeper as your tongue toys with him.
“Oh my God,” he breathes, dragging a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself together. “Fuck, baby, I…”
You let out a quiet laugh against him as the words die on his tongue the moment you start to suck, the warmth of your mouth making him shudder as your hand keeps stroking.
“You feel unreal,” he says quietly, his voice rough around the edges. “So good—so fucking good.”
The muscles in his thick thighs tremble as you gag on him, water sliding down your back, the tears that had started to pool on your waterline and roll down your cheeks, catching the off warm water as it bounces off his tan skin.
“Shit,” he rasps as his mouth falls open in pleasure, water dripping off his bottom lip, one hand holding your head, the other gripping the shower bar for support. “What are you doing to me, baby…”
“Tell me to stop,” you tease softly. “I will.”
“Stop?” He breathes as your lips wrap around him again, sucking and sliding along his thick dick. “Fuck, don’t—don’t fucking stop.” His jaw tightens; eyes hooded as he looks down at you, a slow, dangerous smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
He starts to move his hips, slow and shallow at first, his rhythm growing steadier with each stroke, watching your mouth take him in. You moan around him, and the sound all but tipping him over the edge.
“Ohhh fuck, there it is,” he groans, letting his hips shift again, this time with a little more force as your hands drift back. Your fingers claw into his thighs, urging him to use you. “You like that?” He asks, his voice dropping low. “You like when I use you like this, huh?”
His movements stay fluid as the steam thickens around you, his chain swaying with each measured rock of his hips.
“Look at me,” he mutters.
Your nails dig into the back of his legs as they tremble, his cock swelling on your tongue.
“Jesus, baby…” He moans as his head thumps back against the tile and his jaw tightens. “I—I’m gonna cum.” His voice breaks, bouncing off the shower walls. “Wh-What… Fuck. What do you want me to do with it?”
Your eyes never leave him as you take him deep, your tongue tracing the underside of his cock, and that is all it takes. A strangled moan tears out of him as his hands fly to your head, holding you in place.
His muscles pull tight as he spills into your mouth, his abs contracting; thighs shaking, head dropping forward.
He looks down at you through half-lidded eyes, watching you take everything he gives you, lip tucking between his teeth when you suck just a little longer, overstimulation leaving his fingers curling in your wet hair.
The breathless laugh that leaves his throat is everything; satisfied, smug, and thankful all in the same breath, like he’s just waiting to wake up.
His hold loosens, cock sliding out of your spit-slicked lips. You shiver as his hands slide over your ribs, drawing you closer. Hot water pours down your body and his—his breathing still heavy as his eyes search yours.
“Thank you,” he mumbles against your mouth as his muscles tremble around you, that same hung-smile painted on his lips.
“Of course,” you whisper, kissing him tenderly. You can feel his lips twitch against yours, like he wants to ask you something, he just doesn't know how far he can take this. “Rafe…”
“Yes, Ma’am,” he hums, his words buzzing against your lips as his hand comes up to cradle your cheek.
“How far?”
“How far what, sweetheart?” He asks, and you laugh like he wasn’t hoping to guide you right where you ended as your fingers trace down his spine.
“How far did you want to take this?” You ask.
“As far as you let me,” he answers easily. “Told you, you were gonna have to stop me—”
“I don't wanna stop,” you breathe into your kiss.
“That’s not really an answer, pretty,” he mumbles, grabbing a fistful of hair, using his hold to guide you to his lips. “You won’t hurt my feelings. Hell, I got good hands.” His rough fingers slide between your thighs, pressing against your pussy, making you gasp against his lips. “M’really good at eating pussy,” he mumbles, swallowing the little sounds that slip your lips as he starts to circle his fingers on top, the words low and shameless. “Swear to God.”
“Rafe…” You breathe as you pull away, just enough. “Fuck me.”
“Holy shit,” he mutters against your mouth, the words thick with satisfaction and a smugness he does not bother hiding. “That’s what you want, huh?”
“You gonna make me wait?” You whisper against his lips.
“Fuck me… No. No—hell no.” He stumbles over his words as you question him, ragged and eager. “You’re not waiting for shit from me—you sure?” The rush of water stops in an instant, Rafe quickly taking you back in his arms before he can get another word out.
Your arms wrap around his neck, and your legs around his waist as he steps out with you; your fingers scratching up into his damp hair as he licks his lips, his eyes locked on yours through the sliver of space in between.
“Condom?” He asks.
“By the sink,” you whisper.
You kiss all the way to the sink, messy and impatient, his feet slapping wet against the floor as he walks. One hand braces under your thighs while the other taps blindly across the counter for a condom, fingers finally finding the foil packet; letting out a quiet groan of relief against your mouth.
You giggle against his lips and he smiles against yours, slowing his pace just enough to walk into the bedroom, the two of you still soaking wet. Too desperate to think about drying off, just desperate for what comes next. “Fuck,” he groans softly. “I cannot wait to fuck you—” Knock. Knock.
Your head snaps toward the door, stomach sinking as everything suddenly goes quiet.
“Probably just one of the girls,” you whisper, even though your better judgment tells you it’s not true.
Knock. Knock. Knock. A fist pounds against the wood on the other side of the door as Rafe’s lips meet your neck, licking and sucking down on your pulse point like your word was good as gold.
“Rafe—”
“S’fine,” he stops you, kissing up to your ear. “Just one of the girls—”
“Open… the goddamn door,” you hear JJ’s voice on the other side making chills fall down your spine, the water on your hot skin suddenly feeling cold.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Rafe mutters as your heart starts to race again for a completely different reason entirely.
“Shh,” you plead, searching for his eyes, making a silent plea for his temper not to get the better of him—for him to tell Maybank to ‘fuck off’ and stir the pot like you know he loves to do. The utterance leaves your lips as you slide down from his arms, moving toward the door on unsteady legs, water dripping off your naked body onto the floor.
Rafe follows close behind you without thinking about it, his palm resting on your hip possessively. You hold your breath nervously as you near the door, a wave of nerves crashing over you the second you hear him mumbling.
“Rafe…” You whisper, looking back over your shoulder, finding him with not one care in the world—his entire focus lost in you. He knows it’s JJ. He knew it the second the first knock landed but he also knows there's nothing his frat brother can do about it.
The backs of your legs brush his as he steps in close behind you, his stiff cock brushing snug between your thighs; the condom bit between his teeth, as his eyes trace from your ass, following the sway of your back, up to your lips.
He lets out this quiet, almost disbelieving breath, like this has been playing out in his head for so long he’s still catching up to the fact that it’s actually happening.
His fingers tighten as he guides you back, arching your spine, pressing your ass into him more. Knock. Knock. JJ’s fist lands against the threshold again, making you gasp. “—Hey, baby?” JJ calls from the other side and your eyes widen on Rafe’s.
“Baby? Who the fuck’s callin’ you baby, huh?” Rafe asks through the corner of his mouth, warm and casual, reaching up to pinch the edge of the condom wrapper before he tears it nice and slow.
“Open the fucking door,” JJ mutters as Rafe spits the wrapper to the floor, shaking his head.
“You want me to stop?” Rafe asks as he draws back his hips and lowers the condom. “Tell me to stop and I will—”
“I’m not gonna ask again, alright? Open the fucking door,” JJ snarls but you're already turning around, your back pressed against it, taking the condom off Rafe’s hands.
“Don’t stop,” you whisper, making Rafe suck in a sharp breath as you press it against the tip of his cock, rolling it on with your eyes locked on his. He grabs your hips, turning you fast, your hands landing against the door with a thud.
“Sweetheart?” JJ voice breaks at the sound.
“Go—” That’s all you manage before Rafe pushes into you in one slow, steady stroke. A strangled sound catches in your throat and your hand flies back, grabbing his wrist where it locks tight around your hip while your other hand clamps over your mouth.
“Go?” He snaps from the hallway. “One fucking word. That’s all I get?”
“—Yeah, that's all he fuckin’ gets,” Rafe murmurs softly against your skin as he steps in, his lips finding your ear, cock buried inside you, his voice low and satisfied. “Pussy’s so damn good. Fuck me.”
Your head falls back against him at the way he stretches you wide, his big hand locks around your neck, drifting higher, making your hands fall away, turning your face so your lips find his.
“Just—Just leave,” your words breathe out against Rafe’s lips. He rocks back, making you whimper, his lips pressing against yours to swallow your sounds as he pushes back in again.
“I know he’s in there,” JJ seethes. “Cleo saw him walkin’ inside. He thinks he’s slick.” His fist bangs against the door again, making it rattle on the frame. “Open the fucking door, Cameron.”
“Want me to say somethin’ or do you want to keep going?” Rafe asks again, smiling against your lips as you breathe out, “keep going,” hearing just how wet he has you, the sounds of your pleasure filling your room.
“I’m not leaving until he comes out.”
You gasp when Rafe pulls away without warning, your whole body tightening at the sudden loss, until he turns you around in one easy motion and lifts you. He steps twice, pressing your back against the wood door. His tongue runs along his bottom lip with his eyes locked on yours.
“You know how good it would feel to pound you into this door right now?” He whispers as he adjusts, lifting you just enough to find your entrance, your eyes softening on him when he lets gravity do the work, your body sinking down on his cock with you held in his arms taking all of it. “So pretty taking my dick,” he whispers, burying himself in your neck, being careful as he thrusts up into you but you know it has to be making some sound on the other side.
“You’re being irrational—” Bang.
You cut off JJ’s words, letting your fist slam against the door this time, making both men stop for a moment. “You can leave or listen, JJ. Honestly I don’t give a shit—”
“Listen? Listen are you fucking kidding me?” JJ spits as Rafe chuckles just under his breath at your words and JJ’s reaction, unable to keep it in any longer. “You do anything with Cameron and we’re done!”
“Well shit… Who’s gonna tell him?” Rafe mutters, just loud enough for you to hear—just loud enough that it might carry through the wood like he hopes it does. And it does.
“Leave, Maybank,” Rafe hums, like it’s an afterthought—like he’s knee deep in better things to do. “You’re embarrassing yourself.”
“Talkin’ shit behind a locked door like a fucking pussy… very Rafe of you, Rafe.”
“Maybe it would be good for him to hear, hmm?” Rafe asks, throwing his hips up hard and final, leaving your fingers clawing into his skin and his name whimpering past your lips. “Shh…” Rafe teases you as he dives in for a kiss, harder this time, drawing you off the wall and toward the bed.
He lays you back on the mattress, his broad hands spreading your thighs as his mouth drags over your chest. Rafe only laughs, low and rough, not the least bit concerned as JJ continues his tantrum and threats outside.
Rafe leans over you, fists curling around the backs of your thighs as he presses them up toward your chest. “Be good and hold ‘em,” he breathes before his cock slides through your folds, slick and warm, teasing you as his eyes drink you in.
“Rafe,” you whine, pleading sweetly for more.
He shakes his head and smiles, lost somewhere on cloud nine. “Sure this is okay?” He asks like you weren't just begging for him, smacking his tip against your clit making your hips lift off the mattress.
“Yes, fuck.” Your breath catches, lips parting as he traces your slit, falling open completely as a soft sound slips past your lips as he pushes in, stretching you wide and full, your shaky hands resting gently on his hips when you take him all.
He lowers your legs gently and tilts in to kiss you, deep and unhurried, his rough hands sliding around your hips to draw you closer before he draws back, thrusting into you again.
Your hands lift to cradle his face mewling into his mouth when he thrust deeper, finding that place inside you that makes your mind shut off.
He groans into your kiss as your pussy tightens around him, his forehead comes to rest against yours—his breath warm and uneven against your lips.
And then, it's just you. The heat between your bodies, the pressure between your thighs, the pleasure climbing with your heartbeat, higher by the second.
Rafe’s hand slides down your thighs as he shifts his weight, and before you can quite catch your breath he rolls, turning the two of you in one smooth motion, guiding you over until you are straddling him.
You let out a soft laugh of surprise as you settle on top, your hands landing instinctively against the solid plane of his chest. His hair’s damp and pushed back from his forehead, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady pulls of air as his chain glitters around his throat.
“Jesus,” he murmurs, his voice rough with awe. “Look so good on top of me, you know that?”
You shift your weight and he groans low in his throat, his hands tightening on your hips as you circle them.
“That’s it,” he breathes, his hands guiding you gently. “Easy, baby. Just like that.”
Your nails dig into his chest as you begin to move, slow and steady at first, your body finding its rhythm while his muscles tense beneath your palms, his mouth falling open.
“Fuck,” he exhales. “You move like you were made for me.”
Your hands drift a little higher, thumb resting the hollow of his throat with your hands wrapping and squeezing just enough to make his eyes roll back in his skull.
“Holy—Holy shit. Tight… Tighter,” he moans as you ride him, your hips finding a deeper rhythm, and his eyes fluttering open just enough to find yours, fighting to stay open like he doesn’t want to miss a second of it.
“Rafe, I—” You start but he can already feel the way your body squeezes around him and your thighs tremble, grabbing for you, switching positions before sinking into you again.
Your fingers twist into the sheets as he grips you by your hips, drilling into you again and again until your back arches, and your pussy gushes, cumming around his while he does everything he can do to keep his pace, but it feels too fucking good.
Your body softens slightly as his dick throbs inside you, filling the condom with his head thrown back and his muscles cut tight to keep himself as deep as he can go.
“Holy shit,” he says softly, a quiet kind of disbelief in his voice breaking with pleasure. “You got no idea how—” His words drift away as he draws in a deep, needed breath, blowing it out with a satisfied smile. “You got no idea how long I wanted that.”
“Yeah?” You giggle, feeling your entire body warm when he looks at you like he means every word—like he’d say more if he could get it out.
He leans down and presses a slow kiss to your mouth, tender and deep as his rough thumb traces your cheek. “How was that?” He asks, quiet now, a smile pulling against your lips.
“Amazing.” Your voice is small but honest when your lips brush against his. “I’ve never cum like that before.”
He pulls away just enough to make sure he heard what he thought he heard, exhaling a short, breathy laugh and drops his head to your neck.
“Baby,” he murmurs. “Why the fuck would you tell me that?” His head turns, lips finding your neck, pressing his mouth to your skin as your fingers drift into his hair. “It’s gonna kill me not to bring that shit up.”
“Don’t.”
He groans again, pained and dramatic as ever. “How the fuck am I supposed to keep that to myself?”
“Please tell me you didn’t actually plan to bring that up.”
“I mean…” He mumbles, already picturing it. You pull him out of the fantasy, tugging playfully at his hair. “Please tell me you faked it with him.”
You hesitate for half a second before glancing away, lips twitching. “Rafe, c’mon,” you sigh, unable to answer—too bitter to lie.
“You’re shittin’ me?”
He pulls back to look at you and your features sharpen, threatening him with a look. “That stays between us.”
“Us?” He asks as he closes the space between your lips, kissing you softly.
“Us,” you whisper. “I’m not rushing into anything, Rafe.”
“Nah. No,” he breathes into your kiss as it gets a little deeper, his hand coming up to cradle your head. “I’m not—I mean… I wouldn’t want to pressure you into being mine or anything—”
“You’re so convincing,” you giggle against his lips and he sighs. “Haven’t even taken me on our date yet—”
“Shit’s planned though. Tomorrow. Tomorrow night, you and me?”
“I swore off frat guys though,” you mumble.
“Mmm,” he hums. “How’s that workin’ out for you, sweetheart?”
“Fuck you,” you giggle, smacking him playfully before he squeezes you tight.
“Fuck me, huh?” He teases, the warmth of his words ghosting against your jaw. “At least let me pull out first, yeah?”
“You’re so annoying,” you laugh.
“Yeah?” He grins. “You told me to come over… good luck getting rid of me now.”
“I did,” you whisper. “But, yeah… tomorrow.”
The corner of his lips curl into a smile as he hears exactly what he wanted to hear. “You won’t regret it. I promise.”
Everything in the room starts to settle, the party at the frat house next door still raging, the steady bass of the music thumping. But, Rafe’s still here, he hasn’t left, completely content with you in his arms.
He pulls out slowly, stepping out of the room, coming back in with a warm, wet towel and no plans to leave, and you can’t help but smile. He looks down at you, waiting for an invitation to step back in, breathing out a sigh of relief when you draw back the covers.
The towel moves between your legs, running up the inside of your thighs. His lips twitch at the corner again, like it’s killing him not to say everything he’s ever wanted to say to you.
“Rafe?” You giggle under your breath, watching a rosy blush bloom on his cheeks.
“Yeah, pretty,” he mumbles under his breath.
“Just say it,” you sigh.
“I, uh—I probably shouldn’t walk out there right now.”
You roll your eyes and snort out a laugh, snuggling into your bed a little more as he lays his head down on the pillow next to you, his big hand resting on your thigh. “Why not?”
“Well,” he says, like he is thinking it through moving a little closer, “JJ’s out there somewhere, isn’t he?”
Your eyebrow arches as another laugh bubbles past your lips, Rafe no stranger to a fight or two, or five. “Rafe—“
“Guy sounded pretty pissed.”
“Thought you didn’t give a shit,” you remind him.
He looks back at you, eyes warm and amused before his big arm tightens around you just a little, drawing you closer against his chest.
“But staying,” he adds quietly, his mouth brushing your forehead, “seems like the safer option.”
“Mhmm,” you murmur.
“Don’t make me leave,” he pleads softly, joking but not entirely. His finger draws under your chin, tilting your lips toward his, waiting for an answer he can feel before it even leaves your lips.
ask ⌯⌲ I was thinking about an idea where reader and Rafe are playing an innocent game of two truths & a lie that turns into something slightly spicier… ?
c/w .ᐟ.ᐟ friends‑to‑lovers, jealousy, soft-for-her!rafe, angst/fluff/smut, unprotected p in v, love confessions, + pet names
2.9 K
You’re sitting on Rafe’s couch, in a borrowed hoodie, fingers absently carding through his fluffy hair. He’s lying on his back with his head in your lap, face glowing in the light of the TV as the movie plays.
You glance down, getting distracted for the nth time. Those stupid-long lashes, skin still flushed from the shower he stepped out of when you showed up. Your fingers curl around the ends of his hair; his chest rises and falls slower by the second, the man seconds away from mumbling, ‘this is exactly what he needed’ as he always does.
His hair’s still damp at the roots. His skin smells like whatever soap he stole from your place a while back you pretend not to miss. You could count the freckles across his nose if you weren’t so focused on the shape of his mouth.
Your nails scratch through the hair at the crown of his head, and he groans—his head falling deeper into your lap. He bites his bottom lip, holding back a smile, but the corners of his lips deceive him. “Shut up,” he murmurs as you giggle. “Feels so fuckin’ good. This is exactly what I needed.” You chuckle again and roll your eyes, trying to focus on the movie, but it’s no use.
“Nah. Keep doing that,” he mumbles, mimicking your fingers in his hands as they were, the moment you got “distracted” and changed course.
“Jesus, you’re ruined for your next girlfriend,” you sigh.
“Yeah. Yeah,” he murmurs—right as your phone buzzes beside you. You glance down, lips tugging to the side. Your disappointment’s obvious—of course he notices. “What?” He asks, voice rough and tired like he already knows. “JJ?”
You hesitate, pressing the lock screen as you blow out a breath. “It’s nothing—” You think about telling him. You always tell him everything. But the moment you open your mouth, the words twist around your tongue, too ashamed to speak.
“—Bullshit,” he cuts in with a knowing laugh. “He’s an asshole.”
“He’s not… You two just don’t get along.”
“Not true…”
“You’re kind of an asshole too,” you whisper.
“Yeah, but not to you,” he answers without a blink—without hesitation. “Never to you.”
“Very true,” you answer honestly as he reaches up, grabbing your wrist, placing your hand back on his hair, moving it in a circular motion so your nails start to glide again. “Fucking diva.”
“And?” He grins, smug and sure. “Love when you baby me.”
“You’re exhausting.”
“You love it,” he whispers and you hate how much you do. Hate how good he is at saying shit like that—easy and soft and just for you.
“So,” you start quietly, listening to your voice waver, but you can’t help but ask, it’s been on your mind for nights. “How’s it going with you and Blaire?” Rafe sucks his teeth, his annoyance doing nothing but easing your nerves. “Oh?” You ask, with a soft laugh that sounds like you care that it went bad.
“Not for me,” he breathes.
You nod, chewing the inside of your cheek, feeling like you can finally take a deep breath. A part of you wants to tease him—a part of you wanting to ask for more information on why she wasn’t a good fit—but the larger part of you wants to move on fast. To never bring it up again. To get his mind off her and on to something else. Someone.
Your heart flutters—relief coursing through your veins like hope you don’t have a right to feel.
But you can’t say it.
There’s so much you can’t say. Because what would happen if you talked about those last-night calls? What would happen if you brought up the text chain that never ended or the way your heart skips a beat when he remembers the little things that everyone else forgets? Or, how he makes you forget about everything and everyone else but him?
“Ya know JJ and I get along fine–” You pause mid-scratch; mid-thought, leaning down to look him in the eye with your brow raised. He smirks, cheeks a little pink, and shrugs—eyes glued to the TV.
“That,” you say flatly, “that was the worst lie you’ve ever told, Rafe Cameron.”
He snorts out a breath, neither confirming nor denying the obvious. “I don’t know. I just think you deserve better. We’re cordial—I guess. For you.”
“When I’m watching.”
“And, when you’re not,” he mumbles.
“Lies. Lies. Lies,” you whisper, tugging on his hair playfully. “You’re awful at lying.”
“You don’t know everything about me,” he mutters as he rolls onto his stomach, with his cheek pressed against your lap, eye locked on the screen still.
“I do–”
“Then prove it,” he pushes himself up, all offended like you’re disturbing his peace. “Right now, two truths and a lie, princess. C’mon, show me how well you know me.”
“Rafe, that is the most middle-school—”
“Scared?” He stops you before you can even start.
“Scared? No…” You chuckle breathily.
“Then go first,” he taunts, shooting you a boyish smirk that has your whole body buzzing.
“No you,” you whisper.
“Fine,” he shrugs, the back of his big hand hitting your bare thigh, three fingers splayed. He scoots a little closer and you lean in, letting your head fall against his shoulder.
“My favorite color’s red—”
“Ew,” you cut in with a scoff.
“Ew?” He laughs.
“You’re so annoying—my favorite color’s red?” You mock his low voice teasingly. “Give me something, Cameron, c’mon.”
He chuckles and nods, watching as your fingers wrap around his, lifting it back to the number three.
“Bossy as hell,” he mumbles and you chuckle and sigh.
“Try again.”
“Alright, alright. Take two.” Rafe clears his throat dramatically, nodding like he’s finally settled on something. “Okay. One, I love when you wear my hoodies ‘cause they smell your perfume. Two, you’re the first person I call when something goes wrong or right. Three, Maybank’s my best friend,” he chokes on the last word like it’s pained him to say.
“Hmm?” You question, giggling nervously at his honesty, feeling your pulse climb. His eyes linger, peeking out of the corner of his eye to gauge your reaction. “I’m guessing three’s a lie,” you whisper and he nods with a smile.
“Got me,” he breathes, his face movie closer; lips mere inches from yours.
You swallow, pulse thudding in your ears. “My turn?”
“Lay it on me, sweetheart.”
“One, I look forward to grocery shopping with you every Sunday more than most dates I’ve been on.”
A smile tugs at his lips and he elbows you playfully, like a silent ‘me too’—like there’s no way that could be a lie and you just beat him to it.
“Two, I like to wear your sweatshirts after you’ve worn them because my perfume and your cologne is like my favorite smell.”
“No shit?” He asks softly as you piggy-back off his confession. “Mine too.”
“Mhmm,” you whisper. “And—I… Umm, Blaire’s… Blaire is my best friend.”
“Fuck off,” he chuckles. “Lie. That’s a lie.”
“Guilty,” you whisper.
“M’sorry,” he mumbles. “Did she say somethin’ to you?”
“No… Just jealous,” you murmur. “If I’m being hones—”
“Of Blaire?” He stops you, looking back at you surprisedly.
“I’m just—I don’t know. She had what I wanted, Rafe.”
The silence that follows is louder than anything. His hand grips his thigh, like he’s grounding himself—trying to hold back—like maybe he’s going to say something but he doesn’t.
You draw a deep, needed breath and before you can break the tension he turns toward you now, ready to take his turn—different, like something in him shifted.
“Your turn,” you breathe and he smiles nervously.
He nods in agreement and slides a little closer, letting his arm drape around the back of the couch, biting his lip when you turn into him as well.
“One… I’ve thought about kissing you on this couch so many times, I can’t even tell you. Two, if I ever got with anyone but you I wouldn’t just be settling. “Three…” He wets his lips, eyes dropping to your mouth. “When you called me last weekend and I said I’d just finished a run?” He laughs softly to himself. “That was a lie.”
“Yeah?” You ask softly and he nods.
“I’d just woken up. Dreamed about you. You were on top of me. Saying my name—screaming it.” His voice dips. “And I’m pretty sure we weren’t just best friends in that dream.”
He leans closer. His mouth is almost touching yours.
“Wasn’t the first time I’ve had a dream like that.”
“Really?” You ask and he mumbles ‘yes’, making your breath hitch. A smile creeps across your lips, as his face moves closer to yours. So close you can feel his measured breathing from before, picking up pace.
“Only place I get to have what I want,” he whispers.
You don’t know how to be careful anymore, not when his hand moves from the back of the couch, resting warm and sure on the back of your neck.
“Number two’s the lie,” you whisper.
“Mhmm… Damn, you’re pretty good at this game,” he smiles, chuckling under his breath like he isn’t throwing you soft balls but the way your heart’s racing is leaving you feeling like he’s giving you exactly what you were hoping for from the start. “Your turn, pretty,” he mumbles. “Give me something.”
Rafe turns your words back on you with a dreamy twinkle in his eye. Your cheeks burn from your smile, so hot you have to look away but he steers you back with a soft squeeze on your nape.
He watches you closely now. The cocky smirk is still there, but softer now, like he knows what’s coming but even he’s nervous.
“One…” You say slowly. “I’ve always wondered about us—you and me. What would you do if I just told you how I felt.”
“Holy shit,” he breathes, the words tumbling past his lips before he can stop them.
“Two, when I came in the house and heard the shower I wished I could get in there with you—”
“Wait, seriously?” He asks, the skin around his eyes crinkling as he smiles, a blush creeping across his cheeks.
“Seriously,” you smile. “And three…” You inhale. It’s shaky. “I could see myself with someone else… And I don’t dream about you. I don’t say your name when I—” You anxious giggle steals the words off your tongue, but he shakes his head ‘no’—no way he’s gonna let you stop now that you’re almost there.
“Keep going,” he breathes.
“Whenever I umm… Whenever I,” you babble.
“Just say it, c’mon,” he pleads through a soft breath, like he knows where this is gonna go, like he could finish your words but he wants them to leave your lips.
“I don’t say your name whenever I cum.”
“Lie,” he says, voice low and hoarse, different than you’ve ever heard it before. “You serious right now? You really do that?” He asks as he pulls you in, your body trembling as his nose nudges yours and your lips graze, just barely.
“Really—” You sigh and he swallows your words and your whimper, pushing you down on the couch, pressing his body weight into you as he kisses you for the very first time.
Your hand fists into the back of his hoodie, your lips parting for him. His tongue rolls with yours, slow and tender as his hand cups the side of your jaw. “Fuck,” he whispers, barely pulling back, breathing your air. “We’re really doing this, huh?”
Your eyes flutter open, pupils wide. “We… we can stop—”
His laugh is barely a sound—more breath than voice; more ache than humor. “No,” he says, serious now. “Not stoppin’. Not unless you want me to.”
One palm wraps around your thigh, his hand warm and solid as he lift you leg and rolls his hips into you, grinding where you’re throbbing with need.
“You’re all I fucking want.”
“Then don’t stop,” you whisper.
He smiles against your lips, living in your words for a moment. “Say it again,” he mumbles, trapping your bottom lip between his, sucking slow, releasing you with a soft tug, and a softer whimper.
“Don’t stop.”
Something breaks loose inside him. His mouth is back on yours, more urgent now. Pulling soft sounds out of you, that you’ve never heard yourself. You gasp when his hand slides under your sweatshirt, and he stills, letting you breathe.
“Okay?” He asks softly.
You nod, and his lips ghost across your cheek to your ear. Your hand lifts, resting on top of his, the cotton of your clothes in between urging him to squeeze, making your back arch up into his chest.
Your hands slip beneath his hoodie—skin warm and tight—and he peels it off without a word, eyes never leaving yours.
You sit up a little and he takes his cue, stripping you of your sweatshirt as well; The AC kisses your flushed skin as his hands curl around your back unclasping your bra.
“Fuck me,” he mutters, diving back, lips locking on your neck; pulse pumping underneath as his hands hold your tits; thumbs dragging over your nipples, making your thighs fall open even wider.
“I’ve thought about this,” he mumbles against your skin. “So many fuckin’ times.”
“Me too,” you smile as your hand slips beneath the waistband of his sweats now, fingers brushing his tight skin. “Shit,” he groans, head dropping against your shoulder. “You sure.”
“I’m sure,” you breathe as you tease him a little, dragging your nail along his v-line. “Are you?”
“So fucking sure,” he hums as he reaches for your hand this time, guiding you right where he wants you.
“Fuck, Rafe,” your voice trembles with excitement as your fingers wrap around the thick base of his cock.
“Shit,” he groans, like even that already feels right, his eyes falling to the slight space between you. The two of you watching together as your hand, fists the length of him, pearly precum dripping from the tip.
And before he can ask you one more time if you’re sure your eyes lift, matching his, fingers bunching up the waist band of your shorts just enough to push them down your thighs.
Rafe hums out a satisfied breath, dipping down to kiss your hips, right above the lace trim of your panties, pulling them down as well.
He looks up at you; his hair a mess, his expression like he’s living somewhere between a dream and the moment. “You matter so much to me you know that right?” He breathes and he pushes his sweats and his boxers down.
You reach for him, trembling under the weight of it all—how right it feels. How long you’ve wanted this. “You mean everything to me,” you breathe.
His forehead rests against yours as he lines himself up. And when he pushes into you, slow and careful, your gasp punches the breath from both of you.
“Breathe, baby. Just breathe,” he soothes and you blow out a little breath. He rocks forward, just a little bit, huffing out a breath at just how good it feels. “You feel so—so fucking good,” he mumbles, burying himself deeper. “That’s it. Doin’ so good for me.”
Your hands are in his hair again, tangled this time just like he loves. Your mouth falls open with a gasp, and he nearly loses it just from the sound.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to see you. Your eyes are half-lidded, chest rising and falling so fast, and he knows you’re close. “You gonna cum for me, pretty?”
“Y-Yeah,” you stammer, overwhelmed with pleasure.
He lowers himself to your lips as his skin cracks into yours with every deep stroke.
“You play with your pussy when you say my name, huh?” He whispers against your lips.
“Yeah,” you smile.
“—Like this?” He mumbles as his fingers press against your clit too, circling perfectly, making you eyes roll back in your head.
“Yes, fuck,” you whimper.
“I can feel it… Squeezing me so—shit. So fucking tight—so wet, baby. I’m trying not to cum, I swear, but you’re—you feel so good. You feel so damn good.”
He buries his face in your neck, lips open, panting against your skin. Your legs tremble, fingers digging into his back now. He hears the little breathy sob you let out and that’s it. His whole body tenses, then shudders as you come undone; his name breaks past your lips as it has for years.
He buries himself deep, arms wrapped tight around you as he spills into you, his big fingers still rubbing you through as your pussy flutters around him, so full of him your mind feels like it’s floating away.
“Baby,” he mumbles as his nose brushes against yours, his lips work from your neck to your cheek to your mouth. “How did that feel?”
“Amazing,” you whisper through a smile, holding his face in your hand, bringing him in for a kiss.
“I can’t lose you,” he whispers, his voice shattered. “Not as my best friend. Not as anything. I can’t lose any part of you. I hate everyone else but you.”
You giggle through the afterglow, letting your thumb brush along his bottom lip.
“M’serious… I’m not lying.”
He pauses, pressing his forehead to yours.
“I love you. It’s gonna be you and me, alright? You and me.”
“I love you too,” you whisper. “Always have.” He kisses you again, slower this time. “You and me.”
“It’s always been that way, hasn’t it?” He mumbles, resting his forehead against yours.
“It has, now it’s just better.”
He chuckles proudly, still buried to the hilt, his bare body pressed to yours, your hearts finally slowing together.
“So much better, sweetheart, ‘cause you’re my best friend,” he breathes the words. “And now you’re mine.”
you tossed and turned in restlessness until you finally awoke to the loud sounds of explosions along with fictional gunfire.
rafe was watching some garbage action movie, and of course he had it at the loudest volume too.
you sleepily cracked one eyelid open, gently kicking him in the back where he was sat at the end of the bed.
"ah, shit. the fuck was that for?" he grunted, even though you knew that it hadn't hurt him in the slightest.
you would roll your eyes at him if they could stay open for any longer than ten seconds at a time, "are you really saying that you felt my kick through all that muscle?"
"always full of compliments" he says, grinning as he flopped down into the empty space on the bed next to you.
it wasn't at all unusual for rafe to be sharing your bed when he stayed over, which was very often.
people always found it weird and said that there must be more going on between you, which there wasnt.
well, except for that one time ── let's just say that you definitely weren't strangers but it had never gone further than a heavy makeout session and light groping.
he groaned loudly as his tanned arms stretched above his head, making your eyes wander down his body, your attention catching on something it shouldn't.
rafe had no shirt on which wasn't unusual, but he was wearing a loose pair of grey sweatpants and there was little left to the imagination from what you could see.
his eyes moved over to yours, chuckling when he saw what your sleep ridden gaze had landed on.
"you're such a pervert" he murmured humourously, nudging your shoulder.
your face heated in embarassment, eyes remaining closed as you shook your head, "it's not my fault you're laying next to me with that going on. it's a distraction"
a slow stretch of silence took over the room and you thought that he was finally going to leave you in peace.
rafe nudged you again and his hand lingered on your shoulder, "cm'here" he almost whispered.
you let out a noise of disagreement and nestled further into your warm, plush pillows.
the movement caused the sheets to fall away from your body, exposing rafe to the small pair of loose boyshorts that you had on.
he never usually saw you wearing this little because you were usually in bed and sleep before him ── but you felt comfortable sleeping like this because like you said, you weren't strangers.
the sound of his heavy breathing filled the otherwise quiet room.
you once again complaied as he used his unfair strength to bring you closer to him, your legs straddling either side of his own as you cooperated and gave in to what he wanted.
thinking he just wanted to be close to you, you wrapped your arms around his warm neck and pressed your head against his skin.
you shifted, trying to find a comfy place to settle but instead the thin material of your shorts rubbed against his growing bulge that you could feel through the material of his sweatpants.
even now, the sleep still felt like it was going to take you, so your brain was too foggy to stop the soft whine that slipped between your lips.
your accidental noise only seemed to encourage rafe.
his warm hands caressed the bare skin between your top and your shorts, hands engulfing your waist.
"raaafe" you drawled out, your head shaking lightly.
you felt his hands moved lower, before they settled on the soft flesh of your backside.
"yeah, baby?" he hummed.
you tightened your hold around his neck in response to the pet name and instinctively slowly rocked against him, the friction already feeling like too much.
he made a strangled noise, not expecting you to be making this sort of move.
rafe's fingertips gripped your ass painfully as he helped you move rhythmiycally.
you were glad that he couldn't see your face right now because rubbing against your best friend like a dog in heat could be considered embarrassing.
as your pleasure grew, so did the wetness beneath you and you could feel your arousal soaking through your shorts.
your chest was pressed so hard against rafe's that he could feel your nipples pebbled through the thin material of your cami top.
the way in which everything seemed to be brushing up against your clit in the most perfect way was too much for you.
loud moans escaped your mouth at the feel of his hard cock beneath you and your eyes squeezed shut an unexpected high suddenly washed over you.
you dug your nails into the base of rafe's neck as you slowly moved your hips against his, wanting the pleasure to stretch on for as long as possible.
the feel of rafe's rapid heartbeat pounded through your body.
"shiiiiiiiit" he murmured, voice croaky as he tried to get you to let go of your hold on him so he could look at you.
you stilled but grip on him was unrelenting, the burning hot feeling of embarrassment slowly inching it's way through you.
rafe's sweats were soaked, he knew that much and he rubbed your back slowly, trying to coax you gently.
exhaustion and humiliation had gotten the better of you and your breathing evened out as you tried to let the night take you away once again.
worries of this ruining the friendship you had with him floated through your mind as he murmured incoherent nothings in your ear.
rafe's rough palms slid down the back of your loose shorts, "we're not done yet" he says with a soft, but determined certainty.
