☄︎ Warnings: Arguing. Reader being stubborn. Heavy alcohol consumption. Light angst.
☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x John Logan
☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG. Hurt/Comfort
☄︎ Words: 1847
☄︎ Summary: You get into a petty argument with Logan on the way to a party.
💭: super original title cause i couldn't think of anything else lol
Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Logan Masterlist here.
It started as most stupid arguments did, a mild annoyance that snowballed into something unnecessarily bigger.
Logan had been late picking you up for the party. It's not like he hadn't messaged you to let you know, he had. It's not like he didn't have a valid excuse, he did. But you were already in a foul mood, already lowkey feeling like hockey took priority over everything, and his late arrival was the cherry on an already shit cake.
"I'm so sorry, babe," Logan said the second you climbed into the passenger seat, his eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"No problem," you replied, your voice clipped.
But there was a problem, and you both knew it. Logan knew you well enough to pick up the subtle signs in your texts and body language. Your reply to his text had been short; your clipped response now was unusual; you looked unimpressed, all clear signs. But the biggest one was the fact that you hadn't leant over to give him a kiss. Hadn't tried to soothe the tired lines in his face.
Logan noticed it all, but he chose not to press. He'd had a long day too and was wound just as tightly as you were at the minute.
The silence in the car stretched as he pulled away from the curve, driving you to the party hosted by the Lacrosse team. The silence allowed your thoughts to ruminate unnecessarily over the situation, working yourself up until the irriation boiled over. Under your breath, you muttered a tight "I should have just walked."
It was meant as a throwaway comment, a petty jab to vent, and you truly didn't mean to start something, but it hit its mark.
"I said I was sorry." Logan's grip on the steeting wheel tightened.
"I know."
"Then what's that supposed to mean?" He snapped, his already low patience wearing thin.
"Exactly what I said," you snapped back, crossing your arms. "I just meant I should have walked."
"Yeah, because I was late, right?"
You knew you should have stopped the conversation there, apologised, let him know you'd had a bad day, and moved on. But a stubborn part of you needed this fight, needed to get out the emotions you were bottling up.
"I don't know why you're being like this. I wasn't trying to start anything."
Logan let out a sharp exhale through his nose. "Kinda feels like you were."
"Well that doesn't make it true," you retorted, continuing to stare straight ahead through the windshield.
"Look, I'm exhausted," Logan said, voice dropping low. "I barely slept last night. Practice was hell. Coach was on my ass the whole time. I got stuck in traffic on my way here, and now the only thing I'm hearing from you is that I should have gotten here quicker."
"There's no need for that tone, Logan."
Logan's head snapped to look at you, his eyes flashing before he forced his attention back to the road. "I'm only giving you a tone because it seems like nothing I'm saying is good enough for you."
"I never said that!"
"You've been in a mood since you got in the car." You were about to protest when he interuppted, "Don't deny it. You're picking a fight. What am I supposed to think?"
"Maybe think that I was just frustrated."
"And so was I, but I didn't take it out on you."
That made you pause. Deep down, you knew that Logan was right. He hadn't taken out his crappy day on you the way you were with him. But, at the same time, the longer this conversation went on, the more unheard you felt.
"Okay, but I am allowed to be frustrated too," you muttered.
"I didn't say that you weren't." Logan pressed his foot on the brake, pulling the car over to the curb with more force than necessary. Turning in his seat, he shifted to look at you.
"What do you want me to say?" He asked, throwing a hand up. "I apologised. I texted you. I told you practice ran over. What more do you want from me?
"A text twenty minutes later than you were supposed to be here."
"Did you want me to pull out my phone while coach was talking?"
You opened your mouth before closing it again. "Obviously not," you admitted. "Maybe I just wanted you to understand why I'm upset, rather than acting like I'm attacking you."
"I do understand," he said, voice softening a little. "But every time I apologise, it feels like you find another way to tell me I screwed up."
Your stomach dropped.
"Forget it." Stubbornly, you turned your hear away, staring out of the passenger side window.
Logan sighed heavily, turned the engine back on, and drove you both the rest of the way to the party. As he pulled into crowded driveway of the party, he broke the silence that had settled over you both, keeping his eyes glued to the steering wheel.
"You don't need to come in if you're just going to be pissed at me all night," Logan muttered.
You folded your arms tighter across your chest, his words leaving you seething. "If you don't want me to come with you, just say that."
"Can you stop twisting my words?" You could hear the frustration in his voice, and it only made you more frustrated. "I never said that."
"Whatever, Logan."
"Have fun," he said flatly as he shut off the ignition.
"Oh, I will."
You slammed the door to his car a little harder than necessary and stormed into the party.
Inside, the party was in full swing. Someone called your name, but you only offered a tight smile before disappearing into the kitchen. Within seconds, a drink was in your hand. Less than a minute later, the first drink was gone and you were pouring a second, heavy on the booze, light on the mixer.
You welcomed the burning heat of the drink as it hit the back of your throat. It felt better than the ache in your chest. As the drinks, and music, kept flowing through you, you forgot why you even needed it in the first place.
But the alcohol could only make you forget for so long. Every couple of minutes, you found your eyes scanning the crowd to find Logan. And when you finally did, your chest tightened. He was standing with Garrett and a few of the lacrosse team, head thrown back in laughter, unaffected and carefree.
'He hasn't even looked for me,' you thought, a bitter lump forming in your throat. 'He didn't text to see if I wanted to talk. He doesn't care. As usual, he'd rather drink with his buddies than deal with his emotional girlfriend.'
Suddenly, every emotion you'd been trying to bury came bubbling to the surface. Tears blurred your vision, turning the fairylights into halos. You stumbled towards the exit, desperate for fresh air.
"Whoa, steady there. I gotcha."
Strong hands caught your forearms, holding you steady as you practically fell into a chest.
Blinking hard, your vision focused on Tucker's worried face.
"Hey, what happened?" Tucker's brow furrowed as he took in your dishevelled state, mascara streaked down your flushed cheeks and eyes brimming with tears.
Before anybody else could notice, he carefully steered you toward the kitchen.
"Here," Tucker said gently as he handed you a cup. "Drink this, it's water."
You frowned at the cup as if it had offended you. "I don't want water."
"Please? For me?" He coaxed, using that soft gentlemanly tone he was so good at.
"Fineeeee." You downed the first cup, and let him refill it. By the time you finished the second, your head was pounding slightly less, but the emotional dam was still broken, stray tears still running down your face.
Tucker guided you to a quieter hallway near the downstairs bathroom, leaning against the wall. "Do you want me to go and get Logan for you?"
"No," you wailed, the sound muffled as you hid your face in your hands. "He doesn't care, he hates me."
Tucker sighed sympathetically, you were obviously shit-faced drunk, so he didn't expect much logic from you. "I don't think that's true. Tell me what happened."
"He hates me," you repeated, a hiccup interrupting your words. "He's gonna break up with me for being difficult."
"What makes you say that?" Tucker asked, completely baffled.
"Because he said I was pissed off and picking fights," you cried, wiping at your nose with the back of your hand.
Tucker stared at you for a minute, fighting the amused twitch of his lips. "And... were you?"
"Yes," you hiccuped loudly. Falling into Tucker's arms, you buried your face into the front of his shirt.
Tucker wrapped his arm around you, rubbing your back in soothing circles as you began dramatically retelling the car ride. Between slurred and jumbled sentences, you explained how he arrived late because he only cared about hockey, how he 'yelled' at you, and how he basically told you to go away.
Tucker listened patiently, nodding along, knowing damn well that this was a result of two tired people knowing how to push each other's buttons, rather than the hateful breakup you were telling him it was.
"Alright, let's just breatheeee," Tucker said slowly, gently pulling you away from his shirt. "Listen to me, that boy is crazy about you, like literally crazy. You're just really drunk, alright?"
You nodded slowly, wiping the snot from your nose.
"Come on, let's go get your boy."
Half-carrying, half-guiding your body, Tucker navigated you through the sea of college students. You stumbled along, clinging to his arm and still crying softly and mumbling about how Logan wouldn't want to see you.
Logan was still standing where you'd last seen him. He was talking to Garrett, but he wasn't really paying attention. His eyes were scanning the crowd, clearly looking for you.
The moment he spotted you clinging to Tucker, tears streaming down your face, his posture changed. He pushed through a couple of people to get to you.
"What happened?" He asked frantically, scanning your body for injuries. "Did someone hurt you?"
He didn't wait for you to answer, he pulled you from Tucker's hold into his arms, tucking you against his chest.
"She's fine, man," Tucker said gently, "she just missed you and is very sorry about earlier."
Before you could say anything, Tucker turned back into the crowd, giving you both space.
Your tears had stopped the moment you were in Logan's arms, instantly calmer. "I'm sorry," you mumbled into his shoulder. "Don't be mad anymore and please don't break up with me."
Despite himself, Logan laughed softly. "It's going to take a lot more than a stupid argument for me to even consider breaking up with you. You're stuck with me."
"I'm so sorry," you slurred, eyes closing as you swayed. "I-."
"Let's talk about it later," he interrupted, already pulling you towards the exit. "First, let me take you home."
💭: oh how i crave an argument then comfort w logan. sigh. i really enjoyed writing out the argument cause (in my mind) they both have a point and it gets like that sometimes but let me know what you thought about this one xx
Summary: John Logan knows how to fix the little things but he never learned how to fix the big ones.
Pairings: John Logan x y/n!reader
Warnings: angst central babyyyy (also the italics is y/n talking)
AN: First and foremost, this is my first ever oneshot that I've written and hopefully y'all like it. I've been reading such crazy offcampus shit lately, honestly off the fucking rails. I was travelling and listening to some songs and they inspired me so I thought i'd try my hand at it! BE NICE PLEASE AND THANK YOU :) (can someone pls teach me how to add those cute page break gifs?)
You entered the house with a sigh, feeling pent up and oh so alone. It was supposed to be one of the most important days of your life and everyone you wanted there came, all your gals, your friends from the literature club, your co-workers even, everyone except your boyfriend.
Hearing the door open, he didn't even look up from his stupid game that he was playing, munching on his stupid protein bar, only a small 'hey' left his mouth to acknowledge your presence.
'hey' REALLY? HEY?
Your blood was boiling to the point where you didn't even want to look at him. You went straight into your room and shut the door so hard that it felt as if it broke off its hinges.
The worst part was that he didn't even try to see what's wrong, why you shut the door as if you had a personal agenda against it.
All you heard was a loud sigh and the game sounds continued to echo through the house. That's all it took for you to break down. Everything that you had held inside all day came out in the form of gushing tears and choked sobs.
It felt as if hours went by as you were buried under the blankets, thinking about all the hows, whys and what nots.
This wasn't the first time something like this had happened but John wasn't usually this way. He was the most tender, most loving boy you had ever met and somehow now it was as if he wasn't even there.
'you forgot.'
'huh? I forgot what?'
'My art exhibition presentation.'
Silence.
'oh'
'You promised John.'
'I know.'
'You swore you'd be there. You even put it in your calendar!'
'I thought it was tomorrow.'
sigh
'Yeah, you thought.'
He winced. There it was. The fatal sentence.
'I thought.'
~~~~
"Some people don't leave all at once. They disappear a little every day until one morning, you wake up beside a stranger wearing the face of the person you loved."
You kept reading these lines over and over again. Is this what was happening? Is this what was going to become of the two of you?
Is this how it was going to end?
All these thoughts and you kept thinking about how it used to be, how it was like being the one he chose.
The first time John Logan looked at you, he smiled. Not the cocky grin he flashed at girls during parties. Not the charming smirk he used whenever he knew he'd get away with something.
It was soft.
Like he'd found something he didn't know he'd been searching for.
You remember it as if it was yesterday he came into the studio looking this clueless and sluggishly handsome.
'You've got paint on your cheek.'
'I don't.'
'You do.'
'I literally don't.'
He leaned forward before you could stop him, his thumb brushing against your cheek.
'Now you don't.'
You should've known then. John Logan had a habit of fixing little things.
He just never learned how to fix the big ones.
Sooner or later, you realised that maybe what you read was true. And that this is exactly how it was going to end.
~~~~
The apartment was silent.
Not peaceful. Not comforting. Not the home you thought it was.
It was just empty. As if the ghosts of the past were the only ones who were present there.
It was late. You were tired of waiting for him. You texted him, called him and got no reply. Nothing. Radio silence.
You called the boys who claimed that he left practice at their usual time and declined their plans for Malone's.
You fell asleep on the couch waiting for him to come back, a little around 1am he came staggering through the door to your shared apartment. Drunk and tired he flopped onto the couch next to you as if it wasn't a big deal that he left you hanging all night despite knowing what day it is, knowing that you were at home, waiting for him, knowing the untouched plates on the corner table were for you both. But you were right, it wasn't a big deal, for him.
You made him a special dinner. Put thought into it. Bought him flowers, bought him a new watch, bought all the groceries, including those stupid protein bars he likes. Left your assignment midway to prepare his favourite meal that you two were supposed to share over dinner, that he asked for. And here he was acting as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
It was so upsetting to see him act like that, you just chose to not say anything, so you got up to leave but he caught your hand. A simple gesture. Something that once would've made your heart pound a little faster, make you feel mushy, now felt as if his touch burned you.
'I'm sorry.'
That has become his favorite word lately.
Sorry.
Sorry I forgot.
Sorry I was late.
Sorry I snapped.
Sorry I don't know what's wrong with me.
Sorry.
Sorry.
Sorry.
But that sorry changed nothing. It wasn't always like this. There was a time John couldn't go ten minutes without touching you. A hand around your waist while you cooked. A kiss on your forehead while you study. Making you food and taking care of you when you were sick. Gifting you things that reminded him of you. Stealing your hoodie because it smells like you and vice-versa. Laughing until two in the morning over absolutely nothing.
And now,
Now he barely looked at you.
And somehow,
That hurt more than if he had yelled at you.
The question slipped out before you could stop it, 'Did I do something wrong?'
'What?', he blinked.
'Did I... do something?'
'What no. Where is this coming from?'
'Then why does it feel like you'd rather be anywhere but here?'
His jaw tightened. The grip on your hand loosened.
'It's not you.'
You laughed bitterly, 'That's funny.'
'What?'
'That's exactly what people say before they break up.'
'I'm not leaving.'
'Aren't you?'
His silence answered for him. John wasn't cheating. He would never do that and you knew that. He wasn't cruel enough for that.
On the other hand, John was just entirely somewhere else. Hockey had become everything.
Practice. Games. Pressure. Scouts. Grades. The expectations. The constant feeling of never being enough.
He stopped talking because he didn't know how to explain the storm in his head. And you, you kept pretending you weren't getting soaked by the rain.
'I don't know who I am anymore.'
The words hit you harder than expected.
'I wake up exhausted. I skate, study, sleep and then I repeat that over and over. There is no break for anything else. I don't even have time for anything else.'
That hits you the wrong way. You wanted to ask him why he felt that way but something about his words made you double over in anger. You realised that there was no place for you in his life and that HURT. As if you weren't there for him when he woke up, making him breakfast before practice. As if you weren't there for him when he came back from a bad practice. As if you weren't there for all his games, be it good or bad. As if you weren't there in his bed each night, making sure that he wasn't too in over his head about whatever he had been overthinking about.
'And I'm just here right? As a little side quest, not even on your list of things you're exhausted from. Because I'm not even on the priority list, yeah? You conveniently forget everything that has even a sliver of something related to me but never something to do with the boys, with practice, with everything.
You forgot, John. I never thought that out of all the things you forget, this would be one but here we are.'
John looked confused.
'What?'
'Our anniversary. You forgot our Anniversary John. That's what the dinner was for.'
'Oh.'
Just Oh. No apology. No explanation. Just one tiny word that shattered something inside you. Too tired to fight you just nodded 'yeah' and went to bed. No matter that you couldn't get a single blink of sleep but Logan didn't come back to bed.
~~~~
You started sleeping facing the wall. He stopped asking why.
You stopped waiting for him after practice. He stopped texting when he'd be late.
You cried in the shower because the water hid the sound. He stayed longer at the rink because ice didn't ask questions.
One evening Garrett found John sitting alone in the locker room.
'Dude. What the fuck is up with you?'
John shrugged, 'I don't know G.'
Garret frowned, 'She looks like she's breaking man. Go home, you've been spending too much time here. Just be honest with her Logan. You don't need to do much, just tell her what's going on with you.'
John closed his eyes, 'I know.'
Garrett put a hand on his shoulder, 'So fix it.'
'I don't even know who I am anymore man. How the fuck do i fix this?'
How do you love someone properly when you don't even recognize the person looking back in the mirror?
~~~~
It happened on an ordinary Tuesday.
No screaming. No dramatic fight. No shattered plates. Just pure exhaustion.
'I miss you John.'
John looked up from tying his shoes, 'I'm right here y/n.'
'No', your voice cracked. 'You're not.'
Silence.
You were so tired of the silence. It felt suffocating.
'I live with someone who looks exactly like you but you're gone. This is not the man I fell in love with. I want my Logie back.'
You tried to reason with him, tears flowing from your eyes, cheeks red and puffy.
His breathing hitched, 'I don't know how to bring him back.'
That hurt. He didn't even want to try. He didn't even try to comfort you. He saw you bawling your eyes out for him and he didn't even try. And that said more than any words he could've said.
'I keep waiting for us to go back. I thought one fine day everything would just fall back into place. That you'd come home, come back.', you whispered.
'Back to what?'
'Back to laughing. Back to dancing in the kitchen. Back to kissing me because you couldn't help yourself. Back to us.'
John stared at you like you were asking him to catch smoke, 'I can't.'
The words barely existed. But they destroyed everything.
You nodded slowly, 'Okay', wiping your face, you got up.
John frowned, 'Okay?'
'Yeah. I can't keep begging someone to love me out loud.'
Immediately John stood up from the couch, 'I do love you.'
'Then why do I feel so alone?'
He opened his mouth. Nothing came out. And that was enough. So you packed.
Not dramatically. Quietly.
A sweater.
Art Supplies.
Books.
Toothbrush.
The stuffed bear he'd won you at the carnival.
You left the hoodie he'd always stolen. It smelled like him and you couldn't bear the thought to take it, so you didn't.
John watched you pack up your things from the bedroom door. Leaning against the door, 'You're leaving.' (no shit sherlock)
'I think...', you zipped your bag, '..you already did.'
The door closed. Not loudly. Just enough.
You left. And he let you leave.
The apartment became unbearable. Your mug still sat beside the sink. Your shampoo remained in the shower. A hair tie around the lamp. There were tiny pieces of you everywhere, in every nook and corner of the house.
John never realized someone could haunt a room without dying.
Three weeks.
No texts. No calls. No accidental run-ins.
Nothing.
John threw himself into hockey.
Scored goals. Won games. But you weren't there on the sidelines, wearing his number on your back, smiling at him, supporting him through thick and thin.
People cheered yet he had never felt emptier.
~~~~
One rainy evening, it finally hit him. The burden of the reality he had been escaping came crashing down on him like a lightning strike.
It happened while reaching for a glass. He grabbed two glasses because he had always grabbed two.
One for him.
One for you.
Seeing the two glasses in his hand. He froze. He stared at them for so long and then they dropped.
Shattered.
Still frozen he stared at the pieces of the glasses in front of him. He stared at them as if waiting for them to magically piece together. And then, he cried, falling into his knees right next to the counter where the both of you cooked, where you danced, in your home.
Not because you left him but because he finally realized that you had been asking him to stay long before you walked away and he never put his mind to it, to you.
~~~~
The hardest part wasn't losing John.
It was forgetting the version of yourself that only existed when he loved you out loud.
You still reached for your phone every morning. Not because you expected a text, but rather because your body hadn't caught up with reality yet. There was always that tiny, cruel moment between waking up and remembering. A part of you that thought that John will be home tonight. And then the reality settled over you like a wet slap. He wasn't coming and this wasn't your home anymore.
People assumed heartbreak came in waves but It didn't. It came in ordinary moments.
When you reach for two mugs instead of one.
When you instinctively turned to tell someone about the ridiculous professor who mispronounced your name.
When your favorite song came on in the grocery store and all you could think was that he hates this song. Or when you see those stupid little dry ass protein bars he likes and put them in the cart despite your hatred for them.
It was absurd. You remembered the little things long after the important ones stopped hurting.
~~~~
John wasn't doing much better. Garrett found him sitting alone in the empty arena after practice. The lights had already been turned off, only the emergency exit signs painted the ice in a dull red glow.
'You planning on sleeping here?', Garrett said walking into the rink. John didn't answer and Garrett walked closer. John was staring at center ice as if it held the answers to the questions he had been asking for months.
'You know what I hate?', John spoke so quietly that Garrett almost missed it. 'I finally have time now.'
'What?'
'I told her hockey took everything, all my time and effort.' His laugh was humorless. 'And all I've got is time now and she isn't here anymore.'
~~~~
Therapy wasn't miraculous. It wasn't one breakthrough that changed everything. For some sessions, John didn't speak.
Some sessions, he cried before the therapist even asked how he'd been.
One afternoon she asked, 'When was the last time you felt safe enough to be vulnerable?'
John answered before even thinking, 'with her.'
Because he had the one place he could fall apart and he spent all his energy pretending he wasn't.
~~~~
You stopped crying every day. Then every week and that frightened you more than the tears ever had because grief fading felt suspiciously like forgetting.
One evening you pulled the carnival bear out of your closet. Its fur was worn where John used to absentmindedly squeeze it while watching movies. You pressed it against your chest and it didn't smell like him anymore and that was when you cried, again.
Not because you missed him but because even his scent had moved on.
~~~~
Spring has arrived. The trees outside campus bloomed as if nothing heartbreaking had ever happened beneath them.
You hated that the world kept moving, the cafe still served the same coffee, the buses still ran late, people still laughed. It felt offensive somehow.
How could everything continue when your entire universe had stopped?
It felt unfair.
~~~~
And then, you saw him.
Across the library where he was reaching for a book on the highest shelf.
He looked thinner. Less restless. His shoulders no longer carried that invisible weight that used to bend them forward.
For one impossible second, your heart forgot every painful conversation. It only remembered loving him.
He turned, looking so casually beautiful that you felt like crying.
Your eyes met.
Neither of you smiled. Neither of you looked away.
There were too many things living in that silence. For him, regret, love, apologies that couldn't fit into words, apologies he knew were never going to fix this.
He gave you the smallest nod. As if asking for permission, simply to acknowledge you.
You nodded back and that was all.
He walked away first. You watched him disappear between the shelves. Watching him leave churned something inside you, you felt as if you would throw up. Only after he left, you realised you were frozen in time, hands shaking and breath trembling. Seeing him brought back such beautiful yet painful memories, you rushed out of the library running back to your dorm as if your life depended on it.
~~~~
That night Logan couldn't sleep, he kept replaying the look in your eyes. You didn't look angry, neither hopeful nor sad.
You just looked careful. As if loving him had taught you that even beautiful things could cut.
He cried and cried that night, falling asleep with tears staining his cheek and pillow, grabbing onto the pillow as if it were going to bolt, as if it were you.
~~~~
You had your own art exhibition, in a small gallery in town. It was quaint and simple, nothing too extravagant, and everyone you knew was there, everyone but him. You thought about how both of you envisioned your own exhibition, a blend of both your ideas and your talent. How he joked about standing there with a #1 fan yellow glove.
Until you noticed someone standing alone in front of one of your paintings. You could recognize him even in a crowded room full of lookalikes.
John.
He stood there staring at the painting, oblivious to your staring, clutching his chest as if trying to control his breath.
The painting was titled 'Between the Silence'.
It portrayed two people sitting on opposite ends of a couch.
Your Couch. The exact shade of brown the both of you chose after a long disagreement on dark brown and light brown, ultimately choosing a middle ground. The couch that has seen it all, the movie nights, the fights, the cuddles, the intimate moments, countless kisses, your hand in his hair as he laid his head on your lap flopping down after a long day of practice.
Their hands were only inches apart. But the space between them wasn't empty. It depicted an ocean, not the kind made of water but the kind that was built of unsaid words, swallowed apologies, assumptions misunderstood as understanding, and all those moments when 'im okay' had really just meant please ask again.
John stood there for so long without realising the crowd moving past him, weaving in and out without a second glance. He didn't notice, his eyes never leaving the canvas.
After what had felt like an eternity, he whispered, 'I was right there.' The words scraped against his throat, 'and she still felt alone.'
You weren't meant to hear him, but you did and something inside you gave away. Not because the pain had come rushing back, it never left.
No, because for the first time you saw it dawn on him. For the first time, he wasn't mourning the relationship, he was mourning the pain that you had to carry all alone in that relationship.
He understood, not what he had lost rather what you had lived through.
You stepped beside him, the sound of your heels clacking ever so slightly against the gallery floor, barely audible in the mix.
He felt you stand next to him, he knew without even looking at you that it was you, his girl that begged him to come back to her but he was so in over his head that he didn't even realise what he was losing.
Slowly, he turned towards you, eyes shining, red rimmed and tear stained cheeks. He looked tired, like a man who was carrying a realisation too heavy to put down.
'I kept thinking,' he whispered, 'that if I loved you enough', he swallowed, 'you would just know.'
A tear slipped down your cheek before you could stop it.
'I did know.'
His brows pulled together in confusion, 'Then why wasn't it enough?', his voice cracked.
You looked at the painting instead of him. It was easier that way. Because the people on the canvas looked exactly how the two of you did.
Close enough to touch, too far apart to reach.
'You loved me and I never ever doubted that but love isn't something you're supposed to guess.', your voice trembled, 'It's supposed to be something you get to feel.'
John closed his eyes as if that would pull him out of the glaring reality that stood in front of him, as if that sentence had enlightened every nook and corner he had tried to hide.
He took a shaky breath, 'I'm so sorry.'
'I know.', you nodded faintly.
'No', he shook his head almost immediately, 'I don't think you do.', his voice cracked completely.
'I'm not apologizing because you left.', his hands trembled helplessly at his sides, 'I'm apologizing because.... the person who should've felt the safest with me...'
He took a sharp breath, unable to finish the sentence, unable to accept what had actually happened,
'The person who should've felt the safest with me, felt lonely sitting right next to me.'
Those words shattered whatever composure he had left, 'I thought being there was loving you. I thought fixing things was loving you. I thought that being physically present was enough.'
He laughed humourlessly, 'I never realised you can stand beside someone every single day', his eyes met yours again, 'and still leave them to carry everything alone.'
The gallery around you disappeared, the people, the noise, everything. It was as if the world stopped.
It was just him, standing in front of you, finally being vulnerable, finally doing something you had begged him to do for months. Finally grieving the same invisible wound you had spent months tending to, all alone.
Without thinking, your hand reached out towards him, out of instinct, out of habit, and it stopped short just near his cheek.
Old Instincts.
Old love.
Old tenderness that your heart remembered before your mind stopped it.
Your fingers hovered right about his cheek, he didn't lean into your touch, he didn't ask for it, he didn't reach out for your wrist the way he once would have.
He just stood there, waiting, accepting that whether you touched him or not, he was no longer entitled to it.
After what felt like forever, your hand rested against his cheek. Long enough to remember what he had meant to you, what he had been to you, long enough to remember who he had become, long enough to forgive the boy who didn't know any better.
As for Logan, he felt as if his whole world had collapsed, the touch he longed for months, something he had thought about, dreamt about for months was finally in front of him yet it was nothing like he thought it would be.
And when your hand fell, neither of you tried to close the distance in between. Some spaces couldn't be crossed with a single apology. Some wounds don't just disappear, they turn into scars, ugly ones, ones that are a constant reminder of what had been. The painting remained between the two of you, separated only by two inches and yet divided by everything that they never found the words to say.
Maybe that had always been the tragedy, not that the love had disappeared, it hadn't. It lingered in every glance, every memory and every instinct to reach for one another. The tragedy was that they had spent months speaking different languages believing they were having the same conversation.
He mistook your silence for strength and you mistook his certainty for understanding.
Neither of you meant to hurt each other but love, no matter how genuine, could not survive on intention alone.
Because mostly love isn't a cruel heartbreak, it doesn't end with a slammed door.
It ends with two people standing barely inches apart, realizing that they loved each other so deeply and still managed to make each other feel unseen. And by the time you finally understood each other's language, there was no longer a home left to speak it in.
Thank you for providing some of the best writing out there for off campus, i'm kicking my feet giggling over here 🤭 Would you be down for a Tucker one where they're friends but he finds out she's into the spicy cowboy romance genre and that's when he decides to sing "save a horse, ride a cowboy" at karaoke? Lots of blushing, teasing from the boys and confessing feelings? Thanks!! 🤠🐎💛
wait this is everything to me 😭 I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!
Save A Horse - John Tucker
ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ
blurb: after dean gets his hands on your phone and discovers your cowboy romance habit, you’re convinced the teasing can’t get any worse. then tucker gets signed up for karaoke, chooses the one song guaranteed to ruin your composure, and suddenly your best friend starts feeling a lot less friendly.
warnings: 18+, smut, friends to lovers, mutual pining, teasing, karaoke chaos, alcohol mention, semi-public hookup, fingering, dirty talk, protected sex
You were sitting in Garrett and Hannah’s living room, tucked into the corner of the couch while everyone else argued over where to go that night. Logan wanted a bar. Dean wanted a bar with “personality,” which apparently meant sticky floors and men named Rick who took karaoke too seriously. Garrett wanted food first because he was Garrett and turned into a tragic Victorian orphan when he went more than two hours without eating.
Tucker sat on the floor in front of the couch, back against your knees, scrolling through his phone with one hand. His other hand rested loosely around your ankle, thumb brushing once over the bone like he hadn’t even noticed he was doing it.
You noticed.
Unfortunately, you noticed everything Tucker did.
Which was exactly why you should have known better than to leave your phone faceup on the cushion beside you.
Dean’s hand shot out before you could stop him.
“Whoa,” he said, dragging the word out.
You lunged for it. “Give it back.”
He twisted away, holding it just out of reach. “Absolutely not. This looks educational.”
“Dean.”
Garrett immediately perked up. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, it’s not nothing.”
Tucker turned his head, looking up at you from where he sat between your legs. His brows lifted, more amused than nosy, and somehow that made it worse.
“Di Laurentis,” Tucker said. “Give her the phone.”
Dean pressed a hand to his chest. “I’m offended you’d assume I’m doing anything wrong.”
“You stole her phone.”
“Temporarily relocated it.”
“Dean,” Hannah said, already fighting a laugh. “Give it back.”
But Dean had already seen enough.
His eyes dropped to the screen, and then his face transformed.
“Oh my God.”
You covered your face with both hands. “I hate you.”
Logan leaned over the back of the couch. “Read the title.”
“No,” you snapped.
Dean cleared his throat in a formal, dramatic voice. “Saddled by Sundown.”
Garrett choked on his water.
Logan made a sound like he had been punched in the ribs.
Hannah burst out laughing.
You snatched the throw pillow beside you and hurled it at Dean’s head. He ducked out of the way, still laughing.
“It’s a book,” you said, hot all over. “People read books.”
Dean looked down at the cover again. “This man is shirtless in a barn.”
“Farm labor is very demanding.”
Garrett nodded like he was considering it. “True. Lots of hay. Heavy equipment.”
“Don’t help,” you said.
Tucker still hadn’t moved, but you felt his thumb sweep once over the inside of your ankle.
You looked down.
He was watching you now, his mouth curved just enough to make your stomach tighten.
Dean, tragically still alive, kept going. “Wait, wait. There are more of these in the app. She has a whole collection.”
“Dean,” you said slowly. “I am begging you to remember that I know where you sleep.”
“Cowboy romances,” Logan said, looking far too pleased with this development. “Didn’t see that coming.”
“You don’t see most things coming,” you muttered.
Garrett leaned back in his chair, pointing his slice of pizza at you. “So is this why you got weirdly defensive during that movie when Dean said cowboys were overrated?”
“I was defending the genre.”
“The genre of shirtless barn men?” Dean asked.
You reached for another pillow.
This time, Tucker caught your wrist gently before you could throw it. His hand wrapped around you easily, warm and solid.
“Save it,” he said. “He’ll only get louder.”
Everyone started talking again, and slowly, mercifully, your phone was returned. You locked it immediately and shoved it under your thigh like that would erase the last five minutes from history.
Tucker gave your ankle one last squeeze before standing.
“You okay?” he asked, low enough that the others wouldn’t hear.
You lifted your chin. “I’m fantastic.”
His eyes moved over your face, taking in every bit of false dignity you had left.
“Sure are,” he said.
You hated the way his accent made two simple words feel like a hand sliding beneath your shirt.
By the time you all made it to the bar, the cowboy jokes had mostly died down, replaced by Dean getting rejected by the karaoke host because he tried to submit the same song three times under three fake names.
The place was crowded and loud, packed with Briar students, locals, and a few regulars who seemed deeply unprepared for whatever Dean had planned.
You claimed a booth in the back with Hannah while the boys fought their way to the bar.
“I’m sorry,” Hannah said, still grinning. “But the way your face dropped when Dean read that title was incredible.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am on your side. I also support your right to read about dusty, emotionally unavailable ranchers.”
“They’re not all dusty.”
“Of course not.”
“Some of them bathe in rivers.”
Hannah laughed into her drink, and you tried very hard not to look at Tucker where he stood at the bar.
He was leaning with one elbow on the counter, talking to the bartender like they were old friends, because of course he was. Tucker could make friends with a parking meter. He wore jeans and a dark shirt that fit him in a way you had been trying not to notice all night. His hair was a little messy from the cold outside, and when he glanced over his shoulder, his eyes found you immediately.
You looked away before you could do something humiliating.
The night settled into the kind of chaos that only happened with that group. Garrett sang a painfully sincere power ballad and somehow made half the bar cheer for him. Logan and Dean performed a duet that involved too much hip movement and absolutely no musical talent. Hannah recorded the entire thing while Garrett yelled, “That’s my girl,” even though she had told him twice that recording evidence of Dean’s crimes was a public service.
Tucker stayed beside you through most of it, shoulder brushing yours in the booth, one arm stretched along the back behind you. He did not mention the books again. He did not tease you about cowboys or covers or shirtless men in barns.
The silence felt deliberate.
You were halfway through your drink when Dean stumbled back to the table, flushed with victory from whatever crime he had just committed onstage.
“Tuck,” he said. “You’re up.”
Tucker lifted his brows. “Am I?”
“You are now. I signed you up.”
“Of course you did.”
Dean dropped into the booth beside Logan. “You’re welcome.”
You turned to Tucker. “You don’t have to.”
He looked at you for a second too long.
Then he smiled.
Not wide. Not obvious. Just enough to make you nervous.
“Nah,” he said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ll do it.”
Your eyes narrowed. “What did he sign you up for?”
Dean pressed his lips together with the focus of a man trying to keep a secret and failing at every visible level.
“Dean,” you said.
“I’m just here for the arts.”
Tucker walked toward the small stage, and your heart started beating harder for no reasonable reason. He looked too comfortable up there, taking the mic from the karaoke host, rolling his shoulders once like he was getting ready for something more dangerous than a song in a bar full of drunk college students.
Then the opening notes started.
You froze.
Dean slapped both hands over his mouth.
Logan fell forward onto the table, already laughing.
Garrett looked at you, then at Tucker, then back at you. “Oh, he’s dead.”
You sank slowly into your seat.
“No,” you whispered.
Hannah grabbed your arm. “Yes.”
Tucker stood under the cheap bar lights with the microphone in hand, his eyes already on you, and started singing “Save a Horse.”
The whole room erupted.
Dean was on his feet immediately.
Logan pounded on the table.
Garrett yelled, “Commit to the bit, Tuck!”
And Tucker did.
He did not have the best voice in the world, but he had enough confidence to sell it and enough charm to make the entire room go with him. He moved across the tiny stage like it belonged to him, smile easy, head tipped slightly whenever the crowd sang along. He kept it funny at first. Light. Ridiculous. Playing into the shouting and clapping like he was only doing it because Dean had signed him up.
Then he looked at you during the chorus.
Your entire body forgot how to behave.
He didn’t point. Didn’t wink. Didn’t make it obvious enough for everyone to catch.
He just held your gaze, singing the title like he knew exactly what it would do to you.
Heat climbed up your neck.
“Oh, she’s dying,” Logan said.
“I am not.”
“You kind of are,” Hannah said, delighted.
Dean leaned across the table. “Are the cowboys in your books this committed? Because I respect the hustle.”
“I’m going to pour this drink on you.”
Onstage, Tucker laughed through the next line, probably because he could see you plotting murder from the booth. It only made him worse. He got the crowd clapping again, voice rough and warm through the cheap speakers, and every time the song swung back to that chorus, his attention drifted to you like a match being struck.
By the time it ended, you were gripping your glass too tightly.
The bar erupted into applause.
Tucker handed the mic back, stepped offstage, and started toward the booth while Garrett and Logan cheered like he had just won a championship.
Dean bowed to him. “You’re welcome. I created this.”
Tucker slid back into the booth beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours.
You stared straight ahead.
He leaned in, voice low. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m considering a transfer.”
“To where?”
“Somewhere without karaoke.”
“That’d be a shame,” he said. “You looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
You turned your head.
He was close. Too close for the amount of people at the table. His eyes were on your mouth for half a second before they lifted again.
“I was embarrassed for you,” you said.
“Were you?”
“Mhm.”
Tucker nodded slowly, as if giving that the respect it deserved, which was none. “That’s why you haven’t touched your drink since I got onstage?”
Your fingers loosened around the glass.
Across the table, Dean was loudly explaining to Garrett that he had “changed the romantic trajectory of the evening,” so at least no one was paying attention.
No one except Tucker.
You tried to find something sharp to say. Something that would put the night back where it belonged, with jokes and distance and plausible deniability.
Instead, you said, “You’re a terrible friend.”
The amusement in his face shifted into something lower, steadier.
“Yeah,” he said. “I was hoping that came across.”
Your breath caught.
Tucker’s hand slid under the table and rested on your knee. Not high. Not rushed. Just there, his palm warm through the fabric of your skirt.
“Tell me I’m reading this wrong,” he said.
There was still laughter around you. Dean shouting. Garrett arguing. Hannah ordering another round. The bar lights flickering over Tucker’s face.
You could have lied.
You had lied for months.
But his thumb moved once against your knee, and your self-control went thin enough to tear.
“You’re not,” you said.
Tucker’s jaw worked slightly.
Then his hand moved higher.
Your breath went uneven.
He leaned back like nothing had happened, picked up his beer, and took a slow drink. To anyone watching, he looked relaxed. Normal. Like he hadn’t just shifted something huge between you with two quiet words and a hand under the table.
Then he stood.
“I’m gonna hit the bathroom,” he said casually.
Dean waved him off, too busy trying to convince Hannah that he deserved producer credit for Tucker’s performance.
Tucker did not look at you when he walked away.
You stayed in the booth a little longer, listening to Dean talk over Logan, feeling the heat of Tucker’s hand still sitting on your knee like he’d left a mark there.
Then you slid out.
Hannah caught it, because of course she did. She glanced from you to the back hallway, and whatever she saw on your face made her pick up her drink and start an argument with Dean loud enough to cover you leaving.
Bless her.
The hallway to the bathrooms was dimmer than the rest of the bar, narrow and lined with old posters. Your pulse beat hard in your throat as you passed the women’s room and found Tucker near the single-use bathroom at the end.
His eyes lifted when he saw you.
That was all it took.
He opened the door behind him, and you slipped inside.
The lock clicked.
The room was small, with a sink set into the counter, a mirror, and music thumping faintly through the walls. For half a second, Tucker only looked at you.
Then you grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him down to you.
Tucker kissed you like he had been waiting all night to stop pretending.
There was nothing slow about it. His hand came to the back of your neck, the other finding your waist as he backed you toward the sink. You made a small sound against his mouth when the counter hit the backs of your thighs, and he swallowed it, kissing you deeper.
He tasted like beer and mint and Tucker, familiar in a way that made your chest ache even as your body went molten.
His hands slid down to your hips.
“You have any idea,” he murmured against your mouth, “what you looked like sitting in that booth?”
You tugged him closer. “Annoyed?”
“Distracted.”
Your breath caught before you could stop it.
Tucker kissed along your jaw, then down your neck, his mouth warm and unhurried even though the rest of him was anything but. The music outside changed, bass thumping through the door, and someone laughed somewhere in the hallway.
The sound should have made you stop.
Instead, your hands slid under the edge of his shirt, fingers pressing into the warm skin at his waist.
Tucker’s breath hitched.
“Keep doing that,” he said, voice roughening, “and we’re not making it back to the table.”
You dragged your nails lightly over his skin.
“Good.”
His hands tightened on your hips, and whatever control he’d been pretending to have snapped thinner.
Then he lifted you onto the sink counter.
The mirror shook faintly behind you. You wrapped your legs around him, and he stepped between them, kissing you again like he had no interest in remembering there were people waiting just outside.
His hand slid beneath the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing the bare skin of your thigh.
He paused.
His mouth stopped moving against yours.
You felt the second he realized.
He drew back enough to look at you.
“No panties?” he said, voice lower than before.
You tried to look composed and failed spectacularly. “Laundry day.”
His eyes darkened.
“That right?”
“Yeah.”
His hand moved higher, slow enough to make you grip the edge of the counter.
“All night,” he said, “you were sitting next to me like this?”
Your knees tightened around his hips. “I didn’t plan for you to sing that song.”
“No?” His mouth brushed yours. “What did you plan for?”
“Nothing involving a public bathroom.”
Tucker kissed you once, hard and brief.
“Plans change.”
His fingers slipped between your thighs, and your whole body jerked when he touched you. The sound you made was too loud for the space, too honest, and Tucker caught it with his mouth while his hand worked under your skirt.
“You’re gonna get us caught,” he murmured.
“You started this.”
“I sang a song.”
“You knew what you were doing.”
His smile brushed against your cheek. “Yeah, I did.”
He pulled his hand back just enough to lift it between you. You watched, breath stuck in your chest, as he licked two fingers slowly, his eyes not leaving yours.
Every thought in your head vanished.
Then his hand was under your skirt again.
“Oh,” you breathed.
He rubbed your clit in slow circles, slick fingers moving with a confidence that made your hips shift forward helplessly. You caught his shoulder with one hand and the counter with the other, trying to stay quiet as pleasure rolled through you fast and bright.
Tucker watched your face like he was learning what ruined you.
“You’re trying so hard to keep quiet,” he said, mouth near your ear. “It’s making it worse.”
You swallowed a moan. “Tuck.”
“I like that,” he said. “Say it like that again.”
Your thighs tightened around his hips.
He pressed a little firmer, circles steady and sure, and you gave him exactly what he wanted because you couldn’t help it.
“Tuck.”
His breath dragged out rough against your neck.
“There you go.”
The praise hit you hard, and he must have felt it in the way your hips rolled against his hand, because his fingers slowed just to make you chase them. Then they slipped lower, teasing your entrance, and your laugh broke apart into a gasp.
The music outside swelled, loud enough to rattle the door in its frame. A burst of laughter passed down the hall, and Tucker moved closer, his body covering yours as though that could hide what the two of you were doing.
His fingers pushed inside you.
Your grip on his shirt tightened.
He moved slowly at first, watching your face, reading every little shift. Then he curled them, and you had to press your mouth to his shoulder to keep from making too much noise.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
His jaw brushed your temple. “That’s the spot, huh?”
You nodded into his shoulder, too far gone to make a joke out of it.
He did it again.
Your whole body tightened.
“God,” you whispered. “Please.”
“Please what?”
You lifted your head enough to glare at him, even though you were breathing too hard for it to land properly.
“Tuck.”
He smiled, but it was strained now, his control wearing thin. “I know. I’m sorry. I just like hearing you ask me.”
You reached between you, fingers finding his belt. “Then I’m asking.”
Tucker kissed you as he helped, hands brushing yours, breath uneven. He got his belt open, shoved his jeans and boxers down just enough, and you caught one glimpse of him before he was reaching for his wallet with the kind of urgency that made your stomach flip.
“Tell me you have a condom,” you whispered.
He pulled one out.
“Thank God,” you breathed.
He tore it open, rolled it on, then gripped your thighs and pulled you closer to the edge of the sink. The movement made you gasp, your skirt pushed up around your hips, his jeans low, both of you still mostly dressed and somehow that made it filthier.
Tucker’s hand came to your face.
He kissed you once. Not rushed. Not this time.
Then he lined himself up and pushed inside.
Your mouth fell open, but no sound came out at first. He stretched you slowly, one hand braced on the counter beside your hip, the other gripping your thigh. Tucker’s forehead dropped against yours as he filled you, his breath shuddering.
“Fuck,” he whispered.
Your nails dug into his shoulder. “Tuck.”
He stayed still once he was all the way inside, jaw tight, his body pressed close enough that you could feel the effort it took for him not to move right away.
“You feel so good,” he said, voice rough. “I need a second.”
A breathless laugh escaped you.
He smiled against your cheek, and then he started to move.
The first thrust made your head fall back against the mirror.
His hand came up behind your neck, cushioning you before you could hit too hard. Even here, even like this, he noticed. Then his hips snapped forward again, and your thoughts scattered.
He fucked you against the sink with his mouth at your neck and one hand gripping your thigh, keeping you open for him. The counter creaked beneath you. The mirror fogged slightly near your shoulder. Your skirt was bunched at your waist, your top twisted under his hand, your body taking him in quick, deep strokes that made it nearly impossible to stay quiet.
“Tucker,” you breathed, and his name came out broken.
His grip tightened.
“You have no idea,” he said against your throat. “How many times I thought about you like this.”
You clung to him, barely able to answer. He angled his hips, and the next thrust hit so perfectly that your eyes squeezed shut.
“There,” you gasped.
He caught it immediately.
“There?”
“Yes.”
He kept that angle, steady and focused, kissing you to swallow the sounds you couldn’t hold back. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, pleasure building too fast after his fingers, your body already sensitive and wet for him.
His hand slid between you again.
When his fingers found your clit, you nearly fell apart.
“Oh my God,” you whispered.
Tucker’s breath stuttered. “Come on. Let me feel it.”
Your body locked around him.
He kissed you hard as you came, his fingers still moving, his hips slowing just enough to drag it out. The orgasm hit you in waves, your thighs shaking around his waist, one hand slapped over your own mouth because you could not trust yourself.
He watched you through it, eyes dark and stunned, like he could not believe he got to see you like this.
Then his thrusts got rougher.
Desperate.
He buried his face against your neck, breathing hard, his hands gripping you as he chased his own release. You held onto him, murmuring his name near his ear, and that seemed to finish him.
Tucker came with a low groan, his body pressing yours back against the mirror, his hips stuttering once, twice, before he went still.
For a few seconds, the only sounds were your breathing and the muffled disaster of the bar outside.
Then someone in the hallway shouted, “Yo, whoever’s in there, some of us have beer organs with limited patience.”
Dean.
Of course.
Your eyes widened.
Tucker dropped his forehead to your shoulder.
“I’m gonna kill him,” he whispered.
You started laughing, quiet and helpless, your body still wrapped around his.
Tucker lifted his head, and the look on his face softened so much that it made the laughter fade in your throat.
He kissed you gently.
Then once more.
Then he helped you down from the counter like your knees were not in immediate danger of betraying you. He cleaned up, fixed himself, washed his hands, and handed you a paper towel without making you ask.
You straightened your skirt, then turned to the mirror and immediately regretted it. Your hair, your mouth, the flushed look on your face all gave you away at once.
Tucker came up behind you, but he didn’t wrap his arms around you right away. Instead, he braced both hands on the sink on either side of you, boxing you in without touching anywhere except the faint brush of his chest against your back.
You looked at him in the mirror.
He was watching you there, his hair a little mussed, his shirt wrinkled, his eyes quieter now than they had been all night.
“I don’t want to walk back out there and pretend this was just the song,” he said.
Your fingers paused at the hem of your skirt.
Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours in the mirror, steady in a way that made your chest feel too tight for the room.
“I want you,” he said. “Not just tonight. Not just because Dean’s an idiot and I picked a song I knew would get under your skin. I mean seriously.”
Your throat went dry. “You’re telling me this in a bar bathroom?”
His mouth curved a little, but he didn’t look away. “Yeah. Not my best setting.”
“No,” you said, softer now. “But it’s very you.”
Tucker leaned in, pressing one kiss beneath your ear. “Let me take you home. Let me take you out tomorrow. Let me do this right after doing it completely wrong first.”
You stared at him in the mirror for another second, trying to keep your face together and failing.
“Okay,” you whispered.
Tucker’s hands tightened once on the sink, like that one word had hit him harder than anything else you’d done in that bathroom. Then he kissed your shoulder, soft and lingering, before finally reaching past you to unlock the door.
Dean was leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed.
Not surprised. Not horrified. Barely even interested.
Just waiting.
“Finally,” he said. “I was starting to think I’d have to send Garrett in with snacks.”
You froze in the doorway. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough to know I was right.”
Tucker sighed. “Dean.”
“No, no, I’m being mature about this.” Dean pushed off the wall, eyes flicking between Tucker’s hand at your waist and your very obviously fixed-in-a-hurry hair. “I’m not saying a word.”
You stared at him.
Dean lifted both hands. “Out loud.”
Tucker started guiding you past him.
Dean fell into step beside you like he had been invited. “For the record, I accept thank-you gifts in cash, liquor, or public acknowledgment that I’m the reason this happened.”
Summary: John Tucker teaches you how to play pool. A.k.a you both make your move in hopes you feel the same.
> Shoot your shot
- John Tucker x Figure skater!reader - (Fluff) -
Ever since Hannah started dating Garrett, you’d found most of your time merged with your friends and his. Malones had upgraded another area and added a few pool tables, which you had never set foot in till tonight. You’ve been exchanging heated glances with one particular hockey player, southern charmer John Tucker.
Athletes weren’t your usual type, your last late night hookup or a string of spontaneous sex was with an older guy. Easier to fuck someone you don’t bump into on campus. That and your figure skating coach/mother would go crazy if you were even breathing in a hockey players presence. You can’t help it though, John Tucker’s danced around your short replies and coaxed actual conversations out of you each time you’ve seen him.
“Just, like lean over,” Allie says, she’s perched on the edge of the pool table, gaze flitting to the guys near the bar and you’re terrible hold on a cue stick. Always the lookout, she’s a hundred percent sure Tucker’s interested in you and you’re hoping so too. She’s backed it up with intel, but won’t tell you who the trusted source is.
“Least you’re terrible enough to draw him in naturally,” Hannah grumbles, her hand covering her mouth as she tries to muffle her laugh. Her trembling shoulders give her away though. The band playing in the next room aren’t enough to calm your nerves or the doubts swimming in your head.
Garrett’s the first one to approach, his arm draped over Hannah shoulders as he steals her away. His head lowered as he whispers something in her ear. The guys set up another game of pool on the other side of the room, the nearest free one available and you exhale a long breath, thankful they aren’t teasing you. Allie’s palm pats your back as she disappears into the crowd, something about checking out the band or Photo Booth. You don’t get a glimpse of whoever she’s making a beeline for.
“Wow, this is a rare sight.”
You turn to face Tucker, nearly knocking him in the thigh with the stick. “What me in Malones or me sucking at pool?” You can’t help, but mirror his smile it’s infectious. Everything about him melts away the ice around you, the walls you built falling like water and for the first time it doesn’t scare you. You want him closer.
“Both,” Tucker says. He pushes the stray spring of curls out his face, bicep flexing as he raises his arm. His white T-shirt taunt across his defined chest, silver chain dipping between his pecs.
“Celebrating,” you say, nodding along with him till you realise the guys don’t follow figure skating. “I made it to sectionals, got a new sponsorship. Kinda a big deal.” Well you and your skating partner, Alek had made it. Another reason your mother doesn’t want you having a public relationship, she prefers to let others think you’re dating Alek.
Tucker wraps his arms around you, “congrats, that’s a big fucking deal,” he gives you a reassuring squeeze, the weight of his embrace leaving as quick as it came. You sway on the spot, the knot in your stomach twisting as you second guess your move. No, you don’t close the distant between you and him. Maybe he just sees you as friend.
He’s never hugged you before, the closest you’ve come to touch are your thighs brushing against each others on the sofa or that one time you bumped into him in the corridor leading to the rink. He was all geared up in his hockey kit and nearly knocked you clean on your ass. He caught you though, before you could fall. Maybe that’s when you first fell for him. His kindness. The soft lilt of his voice asking if you’re okay. You were too embarrassed to stick around and he never mentioned it since.
You’re staring, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His dark eyes trailing up and down your form. Oh he’s going to be trouble. He scratches his neck, the column of his throat stealing your attention. You saw a girl on his lap kissing his neck the first time you met him. That was months ago though and you haven’t seen him with anyone else.
“Want some pointers?” He nudges his head towards the table, his hand reaching around you to grab the chalk on the side. You stumble back to the edge, watching him pry the cue stick from your grasp with little effort and he preps the cue stick, blue staining the white tip. He blows the extra leftover residue off and your eyes dart to his lips.
You face the table, unable to meet his gaze, “uh, sure,” you say, there’s nothing else forming in your brain other than the thought of his lips on yours.
Tucker hovers behind you, sliding the cue stick on the table and he instructs you on how to hold it correctly. You place your right hand on the black handle, but his hand covers yours and guides it lower, “here,” is all he says, as if he too has to summon his own courage to speak out loud.
His hand lifts from yours on the handle and he leans forwards, “you wanna, put your left hand like this, balance the stick between your thumb and here,” Tucker says, his back pressing into yours and his weight makes you lean over the pool table. His left hand cups your elbow and the other returns to the handle and he draws the cue stick back and forth, practice.
“Okay, now try this one,” he says, pointing to the white ball, which you have to lean further over the table to get a better shot.
“Like this?” You ask, peering over your shoulder and he doesn’t move an inch. His lips a hair width from yours, he nods, nose bumping yours. You focus returns to the plush green velvet surface of the table in front you, acutely aware of his body moulded to yours.
“Follow the line of the cue stick, set up your shot,” his deep raspy voice rumbles in your ear, hot breath fanning the side of your face. “You wanna hit the ball in the centre, take your time.” His hands settle on your hips and he adjusts your body, guiding you closer to the edge of the pool table.
You jolt at his sudden touch fumbling your shot. The cue stick slips, white ball bouncing over the green surface and onto the floor. Tucker’s laugh shakes his chest and you feel it tremble through you too.
Tucker steps back. “Thought you figure skaters were graceful?” He says, cocking his head to the side to meet your gaze. That damned smirk pulls at the corner of his lips, curls tumbling over his forehead. One hand trails to the small of your back, a small splinter of hope that he’s interested in you.
“Only on ice.” You spin around to face him and his hand follows the movement, the warmth of his palm stinging the bare skin beneath your blouse.
“What else do figure skaters do off the ice then?” He lifts you up, setting you on the side of the pool table and steps between your legs. Your heart hammers in your chest as you look up at him.
You grasp the front hem of T-shirt, “we kiss handsome boys.” It’s now or never.
Tucker’s lips press to yours, teeth clinking as you meet him halfway. Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt and you tug him closer, deepening the kiss. Hot and heavy, he leans back for a breath. His forehead resting against yours, you place your hand on his chest and feel the fast beat of his heart beneath your palm.
“You wanna know what hockey players do off the ice?”
Summary: Chloe arrives at Malone's excited to finally meet the guy she's been talking to for weeks. When he stands her up, she tries to convince herself she doesn't care. The problem is that the stranger sitting at the next table seems to figure out the truth before she does.
I showed up at Malone's fifteen minutes early because I'm an idiot.
There was really no other explanation.
A normal person would've arrived on time. A smart person would've shown up five minutes late to seem mysterious and interesting.
I showed up fifteen minutes early and had already spent seven of them staring at the door every time someone walked in.
Pathetic.
I set my phone on the table and checked my reflection in the dark screen.
My hair still looked good.
My makeup was fine.
I liked the dress.
Everything was fine.
Everything should've been fine.
After all, I'd been talking to him for weeks.
Texting during class.
Late-night phone calls.
Sending each other ridiculous pictures of our food.
Conversations that somehow lasted until two in the morning.
Enough that when he suggested meeting in person, I'd said yes without thinking twice.
And now I was here.
Waiting.
The first ten minutes were easy.
The next ten were a little harder.
By the thirty-minute mark, I'd already started making excuses for him.
Maybe there was traffic.
Maybe he couldn't find parking.
Maybe his phone died.
Maybe—
Well.
Maybe he was an asshole.
The thought crossed my mind when I checked the time for the fifth time in less than three minutes.
Forty-five minutes.
No call.
No text.
Nothing.
The waitress stopped by my table with a kind smile.
Too kind.
The kind of smile people give you when they know you're embarrassed.
"Can I get you anything else?"
"Another soda."
"Of course."
She didn't even ask if I was waiting for someone.
Because she already knew.
Everyone knew.
The dressed-up girl sitting alone by the window who couldn't stop staring at the door.
It didn't take a genius.
When she walked away, I buried my face in my hands for a second.
What a disaster.
My phone vibrated.
I looked up so fast I nearly knocked over my drink.
Finally.
I unlocked the screen.
And immediately felt my stomach drop.
Sorry. I can't make it.
That was it.
No explanation.
No real apology.
No phone call.
Just one pathetic line of text.
I read it three times.
Waiting for more.
Nothing else appeared.
"Wow."
The voice made me look up.
A guy was standing beside my table.
Tall.
Very tall.
Dark hair.
Broad shoulders.
And an expression somewhere between sympathy and amusement.
"Excuse me?"
"I was just gonna say that guy seems like a complete idiot."
I blinked.
"How do you know it's a guy?"
"Instinct."
"And how do you know I got stood up?"
His smile widened slightly.
"Because you've spent the last hour staring at the door."
Fantastic.
"You've also checked your phone about a hundred times."
Even better.
"And you just made a face like you were considering throwing it through a wall."
"Excellent."
"I wanted you to have all the facts."
Unfortunately, I laughed.
I tried not to.
I really did.
But it slipped out anyway.
And that seemed to satisfy him.
"Much better."
"What?"
"The laugh."
I shook my head.
"I don't even know who you are."
"Beau."
He pointed to the empty chair across from me.
"Mind if I sit?"
I thought about it for a few seconds.
Normally, I would've said yes.
Normally, I didn't talk to strangers.
But my date had just stood me up, and clearly my judgment when it came to men wasn't exactly at its peak.
"Go ahead."
Beau sat down.
And somehow, up close, he was even more attractive.
Which felt deeply unfair.
"I'm Chloe."
"Nice to meet you, Chloe."
"Even if you met me at my most humiliating moment."
"I've seen worse."
"I doubt it."
"I play football."
He said it with such a straight face that I laughed again.
"Fair point."
"See? We're already making progress."
"Do you always talk to abandoned girls in bars?"
"Only when they look like they're considering committing a felony."
"I was not considering a felony."
"You were thinking about it."
"Maybe a little."
"Knew it."
And somehow that was all it took.
There wasn't some big moment.
No dramatic shift.
We just... kept talking.
First about the idiot who never showed up.
Then about classes.
Then college.
Terrible professors.
Weird roommates.
Bad movies.
Food.
Anything and everything that came to mind.
And somewhere along the way, I stopped looking at the door.
I didn't even notice when it happened.
It just did.
An hour earlier, I couldn't have imagined myself laughing.
Now my cheeks hurt from smiling.
"Wait," I said suddenly. "Maxwell."
"Yeah?"
"I know that last name."
Beau sighed.
"Oh no."
"Do you play for Briar?"
"Maybe."
I narrowed my eyes.
"You're one of the football players."
"I try to keep it quiet."
"I don't think that's working."
"Damn."
I smiled.
"My brother talks about you guys all the time."
"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
"Depends on the week."
"Fair."
His smile was dangerous.
Not in the cocky way.
Not in the arrogant way.
Worse.
Because it felt genuine.
And that was a lot harder to ignore.
When I checked the time again, I nearly choked.
"What?"
"It's been three hours."
"Seriously?"
"Three hours."
Beau checked his watch.
"Huh."
"'Huh'?"
"I guess you're more entertaining than I thought."
"Wow. How sweet."
"It was a compliment."
"It was terrible."
"I'm still working on it."
The bartender announced last call.
People started gathering their things.
The lights seemed a little brighter.
And suddenly I realized the night was ending.
Which was strange.
Because I didn't want it to.
Apparently, neither did Beau.
We stood up at the same time.
Walked out of Malone's together.
The cold air hit my face immediately.
For a few seconds, we walked in silence toward the parking lot.
And for the first time since he'd sat down at my table, I felt nervous.
Ridiculously nervous.
"So," I said.
"So."
He smiled.
I smiled back.
"I have a question."
"Shoot."
I shoved my hands into my coat pockets.
"Does this count as a date?"
Beau tilted his head slightly.
Like he was considering it.
"No."
I tried to ignore the tiny wave of disappointment that hit me.
"Oh."
"Because if it were a date..."
He took a step closer.
Just one.
But it was enough to make my pulse jump.
"I'd be asking for a second one."
My breath caught somewhere between my lungs and my throat.
And Beau's smile softened.
Warmer.
Gentler.
"Are you asking?"
"Definitely."
I looked at him for a few seconds.
Thinking about the hour I'd spent staring at the door.
Thinking about the text that had almost ruined my night.
Thinking about how none of it had mattered the moment Beau sat down across from me.
Then I smiled.
"I guess I'll have to say yes."
The grin that appeared on his face made every awful second of the beginning worth it.
And as I watched him walk me to my car, I couldn't help thinking that maybe the best part of that night wasn't the person who showed up.
I had this idea and really wanted to write about it - if you like it I'll make a part two (disclaimer I am not a mechanic and know nothing about cars so sorry if theres anything that doesn't make sense!!)
The electric buzz of Malone’s filled the air as Logan stepped inside, the familiar sounds of laughter and music washing over him like a warm embrace. He scanned the crowded bar, looking for his friends, but paused when he caught sight of someone new at the far end of the room.
You stood out amidst the chaos, your laughter ringing clear above the noise. Your long hair fell in soft waves around your shoulders. He felt an unexpected jolt of attraction, something he hadn’t felt in a while.
Logan’s friends, Dean and Garrett, were at a booth on the left, engaged in a lively debate about the last game. He hesitated for a moment wondering if he should go over to you, then walked over to his friends. Todays game had gone badly and he didn’t need a rejection ontop of that.
You looked up just as he looked away, you could've sworn he was looking at you, but you ignored it, you didn't have time for hockey boys and hookups. Even if they were pretty.
Logan slid into the booth beside Garrett, tossing his jacket over the back. He kept one eye on your table, trying to be subtle. He listened to Dean launched into some ridiculous theory about why the game’s loss was definitely due to bad luck.
“Dude,” Logan said with a smirk, looking over at his friend and pouring himself a beer. “We lost ‘cause you missed that wide-open pass.”
Garrett laughed and Dean looked shocked.
He continued to protest but Logan wasn’t really listening anymore. His attention drifted again, your laugh had just risen above the chatter again, bright and easy and damn if it didn’t do something weird to his chest. He took a slow sip of beer, pretending not to care, but already wondering how he could work his way over there without looking obvious.
You both spent the evening with your respective friend groups, both stealing glances at each other when the other wasn't looking.
You were trying not to pay attention to the brown eyed hockey boy, but the tequila in your system was giving you other ideas. He looked genuinley happy, laughing and drinking with his friends, sometimes you could hear them from your table they'd get so loud. However each time you glanced over, you slowly began to notice the slighlt darkness under his eyes, his expressions tainted with exhaustion.
The tequila had definitely kicked in, your cheeks were warm, your laughter came easier, and everything felt lighter. Your friends were deep in conversation about some TV show you hadn’t fully been paying attention to.
Across the bar, Logan’s table was loud as ever, Garrett doing impressions of their coach losing his mind during timeouts, Dean nearly falling off the booth laughing. Logan leaned back with that easy grin on his face, the one that made girls turn heads without even trying.
But when he glanced up and saw you actually looking at him this time? His breath hitched just slightly.
He didn’t look away immediately like before. Instead, he held your gaze for a moment.
You blushed and ignored him, you'd hadn't had enough to drink to make bad decisions tonight and you had a job interview tomorrow anyway.
Logan’s smirk softened just a fraction when you looked away, oh. Not falling for the charm so easily. He kind of liked that.
Garrett nudged him with his elbow, raising an eyebrow. “Dude,” he said under his breath, loud enough only Logan could hear, “you’re staring.”
Logan rolled his eyes and took another swig of beer to hide it. “I’m not staring,” he lied.
Dean leaned in now too, following Garrett’s line of sight toward your table and then immediately grinned and proceeding to tease Logan further.
“Ohhhh,” Dean drawled. "That’s why you’ve been extra quiet all night.”
Logan shot him a warning look, half annoyed, half amused, but didn’t deny it.
The next moment, Tucker walked up with fresh shots and slid into the booth across from them all. "Alright boys! Who's ready to get properly wasted?"
You glanced over and saw Logans friends teasing him, most likely about you being his next 'hookup.'
"Hey, I think I'm gonna get an early night, this weeks been exhausting and I have that job interview tomorrow" you said to your friend. She agreed and you both finished your drinks, ignoring the boys table getting louder and louder as Dean had ordered shots. You walked out of the bar forcing yourself not to look Logans way.
The moment you stood, Logan’s gaze snapped to you. His smile faded slightly as he watched you grab your coat and say goodbye to your friends.
Dean was already hyped up on shots, slamming the table and yelling something about “chugging like champions,” but Logan barely registered it.
You didn’t look back. Didn’t glance his way once as you pushed through the crowd toward the door.
Garrett noticed first, waiting to see what his friend would do.
“She leaving?” Dean asked.
Logan just nodded, then without a word he slid out of the booth after you as his friends cheered.
Before he could get out through the sea of people crowding the bar, you were gone, likely already in an uber or walking back to your dorm with your friends. He mentally cursed himself for not going over sooner.
The next moment, his phone chimed, he groaned seeing his brother, Jeffs name pop up. He'd been ignoring his brothers messages, their dad was drinking heavily again, unable to work at the garage so Logan had to find extra time to help. Jeff had mentioned about putting a job ad out about getting an extra pair of hands but Logan had been reluctant, they barely had enough to cover Jeffs income let alone another person and Logan was already working for free.
Logan looked down at his brothers message.
Jeff: got someone coming at 11 tomorrow for an interview, need you to be there, I have to take dad to an appointment.
He stared at his phone, the glow of the screen cutting through the dim light outside. Logans head fell back in frustration, he didn’t know how to interview anyone, let alone on his own.
He exhaled sharply and shoved his phone back in his pocket.
Jeff was doing everything right: holding down their dads’s appointments, keeping up with customers, all while Logan got what he wanted, to play hockey, to have some freedom. He didn’t resent Jeff, he resented his father for not letting his children have the freedom they deserved. They had to cover for him while he drank himself into an early grave.
Rather than going back in to the bar, drinking more, and likely feeling awful in the morning. Logan headed straight home, texting his friends to say he’d see them later.
Your vintage truck purred down the quiet morning streets, sunrise painting gold streaks across the windshield. You were running early to your interview, thinking about the memories of fixing up your truck at your dads garage back home as you drove. Your scholarship money only went so far and now a month in you'd realised getting a job was the only option if you wanted to continue enjoying student life as well as studying. Your parents didn't have endless money to give you but they did their best.
As you drove, your mind drifted to Logan, you were sure he'd been looking at you last night and as much as you hated to admit it, it intrigued you. Although he was one of the infamous Hawks House hockey boys, he was quieter, harder to read. Not like Garrett or Dean who could often be seen chatting up girls left right and centre.
The interview wasn’t far from campus a small mechanic shop tucked between two buildings, Logan & Sons Auto Repair. You hadn’t realized it was connected to the Logans, until now.
Pulling up, you killed the engine and took a deep breath. Nervous energy buzzed under your skin, you really wanted this job. Not just for the money, but you genuinley missed helping your dad fix cars, it was an outlet for you.
As you stepped out in your simple jeans and tshirt, not wanting to look super dressed up and out of place for the job, a tall figure emerged from around back briar hockey hoodie on, hands in pockets, it was Logan.
"Uh hi" you said nervously.
"Hi" he replied, smiling, not believing his luck, "nice truck" he pointed his head you could tell he was taking in every detail of it, he looked in awe.
"Did you need help with it?" he asked. You looked back at him, confused and sightly pissed off.
"No" you said flatly, he'd clearly assumed you were here for help, not for the interview. "I'm here for the interview, but from that reaction you clearly don't think I'm capable."
Logan’s smile faltered and for once, the usually smooth-talking hockey captain was completely thrown off.
His eyes widened slightly. How had he already fucked this up?
He hadn’t expected you. The girl from Malone’s, the one who laughed like she didn’t have a care in the world, the one he’d been staring at all night, to show up here for the job.
And now you looked pissed. Rightfully so.
“Oh,” he said dumbly, running a hand through his messy morning hair. “Right. Yeah.”
He cleared his throat and straightened up instantly shoulders back, trying to be casual like he hadn’t just totally put his foot in it, but inside? Total panic.
Jeff had told him someone was coming at 11:00, but Logan hadn't actually got your name or anything. He just assumed it'd be some local guy looking for extra cash between classes.
“Sorry,” he added quickly looking guilty.
You'd been used to this, people at your dads garage thinking you didn't work there. They'd ask if a 'man was around' when they'd bring their cars in, especially as you looked younger. You spent years trying to prove yourself, showing strangers that you knew things inside out. It brought you back to those moments, not feeling good enough even though you knew you were. Part of you wanted to turn around and leave, but you needed the money.
"So, what do you want to know" you replied, your tone still cold but trying to remain somewhat professional.
Logan caught the frost in your voice, it hit him like a slap.
He’d done this before. Assumed things about people based on first impressions. Hockey had taught him to read situations fast, but right now? He was bad at reading you, and he hated it.
Without overthinking, Logan stepped aside and gestured toward the shop door with an open palm, “come this way,” he said quietly, softer than before. No jokes, no flirty charm, just trying to be polite and not make any more mistakes.
The garage wasn't fancy, concrete floor smudged with oil stains, tools neatly organized along one wall, but there was pride here, family photos tucked on a shelf above the messy desk.
Logan grabbed a chair from one side of his brother's cluttered desk and pulled it out for you. Then moved to sit the other side of the desk.
He cleared his throat, trying to sound official even though he had zero idea what a real job interview sounded like.
“So…” he started, wishing he’d prepared something beforehand. “What made you wanna apply here?”
His brown eyes studied your face, trying his best to act professional and ignore how much he wanted to ask you out.
"My dad has a garage back home, I worked there from when I was 10 until I came here" you explained. "You might not think it” you half laughed, referring to his earlier reaction, “but I know engines inside out, I'm not afraid of getting my hands dirty" you paused for a second, "and honestly, I miss working on cars." You tried to sound confident, and tried to be a little more friendly. You wanted this job after all, and you could see in Logans face he felt awful for judging you.
Logan’s expression shifted, he was genuine surprise, then respect. He hadn’t expected that, the passion behind your words, you loved cars, just like he did.
“Damn,” he said quietly, a small smile tugging at his lips again, not flirtatious or cocky, just impressed. “That’s… really cool.” You smiled in response, slightly smug that you’d caught him off guard.
Then Logan leaned forward slightly and asked with intrigue, “what kind of cars have you worked on?”
You laughed softly, thinking of the many, many cars you'd worked on in your barely twenty years, "literally everything, honestly I think my dad would've made me stay if he could."
Logan chuckled at that literally everything and the way you said it so casually, like fixing a Mustang engine was as normal as brushing your teeth.
He liked your laugh. Soft, but real, not forced or fake-flirty like so many girls tried with him. God, he was down bad already and he hadn’t even seen you work on a car yet.
“So,” Logan said, leaning back slightly with newfound curiosity, so if someone brought in a busted vintage Mustang what would you check first?”
It wasn't just an interview question anymore. He actually wanted to know if you knew your stuff.
Logan watched you carefully, arms crossed now, not to be intimidating, but because he was genuinely paying attention.
When you answered, it was confident, you weren’t guessing. The words just flowed like someone who’d actually torn into an engine more times than they could count.
And damn… that turned him on a little.
He nodded slowly, lips quirking into another small smile before pushing off from where he leaned and walking over to one of the bays where the exact car you were talking about sat with its hood up.
“Wanna prove it?” Logan asked casually, but there was a challenge glinting in his brown eyes.
Logan grabbed a wrench off the bench and tossed it lightly in his hand, then nodded toward the open hood.
“This thing’s been acting up,” he said. “Dies out when you idle too long. Jeff’s been swapping parts blindly, thinks it might be spark plugs or fuel pump.”
He stepped back, giving you space.
It wasn’t just about seeing if you could fix it, though yeah, that mattered for hiring someone. He wanted to see how you worked, your focus, your hands-on knowledge without hesitation.
Plus, watching a girl who actually knew her stuff under pressure? Kinda hot.
You didn’t hesitate.
Without asking for permission, you walked straight to the Ford, grabbed a socket wrench from the tray, and started checking connections. No guesswork. Just methodical precision: inspecting wires, tapping sensors with your knuckle like you knew exactly what sound they should make.
Logan stood back silently, arms crossed again, but now he was watching everything. The way your brow furrowed slightly in concentration. How you muttered to yourself as you worked.
This was it, he thought, he was going to marry you then and there.
Then, after about three minutes of diagnosis, you reached under the dash and popped off a cover panel near where fuel pressure would be monitored.
Your fingers moved fast.
Logan’s breath caught just a little.
You weren’t guessing. You weren’t flipping switches randomly like most people would. You were working like someone who’d done this a thousand times before.
And then click you pulled out a small gauge, hooked it to the fuel line, and waited for the pressure reading with that calm focus only experienced mechanics had.
The needle dropped low immediately below spec.
Your lips pressed together confirming your diagnosis before you looked up at Logan not smugly or dramatically. “Fuel pump’s bad,” you said simply.
Logan exhaled sharply through his nose, half laugh, half disbelief.
Jeff had been complaining about this truck for weeks, swapping out random parts like he was playing mechanic roulette. And here you were, you’d diagnosed it in under five minutes without even touching the engine block properly.
He stepped forward and peered at the gauge reading over your shoulder the numbers confirmed it, the pressure way too low.
“Holy shit,” Logan muttered under his breath.
“You’re… really good.”
"I did tell you that" you snickered, smiling triumphantly. Working on cars was like being at home for you. Comfortable, easy.
Logan grinned, wide, the kind that showed off his dimples.
Yeah. You had told him. And he’d been a dumbass for doubting you at first.
But now? Seeing you like this, relaxed, smiling, totally in your element with grease on your fingers and confidence radiating off you, it was really attractive.
He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit, and suddenly felt way more awkward than before.
“Okay,” Logan said with a chuckle. “You’re hired.”
No waiting around. No calling Jeff to approve it or whatever corporate nonsense there usually was when hiring someone new in a family business.
What was the policy on fratenizing with the staff again? Because he’d known you five minutes and already had proposal plans going round in his head.
Davenport vs Dean fight and his girlfriend's reaction
I changed a bit of the backstory between Hunter Davenport, reader and Dean so it would fit the story better
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Summary: Dean gets arrested after punching Hunter at Malone's
Warnings: violence,
Dean had an arm around you, his hand dangerously grazing the lower part of your stomach just above your skirt, as he drank his beer and listened to Beau recalling his two goals at tonight’s game. He may not have scored the winning goal — that one was all Logan —, but his best friend made him sound like he was the greatest player on that ice.
‘’It’s mostly talent,’’ Dean explained, speaking like he was doing an interview. ‘’But I also have to thank my beautiful good luck charm in the stands.’’ He kissed your cheek and rubbed your skin absentmindedly with his thumb. ‘’Doesn’t she look fucking hot wearing my number?’’
You laughed softly at his antics.
Many girls had worn his number during games. It was nothing new. But seeing you wearing it felt different. You were his girl. And this was his away-game jersey, not some Hawks merch everyone could buy. When Dean saw you wearing it in the stands, his brain short-circuited and he promised himself that he would fuck you in only that jersey later tonight.
Malone’s bell door chimed and a guy with dark hair walked in. He nodded at a few guys he must have recognized as he peeled off his jacket, revealing a long sleeve polo shirt. Needless to say, his preppy style stood out in the diner.
Your hand tightened around your drink when you saw him smiling flirtaciously at a girl who walked by. ‘’Oh shit.’’
Feeling the shift in your attitude, Dean pivoted in the direction you were looking at, his eyes landing on Hunter Davenport.
‘’Isn’t that—’’ Beau began, but Dean was already moving before he could finish his question.
This was not good.
You went after him, knowing Dean would start shit.
Hunter and you went out for a short time in the summer. What you didn’t know was that he and Dean used to play on the same hockey team in high school, and therefore knew each other. So when Dean saw you were tagged in a picture with Davenport, he felt territorial. Because even though you weren’t exclusive at the time, you were his girl.
‘’The fuck are you doing here?’’ Dean asked, standing like he owned the place.
Hunter gave him a cocky smile. ‘’I heard your team needs saving.’’
You reached for Dean’s arm, trying to guide him away, but he didn’t budge.
‘’Get the fuck out of here. We don’t need you.’’
Hunter turned to Logan, who was sitting at a small table close by. ‘’Hey, Logan. You said this was his idea.’’
Dean’s eyebrows shoot up, outrage flaring in his veins. ‘’You said what?!’’
‘’Hey, what the hell is going on?’’ Garrett intervened, standing up from the booth he was sitting with Hannah and coming to see what had Dean riled up.
‘’Uh, you weren’t there,’’ Logan explained simply. ‘’I had to make a call.’’
‘’I’m not skating with this prick!’’ Dean said firmly, pointing a finger at Hunter.
‘’Aw, you’re scared I’m gonna dust your ass again?’’ Hunter taunted, adding fuel to the fire that was about to catch.
Dean turned back to him. ‘’You want to try?’’ His tone was cocky and challenging, which only meant trouble.
You glanced at Beau, begging him with your eyes to do something.
‘’Yeah, I do.’’
Dean shoved him first. ‘’I’d like to see you fucking try.’’
‘’Get out of my face.’’ Hunter shoved him back.
Then, Dean charged at him.
The impact sent both of them crashing into a nearby table. Bottles rattled and hit the floor, glass breaking and beer spilling. Hunter swung first, landing a solid punch against Dean’s jaw that snapped his head to the side. The latter barely reacted. Playing on defense, he was used to getting roughed up on the ice.
In retaliation, Dean grabbed Hunter by the front of his shirt and drove him backward into the wall. The picture frame hanging there fell with a crash.
‘’Dean!’’ you shouted.
People were gathering around them, watching and cheering and filming with their phones. This fight was going to get Dean in major trouble…
Hunter recovered fast and swung. His fist connected with Dean’s jaw.
The room went silent.
‘’Come on,’’ Dean spat. ‘’That all you got?’’
The next few seconds were a blur of swinging fists and crashing furniture. Hunter managed to get several hits in — one to Dean’s jaw, another to his shoulder — but every punch seemed to make Dean angrier.
Dean landed a brutal shot to Hunter’s stomach that doubled him over. Before Hunter could straighten, Dean grabbed him by the collar and slammed him against the wall again.
‘’Jesus Christ,’’ Beau muttered, standing with the rest of the crowd and watching as Logan and Tucker tried to hold back Dean.
Garrett went to Hunter, trying to break the fight, but Dean was giving his two teammates a run for their money, escaping their grip and throwing another at Hunter.
Someone was screaming for them to break it up — probably one of the employees —, but it fell on deaf ears.
The front door suddenly burst open and two officers came in, taking the situation to a whole other level of trouble.
☄︎ Warnings: None!
☄︎ Pairing: Figure Skater!Reader x Dean Di Laurentis
☄︎ Rating/Genre: PG (mentions of smut)
☄︎ Words: 1791
☄︎ Summary: Dean does his best to flirt with you while you act as uninteresed as possible.
💭: this was super fun tho i’m not sure if my knowledge of the ice holds up as i can barely ice skate myself lmao. i do have a man hater!reader x dean request in my inbox that i’m thinking could be a good way to continue this… if that’s what people want! if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx
Read the original request here. 〣 Find my Off Campus Masterlist here.
Dean almost never looked twice at somebody who wasn’t looking at him. Not that he didn’t enjoy a chase every now and then, but he really had no need. He liked how convenient his life was. He liked things that were fun, a little bit chaotic, and on the mutual agreement that this would be a good time, not a long time. Usually, if someone didn’t bite, he was able to move on to the next beautiful thing without a second thought.
Yet, as he leant against the boards, he realised he had been staring at you for a solid five minutes and you had not even so much as blinked in his direction.
When he had first hit the ice, he expected to be hit with the familiar arena air, smelling more like fresh ice and leftover Zamboni fumes. What he hadn’t expected was for the air to be thick with the heavenly scent of your vanilla body spray and the undercurrent of impending irritation.
The Hawks had a big game coming up, coach had ordered extra practice, and the Briar Athletic Department, in an attempt to keep everyone happy, hastily agreed to give them the extra slot. That slot, just so happened to be your usual slot.
Dean grinned as he remembered the way your eyes had blazed. You had stood with your blades dug firmly into the ice, arms crossed over your chest as you watched Coach Jensen, quite pathetically, plead with your coach to let the boys have the ice. The answer had been a resounding no.
When the athletic department’s admin assistant hurried out to offer a panicked apology, your face had completely transformed.
“It’s okay, mistakes happen we’ll sort it out,” you had said, your voice gentle as your expression softened.
But then, you had spun slowly to face the waiting Hawks team. Your eyes blazed again as you offered a plastered-on smile. “I’m sure these gentlemen can patiently wait their turn over there.” You pointed over to the player’s benches. “Especially as we were here first.”
You and your coach didn’t wait for the response, you turned to skate to the centre of the ice. To be fair to you, this was your usual training slot.
Dean had been completely captivated.
Which is why, when most of the hockey team immediately turned on their heels and headed to the strength and conditioning room to lift weights instead of waiting around, Dean was one of the few that stayed.
He leant back against the barrier, grateful that this fuck up had meant he got to meet you and that irritated scowl of yours. Your irritation wasn’t even directed it at him, but he knew he wanted to find a way it could be.
He watched you gracefully carve through the ice in a way that contradicted the focused scowl on your face. You were wearing sleek black leggings that made your legs look longer and a fitted Briar U skating jacket that hugged every curve of your torso as you moved.
For 30 minutes, you warmed up and then went straight into an intense skills session, completely unbothered by the handful of hockey players that were watching you in awe from the sidelines.
You took it as a cue to have a, much-needed, break when your coach stepped away from the ice to take a call. Gliding over to the boards, you reached for your water bottle with one hand and propped your tablet on the ledge with the other. You quickly pulled up the clip your coach had taken of your routine, brows furrowing in concentration as you analysed your movements.
Dean took your cue for a break as a cue to disturb you. Pushing off of the barrier, he closed the distance and slid to a loud stop right beside you.
“Hey,” he said, his voice dropping into the register that he reserved for when he wanted girls to forget their own names. “I know you told us to stay out of your way, but I just had to come over and tell you how incredible you look out there.”
You paused, your fingers tightening around your water bottle as you reluctantly looked up from the tablet screen. Dean smiled down at you; you didn’t smile back. Your eyes tracked down from his flawlessly styled hair to the stupidly smug smile resting on his lips.
“Gee, thanks. Your praise means the world to me, Di Laurentis,” you said, voice dripping heavily with sarcasm. You did your best to sound disgusted as you said his name.
Dean’s smug smirk only widened, his blue eyes swimming with amusement. “Oh, so you know who I am? I’m flattered, I didn’t know I had fans in the figure skating world.”
Rolling your eyes as dramatically as possible, you stood up a little taller. Even on your blades, he had to lean down slightly to hold your gaze. “Your name is on the back of your jersey, genius. I do know how to read.”
“So, what you’re saying is, you were checking me out, you saw my back, and you memorised my name? Hot.”
“Literally none of the words I said matched what you just said.”
Dean ignored your protest, his smile turning cheeky as he held out a hand to you. “I’m Dean, by the way.”
“I don’t remember asking.”
“Usually, people respond with ‘Hi, nice to meet you, I’m...’”
“But it’s not nice to meet you.”
You turned your back on him to grab your towel. Dean didn’t hesitate, going around you in a semi-circle until he was standing directly in your line of sight again.
“So,” he continued, “while you were busy checking me out, memorising my name and all that... did you also check out my ass?”
“I’ve seen better,” you said flatly, looking him dead in the eye as a smirk of your own played on your lips. “And, usually, asses don’t talk this much.”
Snapping your water bottle shut with an unnecessarily loud crack, you slammed it down on the ledge and pushed off on the ice with speed.
Dean chuckled, immediately moving to skate backwards, tracking you as you circled the massive rink. “Ouch. You’re mean. I kind of love it.”
You kept your chin up, trying to ignore him as the cold wind hit your face. “Go away, Di Laurentis. You’re ruining my focus.”
“I respect that. Total dedication to your craft. I get it.”
You threw a sceptical glance his way as you came to a stop in the centre of the ice. “What exactly do you get about having total dedication.”
“I’m a deeply passionate guy, what can I say? Maybe one day I’ll get to show you.” Dean winked, the dimple in his left cheek popping into view.
“Well, if you understand then why are you trying to interrupt my focus.”
“You’re on a break.”
“My break’s over now, you can go.”
“You were at the boards for like 60 seconds,” Dean pointed out. “Surely you need more rest than that.”
“I’m good. I have great stamina.”
“Oh?” Dean’s eyebrows shot up, a wicked grin breaking across his face.
“No! That was not me flirting,” you clarified instantly.
“Maybe not intentionally, but I like where your head’s at,” Dean teased, tilting his upper body just a fraction closer into your personal space. “And, for the record? I also have great stamina. We could test it out sometime. Compare notes over drinks.”
You sighed, heavily. “Di Laurentis–.”
“Dean.”
“Di Laurentis,” you repeated, your tone hardening as you started moving again, going into a series of rapid backwards crossovers. “I’m busy. Go sit on the bench over there and practice looking pretty.”
“So, you do think I’m pretty,” he laughed, the sound echoing.
“Once again, I did not say that.”
“It was heavily implied.”
“I’m starting to think you don’t understand the meaning of words very well,” you said.
“Oh, I understand them perfectly,” Dean shot back. “I just prefer the ones that get me what I want. Like the words you’ll say when you inevitably agree to go out for drinks with me.”
“Isn’t there anybody else around that you can go bother?” You signed, desperately looking around the empty ice.
“Depends. Do you know any other figure skaters that look this beautiful when they’re irritated?”
You opened your mouth, a sharp retort at the tip of your tongue when he suddenly held up a finger, cutting you off.
“Fair warning,” Dean said. “You have to stop being so mean to me otherwise I’ll fall in love with you.”
Your mouth snapped shut. You stared at him. He stared back.
“So, you’re saying I have to be nice to you? That sounds... difficult,” you countered slowly, finding your voice as you glided backwards together.
“No, I’m telling you the consequences if you’re not,” Dean replied smoothly.
“Mhm.”
“I mean, we already make a great team. Fire-.” He gestured proudly to his own chest. “And ice.” He pointed a finger at you. “It’s a classic trope, you know.”
“What makes you think I’m interested in your stupid dimples, your swoopy hair, or your little fire-and-ice routine that I’m sure you’ve used on the hundreds of women you’ve likely slept with?”
Right then, the doors swung open as your coach walked back into the arena. The sound of her whistle echoing through the air.
“Look,” you said quickly. “I have exactly 30 minutes left of ice time before my regional qualifiers. I do not have the time or, quite frankly, the energy to be a conquest you can tick off your checklist. My coach can be a very mean lady, so I highly suggest you stop distracting me, otherwise it might be her you fall for.”
Dean grinned at you, not at all deterred but he did stop following you around the rink. “Okay, fine. I’ll leave you to your routine now. But, what about later? Can I come and find you after you’re done?”
You didn’t answer him; you just threw a parting scowl over your shoulder as you drifted away. But, as you turned your back, you could feel the corners of your mouth lifting. Your own body betraying you.
“Noted,” Dean called out across the empty rink. “I’ll see you later.”
He spun around and skated back to the bench, a thoroughly pleased smile on his face.
Tucker looked up from the bench where he was re-tying his laces, raising an eyebrow at Dean. “Don’t tell me the great Dean Di Laurentis stuck out?”
Dean didn’t even look at him, his eyes glued on your silhouette as you leaped into the air, spinning a few times under the bright stadium lights.
AN: Welcome to me trying to get out of my funk so I made myself a randomizer with different tropes and characters to make me have to branch out... enjoy???
“He’s going pro.” Your husband said in astonishment as he watched your 6 year old son glide across the ice in front of you.
“He’s six years old Dean.” You laughed
“He’s the best kid on the ice.” He boasted as your son turned with ease on the ice and chased after the puck.
“And you’re not at all biased because he’s your dad.” You scoffed, shoving his shoulder slightly causing you to slip slightly on the ice. Your left skate shot out in front of you. You braced yourself for the cold impact, only to be met with Dean’s strong arms as he settled you back on the ice.
“Easy killer, precious cargo.” You said with a laugh as your husband gazed at you with a lovesick expression. Being married for almost six years felt like six days.
You fell harder and harder every day with the man that Dean had become after graduation, he settled into his natural role in coaching for a youth hockey league. He was over the moon when your son began to show interest in his favorite sport.
He was the perfect father and coach, he was supportive without ever being overbearing. He encouraged your son through all his wins and losses and you couldn’t wait to see how much closer hockey would bring the family of three-soon to be four.
summary: dean thinks he knows every girl on campus until you show up to his party with his best friends girlfriend
a/n: join the taglist!
you never should have agreed to come.
that thought had been stuck in your head since hannah practically forced you into her car an hour ago. she had shown up at your house unannounced, walked straight past your excuses, and informed you that you were going to a party whether you liked it or not. apparently spending every friday night at home with a book was becoming “a serious issue” in her eyes. now you stood awkwardly in the middle of a crowded house, clutching a red plastic cup filled with soda you hadn’t touched once, while music blasted so loudly it rattled your ribs. people pushed past you every few seconds, laughing and shouting over one another. you felt completely out of place. your oversized sweater suddenly seemed too warm, your glasses felt crooked, and every time someone glanced in your direction, your stomach twisted itself into another knot.
hannah, meanwhile, looked perfectly comfortable. she always did. she could walk into a room full of strangers and somehow have three new best friends within ten minutes. you envied that about her. she grabbed your wrist before you could retreat toward the nearest corner and tugged you through the crowd. “come on,” she shouted over the music. “garrett’s here.” you immediately knew what that meant. the entire reason she’d wanted to come tonight was because garrett was hosting. hannah had spent the last month pretending she wasn’t interested in him while simultaneously talking about him every single day. before you could protest, she was already weaving through clusters of people toward the back patio where a group of hockey players stood around talking.
garrett spotted her instantly. his face lit up in a way that made it painfully obvious he liked her just as much as she liked him. he pulled her into a quick hug before his attention shifted toward you. “so this is the famous friend?” he asked, smiling warmly. you felt your face heat immediately. hannah talked about you? apparently she did, because she grinned and nodded. “this is y/n.” you lifted your hand in a small wave. “hi.” your voice came out embarrassingly quiet. garrett didn’t seem to mind. he greeted you kindly before turning back toward hannah, already falling into easy conversation with her.
you were preparing to stand there awkwardly and count the minutes until you could go home when you noticed someone watching you.
it wasn’t your imagination, either.
across the patio, leaning against a railing with beau beside him, dean di laurentis was staring directly at you.
you recognized him immediately.
everyone did.
dean was the kind of guy people talked about constantly. girls talked about him because they wanted him. guys talked about him because they wanted to be him. he was handsome in a way that felt unfair, with dark hair falling messily over his forehead and a smile that somehow managed to look both charming and dangerous at the same time. every story you’d ever heard about him involved parties, hookups, or some girl crying over him afterward. as far as you knew, he had flirted with nearly every girl on campus at least once.
except you.
mostly because you spent ninety percent of your time hiding from people like dean di laurentis.
the second your eyes met his, you looked away.
unfortunately, that only seemed to make him more interested.
when you glanced back a few moments later, he wasn’t leaning against the railing anymore.
he was walking toward you.
your stomach dropped.
“hannah,” you hissed.
she looked over. “what?”
“dean’s coming over here.”
instead of being concerned, she looked delighted.
traitor.
by the time dean reached the group, you were actively considering pretending to receive an emergency phone call.
“garrett,” dean greeted casually.
“dean.”
they exchanged a quick nod before dean’s attention shifted to you. not past you. not around you. directly at you.
his eyes lingered.
you immediately wanted to disappear.
“and who’s this?” he asked.
before you could answer, hannah spoke for you.
dean repeated your name slowly, almost thoughtfully. somehow hearing it in his voice made your heartbeat speed up. “pretty name.”
your entire brain short-circuited.
garrett started laughing.
hannah looked like she was trying not to scream.
you stood there frozen.
“thanks,” you finally managed.
dean smiled.
god.
that smile should have come with a warning label.
instead of leaving after the introduction, he stayed. then he started asking questions. normal questions. where you were from. what your major was. whether you were enjoying the party. that last one made you laugh accidentally.
“what?”
you shook your head. “sorry. i’m definitely not enjoying the party.”
dean grinned immediately. “honest.”
“you asked.”
“and you answered.”
“would you rather i lied?”
“nah.” his eyes sparkled with amusement. “i like honest.”
you weren’t sure why that response made your cheeks warm, but it did.
the strangest part wasn’t that dean was talking to you. it was that he seemed genuinely interested in what you had to say. most conversations you had at parties lasted less than two minutes before people got bored. once they found out you preferred books to drinking and spent weekends studying instead of going out, their interest disappeared almost immediately. dean, however, kept asking questions. when you mentioned reading, he asked what kind of books. when you mentioned your favorite authors, he actually listened. when you rambled nervously about a novel you’d recently finished, he didn’t interrupt or look around the room searching for someone more interesting.
if anything, he seemed more focused on you with every passing minute.
eventually the rest of the group drifted away.
you didn’t even notice at first.
one moment garrett, hannah, and beau were standing nearby. the next, they were gone.
it was just you and dean.
somehow that realization made your pulse jump higher than before.
the two of you ended up sitting on a pair of chairs near the edge of the patio where the music wasn’t quite as deafening. the cool night air felt nice against your warm face. dean leaned back casually, one arm draped across the back of his chair, while you sat curled slightly inward like you always did around people. despite that, conversation flowed surprisingly easily. dean had a way of making everything feel less intimidating. he teased you occasionally, but never cruelly. every joke felt light and playful. every smile felt genuine.
“so let me get this straight,” he said after listening to you describe one of your favorite books. “you willingly read nine hundred pages for fun?”
you laughed.
actually laughed.
the sound surprised both of you.
dean’s smile immediately widened.
“there it is.”
you blinked. “what?”
“your laugh.”
you groaned and covered your face.
he laughed softly.
“what? it was cute.”
“please stop talking.”
“not a chance.”
you peeked at him through your fingers and found him already looking at you.
not in the way most guys did.
not like he was checking you out.
he was looking at you like he genuinely enjoyed being around you.
that realization felt far more dangerous.
because you didn’t know what to do with it.
you understood flirting in theory. you had read enough romance novels for that. actually experiencing it was another story entirely. every compliment dean gave you made your thoughts scatter. every time he smiled at you, your heart forgot how to function properly. the worst part was that he seemed completely aware of the effect he was having. not in an arrogant way. more in an amused way.
like he found your reactions adorable.
which only made things worse.
“you know,” dean said after a moment, “you’re different than i expected.”
you frowned.
“you expected something?”
“everyone talks about you.”
that shocked you.
“they do?”
“yeah.”
you stared.
“why?”
he shrugged. “because you’re the mysterious girl who’s friends with hannah and somehow never comes to any parties.”
“that’s ridiculous.”
“maybe.”
you rolled your eyes.
dean’s grin softened.
“i’m serious, though.”
for the first time all evening, there wasn’t any teasing in his voice.
just sincerity.
“i’m glad you came tonight.”
your breath caught.
the words shouldn’t have affected you that much.
but they did.
because dean wasn’t saying them casually.
he meant them.
you could tell.
for a moment neither of you spoke. the sounds of the party faded into the background. people moved around the yard, music played somewhere inside the house, laughter echoed from the pool, but it all felt distant. dean’s eyes stayed locked on yours.
then he smiled.
small
soft.
different from the confident grin he’d been wearing all night.
and somehow that smile affected you more than any of the others.
“you’re blushing again,” he pointed out.
you immediately looked away.
he laughed quietly.
“cute.”
“dean.”
“yeah?”
“you’re impossible.”
his smile widened.
“you still haven’t told me to stop.”
the embarrassing thing was that you didn’t want him to.
and judging by the look on dean’s face, he knew it.
that realization sent your heart racing all over again.
somewhere behind you, hannah let out a squeal that sounded suspiciously excited.
you buried your face in your hands.
dean laughed.
and for the rest of the night, he never once stopped looking at you like you were the most interesting girl at the party.
I had an idea for a series where I literally pick a random heartbreak song and turn it into a one shot bc I’m a slut for angst and relationship drama 🤷♀️ I have a couple in drafts I’m excited to post soon
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
Summary: You're tired of hiding your feelings, but when a guy mocks your insecurities, Garrett's brutal defense proves you're more than just friends.
Friends to Lovers / Hurt/Comfort / Angst
Warnings: not proofread yet, mentions of imposter syndrome/academic insecurity, graphic violence, swearing, Protective! Garrett
A/N: I really hope you like it! I wrote it in a rush bc I kinda feel the need to deliver, so I hope there are not so many mistakes bc English is not my first language. Anyway, starting today and until the 16th I need to lock in hard and study a whole semester worth of crazy engineering classes (mixed feelings abt engineering rn, it needs a lot of work but i kinda love it). so i will be a bit absent. all the requests will be written after the 16th. if you request something and feel like you can't wait for me, it is totally fine by me if you send the request to someone else. but i would appreciate if you give me the heads up first. Feedback is appreciated, as always! Take care of yourselves xx and lots of love 🫶🏻
Words: a lot
Requested here!
You had perfected the role of the platonic best friend over the years. You knew the layout of the perpetually messy house he shared with his teammates like the back of your hand. You were the girl who spent Thursday nights sprawled across his massive mattress, stealing slices of his bacon-and-sausage loaded pizza while he grumbled about his history assignments and the two of you debated Breaking Bad theories.
You knew the real Garrett. You knew that beneath the arrogant, untouchable exterior there was a guy who harbored a vicious resentment for the expectations his father, Phil Graham, placed on his shoulders.
And you knew exactly how to bite the inside of your cheek and look the other way when a starry-eyed puck bunny did the walk of shame down his stairs.
Garrett had made his boundaries crystal clear long ago: he didn't do relationships. Hockey was his entire life, and casual, no-strings hookups were his only speed. You were the sole exception to his rule about letting girls stick around, but only because you were safely, immovably boxed into the friend category.
Tonight, however, the walls of that box felt like they were shrinking.
The hockey house was currently vibrating with the force of way too many drunk college students, the air thick with the smell of cheap beer, sweat, and cheap cologne. You had retreated to the kitchen for a momentary breather, hoisting yourself onto the counter next to the sink.
"Here you go, darlin'." Tucker slid a freshly poured red plastic cup into your hand. He leaned against the counter beside you, watching the chaos of the living room with an amused smirk. "You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
"I love being shoved into drywall by sweaty frat boys," you replied dryly, taking a sip. "It's my favorite Saturday night activity."
"Hey, Y/N/N," Dean drawled as he wandered into the kitchen. His green eyes scanning the room before locking onto a blonde hovering near the fridge. Dean was an unapologetic slut, and he treated the house like his own personal playground. He shot you a lazy, devastating wink before zeroing in on his target. "Looking good. Try not to let G scare off every guy in a ten-foot radius tonight."
You rolled your eyes, but the knot in your stomach tightened. Dean wasn't wrong.
Speak of the devil.
Garrett pushed through the swinging kitchen door a second later, his broad shoulders easily clearing a path through the throng of bodies. He was nursing a single Bud Light, strictly adhering to his self-imposed, one-drink limit for the hockey season.
He crossed the room and planted himself right between your knees, boxing you in against the counter. He smelled like his familiar, woodsy aftershave, and the sheer heat radiating off his large frame made your pulse betray you.
"I still don't get why you're insisting on mingling downstairs," Garrett muttered, running a hand through his short, dark hair. "We could be upstairs watching season two right now."
"I wanted to be social," you sighed, trying to ignore how naturally his hand rested on the denim of your thigh. "And I actually wanted to talk to some people tonight."
"Talk to who? That pretentious guy from your psych seminar?" Garrett scoffed, his jaw ticking. "I’m telling you, Y/N, the guy is a walking disaster. I saw him in the quad yesterday and he looks like he showers in liquid arrogance."
"His name is Harry, and he asked me to come find him tonight," you snapped, exhaustion seeping into your bones. "And for the record, you said the exact same bullshit about the last three guys I tried to date."
"Because they were all walking red flags!" Garrett argued.
It was an exhausting, toxic cycle. He didn't want you, but the second you tried to scrape together a dating life of your own, his fiercely protective streak mutated into full-blown sabotage. He actively blocked every attempt you made at moving on, hovering like a giant, muscle-bound guard dog while offering you absolutely nothing but friendship in return.
"Stop fucking hovering, Garrett," you fired back. You hopped off the counter, forcing him to take a step back to avoid a collision. "I'm going to go find Harry. Alone."
You didn't wait for his response, pushing your way out of the kitchen and into the sweaty bodies to escape the heavy weight of his stare. You just wanted five minutes to breathe, five minutes to pretend your chest didn't ache every time he touched you.
But as you stepped into the living room, your night was about to collide with a very different kind of disaster.
You scanned the room, looking for Harry. You had met him in your advanced literature seminar, and he was exactly the kind of guy you should be focusing on—smart, ambitious, and completely disconnected from the hockey ecosystem. He was supposed to be the guy who finally helped you pry Garrett Graham out of your heart.
You finally spotted him near the makeshift beer pong table set up over the dining room table. He was holding a plastic cup, laughing with two guys you recognized from the honors program.
You took a breath, pasting on a smile, and started to weave your way toward him. But as you closed the distance, the loud thump of the music dipped between songs, and Harry's voice carried over the ambient noise of the crowd.
"...yeah, I told her to come find me tonight," Harry was saying, taking a casual sip of his beer.
"Isn't she in your advanced lit seminar?" one of the other guys asked with a laugh. "I heard that class is brutal."
Harry scoffed, a cruel, dismissive sound that made you freeze in your tracks. "It is, and she is completely drowning in it. Honestly, it's painful to watch her try to keep up with the rest of us. I basically had to explain the entire reading list to her on Tuesday."
"So why'd you tell her to meet you?"
"Are you blind? Look at her," Harry chuckled, a slick, arrogant sound. "She's hot. And she's so desperate for help with her midterm, it’s basically a guaranteed hookup. All I have to do is pretend her thesis isn't completely pathetic, tutor her a little, and she'll be all over me. It's almost too easy."
The words hit you with the force of a physical blow.
Your lungs seized. A hot, suffocating wave of humiliation crawled up your neck, burning your cheeks. It was your darkest, most deeply buried imposter syndrome dragged out into the open and weaponized. You spent countless sleepless nights agonizing over your writing, terrified you weren't smart enough to be at Briar, and Harry had seen that vulnerability and decided to use it as leverage to get you into bed.
Tears prickled the back of your eyes, hot and sharp. A strangled breath escaped your throat, and before Harry or his friends could turn around and see you standing there, you spun on your heel and bolted.
You veered into the hallway leading to the front door, moving so fast you didn't even see the two silhouettes pressed against the wall until you collided hard with a solid back.
"Whoa, hey—" a familiar voice muttered.
You blinked the tears away just enough to realize you had crashed right into Dean, who was in the middle of hooking up with the blonde from the kitchen. Because of course he was. Dean had a notorious habit of hooking up everywhere but his bedroom.
"I'm so sorry," you choked out, your voice cracking pathetically.
Dean pulled back from the girl, his light-green eyes widening as he registered the tears spilling over your lashes. "Y/N/N? Hey, what's wrong? Wait—"
"I'm fine, sorry," you gasped out, pushing past him and shoving the heavy front door open.
The crisp October air hit you like a bucket of ice water, but it didn't numb the stinging humiliation. You stumbled down the porch steps and pulled your phone out of your pocket with shaking hands, swiping furiously at your screen to pull up the number for the campus taxi service.
Before it even began to ring, the front door burst open behind you.
"Y/N!"
Garrett’s voice was sharp with panic. He marched down the porch steps, his heavy black boots thudding against the wood. He grabbed your elbow, spinning you around to face him.
"Dean said you ran out of here crying. What the hell—" Garrett froze, the rest of his sentence dying in his throat as he took in your wet cheeks and trembling bottom lip.
The annoyance that usually shadowed his features when you fought was instantly wiped away, replaced by a raw, terrifying protectiveness. His large hands moved to cup your face, his thumbs gently brushing the tears from your skin.
"What happened?" he demanded, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. "Did he touch you?"
You shook your head violently, squeezing your eyes shut because looking at him only made the shame burn hotter.
"Nothing," you choked out, pulling out of his grip. You wrapped your arms around yourself, fighting a losing battle against your own tears. "I'm not telling you what happened just so you can give me the whole 'I told you so' speech. You were right about him, okay? Can we just leave it at that?"
Garrett stared at you for one long, suffocating second. You could practically see the gears turning in his head, putting two and two together. The silence that stretched between you was terrifying. His eyes darkened to the color of a storm, and the muscle in his jaw ticked furiously.
He just turned on his heel and stalked back up the porch steps.
"Garrett!" Panic seized your chest. "Garrett, no!"
You scrambled up the steps, chasing him through the front door, but he was moving with the blinding, aggressive speed he usually saved for the ice.
"Garrett!" You yelled his name, pushing past confused partygoers, but he was an unstoppable force. "Garrett, stop!"
He found Harry exactly where you had left him, still leaning against the beer pong table.
Garrett grabbed the back of Harry's shirt, spun him around, and swung.
His fist connected with Harry's face with a sickening, bone-jarring crack. The guy didn't even have time to scream before Garrett hit him again, the sheer force of it lifting Harry off his feet and sending him crashing backward into the beer pong table. Red plastic cups and cheap beer went flying in every direction as the table buckled beneath them.
The crowd erupted into shrieks, scattering backward to form a wide circle.
Harry hit the floor, groaning, but Garrett wasn't finished. He dropped to his knees, grabbing Harry by the collar of his shirt, pulling his fist back to deliver another devastating blow.
"Garrett, stop!" you screamed, finally breaking through the circle of onlookers.
You lunged at him, grabbing his thick bicep and trying to haul him backward. But he was two hundred pounds of pure, sculpted muscle fueled by blind rage. You couldn't even budge him. Your fingernails dug into his arm, but he didn't even flinch.
"Graham, enough!"
Suddenly, Logan and Tucker burst through the crowd. Logan, a bruiser of a defenseman, wrapped his massive arms around Garrett's chest from behind, hauling him backward. Tucker grabbed Garrett’s other arm, digging his heels into the sticky floor to help drag their captain away from the bleeding guy on the floor.
"Get the fuck off me!" Garrett roared, thrashing against his teammates, his chest heaving wildly.
"Cool it, man!" Logan shouted, straining to hold him back.
You planted yourself right in Garrett's line of sight, placing both your hands flat against his chest. His heart was hammering violently against your palms.
"G. Look at me," you commanded, your voice shaking.
His wild, silver eyes finally locked onto yours. The lethal fury in his gaze flickered, the fight slowly draining out of his posture as he registered the sheer panic on your face. He stopped fighting Logan and Tucker, his heavy, ragged breathing filling the tense silence of the room. His knuckles were already turning a vicious shade of purple.
"We are going upstairs," you said, your tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. "Now."
You didn't wait for him to agree. You grabbed his wrist and turned, dragging him away from the wreckage, up the narrow staircase, and straight into his master bedroom.
You slammed the door shut, leaning your back against the heavy wood as if it could keep the rest of the world out. The chaotic bass of the party was instantly muted, leaving only the sound of Garrett’s ragged, heavy breathing.
He stood in the center of the room, staring blindly at his split knuckles. The skin was already swelling and bleeding, identical to the brutal bruises he brought home after playing dirty teams like St. Anthony's.
"Are you insane?" you choked out. Your voice trembled, the adrenaline crash finally hitting you and leaving you hollowed out. "You could get suspended for that! Coach Jensen will bench you, Garrett!"
"I don't give a fuck about Coach Jensen right now," he snarled, spinning around to face you. His gray eyes were stormy, flashing with a volatile, untamed fury. "He was using you, Y/N. He was standing there laughing with his buddies about manipulating you."
"And you think I don't know that?" Your voice broke. "You think I didn't hear him? God, G, you didn't have to throw a punch to prove how pathetic I am. I already knew!"
Garrett flinched as if you'd struck him. "What are you talking about? You aren't pathetic."
"I am!" you yelled, pushing off the door. The humiliation from downstairs was a living, breathing thing inside your chest. "I'm the idiot who thought a guy actually liked me for me. I'm the idiot who's failing her seminar, who trails after you like a lapdog, exactly like he said! And you charging in there to fight my battles like I'm incapable of defending myself only proved him right!"
"He's a piece of shit who felt threatened by you," Garrett argued, closing the distance between you in two long strides. "He knows you're brilliant."
"Stop it!" You shoved both hands against his solid chest, trying to push him away, but it was like trying to move a brick wall. "Stop pitying me! I can handle the fact that you don't want me. I can handle sitting on the sidelines watching you bring home a different girl every weekend. But I cannot handle you treating me like some fragile charity case you have to protect!"
Garrett didn't move. He absorbed your shove, his jaw tightening so hard the muscle ticked visibly beneath his skin.
"Pity?" he repeated, the word tearing out of him in a harsh, jagged exhale. "You think I pity you?"
"Garrett—"
"You think I sit up at night, listening to you talk about other guys, watching you dress up for dates with assholes who don't deserve to breathe the same air as you, out of pity?" He grabbed your wrists—not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to pull your hands off his chest so he could step directly into your space.
His heat surrounded you, smelling of sweat, adrenaline, and his familiar woodsy aftershave.
"I don't defend you because I pity you, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping to a rough, desperate rasp. "I do it because I am completely, out of my fucking mind for you."
The air vanished from the room.
You stared up at him, your heart slamming violently against your ribs. "What?"
Garrett released your wrists, bringing his hands up to cup your face. His thumbs gently swept over your wet cheeks, his bruised knuckles resting warm and rough against your skin. The arrogance and swagger he wore like armor were completely gone, leaving behind a raw, agonizing vulnerability.
"I have been in love with you for years," he confessed, the words pouring out of him like a dam breaking. "I told everyone I didn't want a girlfriend because the only girl I wanted was my best friend, and I was too terrified of ruining it. So I kept my mouth shut. I watched you look for someone else, and it tore me apart."
"Garrett," you breathed, a fresh tear slipping down your face.
"You are the smartest, most beautiful person I know," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips with heavy, agonizing intent. "And if you want me to back off, I will. I'll walk away right now. But don't you ever, ever think I pity you."
Your brain was short-circuiting. The secret you had buried so deep, the ache you had carried for years, was suddenly reflected right back at you in his intense gray eyes.
"You're the biggest idiot on this entire campus," you whispered, a shaky, breathless laugh escaping your throat.
He froze, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his face. "Y/N—"
"I've been in love with you since high school," you interrupted, sliding your hands up his chest to tangle in his short dark hair.
Garrett’s breath hitched audibly. "Are you serious?"
"You really think I hung around all this time just for the free pizza and your terrible taste in TV?" you asked, a blinding smile breaking through your tears.
A slow, devastating smirk spread across his lips, the dimples you loved so much finally making an appearance. "Well, damn," he breathed.
The hesitation vanished. Garrett’s hands slid to your waist, gripping you firmly and pulling you flush against his body. He crashed his mouth down on yours, and it was a messy, desperate collision of everything you had both held back for years.
He kissed you like he was starving. His lips were demanding, his tongue sliding against yours with a hungry, possessive heat that sent a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine. Your fingers gripped his hair, anchoring him to you as he backed you up against the door, his large frame pressing you into the wood.
When he finally pulled away, you were both breathless, his forehead resting heavily against yours.
"So," Garrett murmured, his thumb stroking your hip. "I guess this means I don't have to share you anymore."
You laughed, pulling his mouth back down to yours. "No, G. You definitely don't."
