summary: when beau tells you not to date someone else, he almost lost you as his best friend.
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing?
word count: 3.62k
authors note: oh my god this was cute, like genuinely the emotions I went through writing this had me wanting to wrap them both in a thick cozy blanket. I’ve got nothing else to say cause I loved this.
The first time you met Beau Maxwell, he stole your juice box.
You were both seven.
He'd walked into your classroom halfway through the year with a missing front tooth and grass stains on his knees, spotted the apple juice sitting beside your lunchbox “that is mine,” he announced as he snatched the drink off of your table.
You sent him a glare “it definitely isn't,” even with your cute little pigtails, if looks could kill he would have been dead.
Beau stuck his tongue out at you “you sure?” He cocked his head as you stood up.
"Positive."
He'd grinned as he now looked up at you "guess you'll have to fight me for it." You'd shoved him off the bench.
Twenty minutes later you'd both been sitting outside the principal's office sharing the juice box anyway.
From that day on, it was impossible to have one of you without the other.
Through elementary school you two were the reason why teachers needed seating charts.
By middle school you had become the reason why students could no longer edit their schedules.
From ninth grade the two of you were no longer allowed to be in the same classes even.
By sophomore year at Briar, people assumed you came as a package.
Beau and you, the duo where one was never seen without the other.
Football games.
Late-night sessions at Malones.
Study sessions that somehow ended in watching terrible horror movies.
And then Beau having to hold you as you slept because you swore you were going to have nightmares until you were ninety.
Every birthday.
Every Thanksgiving break.
Every ten-minute voice note, recounting the good and bad moments of the days. As if you weren’t going to see him that night.
Neither of you questioned it.
Not out loud, anyway.
Beau had questioned it a thousand times in his head.
Usually at two in the morning.
Usually after you'd hugged him goodbye.
Usually after you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during the nights you were at home.
And even those nights you found a way to fit onto your twin king single as he protected you from the potential of bad dreams.
He'd liked you since he was fifteen.
Loved you since seventeen.
Never said a word.
Because friendship was better than nothing.
Because the value you gave him by being in his life, was far more than he could replicate with anyone else.
Your dorm looked like proper chaos, which for you was rather quite normal "so?" Beau leaned against your dorm door while you searched for your keys.
You had sworn that they were in the same place as always on your table "why've you got that stupid smile?" He asked as your head leaned out from your closet.
"I don't have a stupid smile."
You scoffed as you shook your head "you've got the smile." Beau pointed at you as he opted to sit on your bed.
You had refused to let him go back to his to get his keys, so now he was forced to wait "what smile?" You forced your face flat as you tried to get a read on your expression.
Beau raked his fingers through his hair "the one that says you've done something that's going to annoy me." You laughed as you stood up finally with your keys in your hand.
They were in your hoodie, well one that you had stolen from the very boy in your room "Garrett asked me out." Your announcement made him freeze.
Silence followed
You motioned to your door as you felt like the two of you should get a move on "and I said yes," you rubbed your palms on thighs of your jeans.
Beau didn't answer.
You looked over your shoulder "Beau?" You snapped your fingers in front of his face as you wondered if you had broken him.
If you could have gotten a better read on the room you would have made a joke "don’t go." His announcement made you glad that you had kept your joke to yourself.
You blinked as you clicked your tongue why?" You knew the boys had been friends since Dean introduced them, so it was suffice to say that you were a little shocked at the outburst.
Beau stood up "I don't think you should go." He reiterated his words as he nodded.
Your hands landed on your hips "and why is that?" In that moment you swore you were right back on that bench when you were a kid and he stole that juice box.
He shrugged as he didn’t have a good answer "I just don’t." There wasn’t more that he wanted to say either.
You frowned as you were almost hurt "that’s not an answer." Your chest felt sore as you avoided his gaze.
Beau rubbed his hands together "I don’t think he’d be good for you." His confession lingered in the air.
You laughed awkwardly a little taken aback by his reaction "I thought you'd be happy for me." You felt almost embarrassed that you cared.
The boy shook his head "I'm trying to stop you making a mistake.” He reached for your hand as you pulled away.
"A mistake?"
The blow hurt like he had personally hit you when he nodded "so because you don’t think he’s good for me, I'm just supposed to say no?" Your eyebrows lifted as you crossed your arms.
Beau argued back "he hooks up with girls all the time." Now that actually felt rich coming from your best friend.
"And?"
He licked his lips a little disgruntled at the idea of sleeping with you "and I don't want you being another one." Something about the way he said it rubbed you the wrong way.
Beau never cared who you dated or how they came into your life, at least he never decided to comment on it "you don't get to decide that." You sighed as you shook your head.
The boy pinched the bridge of his nose "I'm trying to look out for you." His words were meant to be sweet.
But instead it made you fold your arms "you're trying to control me." You corrected him as you sucked at your teeth.
"I am not."
An exasperated sigh escaped from your lips "you literally just told me not to go." You pressed your fingers against your temples.
The boy argued back "because I know guys like him!” He raised his voice making you do the same
You scoffed "and I don't?" You sent the boy a harsh glare as you scowled.
Beau shook his head "you’ve never dated one." He made Garrett sound like he was a walking disease.
You rolled your eyes "I can make my own decisions." You reminded him that you were a big girl, and you knew how to take care of yourself.
"I know."
Part of you wanted to reach out and throttle him "clearly you don't." You actually laughed now growing annoyed.
Beau sighed as he rolled his eyes, a little surprised that you were arguing with him on this "I'm just saying-” he raised his hands in surrender.
You cut him off as you stopped him in his speech "no, Beau. You don't get to act like my dad because some guy finally asked me out."
"I'm your best friend."
You swore you felt sick "exactly." Venom laced your tone "so start acting like one." The words hit harder than either of you expected.
He stared at you like he didn’t know what to say. A trait that seemed to plague him for the second time tonight "I think you should go." You opened your door motioning to him to leave.
He almost asked if you were being genuine but you saved him to the chase "I'm serious." The look that you gave Beau struck his heart in more ways than one as he nodded "fine."
He left and as the door closed behind him you couldn’t help it as the tears began to flow "fuck." Your eyes were blurry as your knees buckled beneath you causing you to slide down your door to the floor.
The first day wasn't difficult.
You both assumed someone would cave.
He nearly texted you that night.
Didn't.
But he did sit there and let his thumb hover over your contact information.
You almost walked to his frat house.
Didn't.
But you did turn off right before you got into his street.
The third day hurt.
You got an internship opportunity for the winter semester and wanted to celebrate.
The fifth day hurt worse.
It was the first football game that you missed since you met Beau.
By the end of the first week, everyone noticed.
Dean frowned every time Beau sat alone in the cafeteria "you two good?" He asked as he motioned to Beau’s lock screen.
It was an image of the two of you after his freshman debut. You were in a Briar U cap as you had your arms wrapped around him.
The grins on your faces matched the ones your moms captured each year on Christmas morning "we're fine." Beau sighed as he shook his head.
The blonde couldn’t help it when he smirked "you haven't looked up from your phone in twenty minutes." He pointed out as he raised his eyebrows.
Beau was quick to turn his phone screen side down "I'm fine." But Dean wasn't convinced.
Garrett noticed too.
Halfway through your second date he tilted his head "you okay?" He asked as he reached for your hand.
You forced a smile onto your lips as you furrowed your eyebrows "what?" You thought you were hiding it well.
Garrett took you to his favourite pizza place which was like a fifteen-minute drive from campus "you've checked the entrance like five times." You felt bad that he catch on.
He had been a great date both times, he picked you up from your place and walked you back to the front of your building both times "I have not." You shook your head.
It made the boy sigh "you have." He decided that he wasn’t going to argue with you on this one.
You looked toward the door again.
Beau wasn't there.
Your chest ached anyway.
The football guys stopped asking when you were coming over after practice.
The girls stopped asking where Beau was.
Everyone danced around it.
Because nobody had ever seen you apart this long.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Fourteen days without your morning texts.
Without random memes.
Without coffee deliveries.
Without hearing someone yell your name across campus.
It felt wrong.
Like you'd forgotten something important every time you left your dorm.
Beau finally cracked on day fifteen.
Dean found him sitting outside the fraternity house "you look awful." He handed the brunette a coffee as if it was his peace offering.
Because in his efforts to avoid you, Beau seemed to avoid just about everyone "I feel awful." He took the coffee with a grateful smile.
Dean sat beside him "so go talk to her," he placed his hand on the boys back.
It was the first time that Beau actually admitted aloud that something was wrong "I screwed it up." Beau looked up at the sky sensing how the weather was turning.
It almost symbolic, perfectly representing how he had been feeling over the last two weeks "and I can't fix it." His voice broke as Beau really did wonder if he was going to have to learn how to survive without you in his life.
Dean shook his head "you won't know until you try." The look that Dean gave Beau was enough for him to believe that he had at least a chance in this.
You were leaving the library just after sunset when someone called your name.
"Wait up!" You froze slowly turning around.
Beau looked exhausted.
Dark circles under his eyes.
Hair a mess, and a stubble clear on his jaw as he hadn’t shaved.
Hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like he didn't know what else to do with them.
Neither of you spoke.
Finally you sighed "what?" You pinched the bridge of your nose as you slotted your phone into your jeans pocket.
His voice cracked as thunder rumbled from above "I-" he laughed bitterly as he cleared his throat.
"I had this whole speech."
You crossed your arms "congratulations." You shrugged as you waited for him to continue.
"I forgot it."
You remembered in eighth grade how he had forgotten his science presentation so of course, as you worked through it with him, you mouthed his entire presentation to him "okay." Another silence followed.
People walked around the two of you.
Neither moved.
Finally Beau stepped closer "I was wrong." You looked away a little relieved that he had said it.
He let out a huff "I shouldn't have told you what to do." His hands raised, owning the fact that he was wrong.
Nothing.
"I shouldn't have acted like I knew what was best."
Still nothing.
"And I definitely shouldn't have judged Garrett."
He swallowed as he rolled his eyes, deciding to just go with it "because that wasn't actually why I was upset."
You looked back at him "what do you mean?" He was glad he got more than a few words out of you again.
His laugh was humourless "I've been in love with you for years." Everything stopped as your eyebrows raised in surprise.
Beau pursed his lips together "I've loved you since high school." You stared waiting for him to continue.
He got nervous as he fiddled with his hands "I thought I'd gotten good at hiding it." Beau let his eyes land on yours as his voice grew softer "I never wanted to ruin what we had."
His eyes were already glossy, "so I stayed quiet." He pushed his hair out of his face as he knew he needed a haircut.
You couldn't find your voice "and then you told me Garrett asked you out." He rubbed both hands over his face.
"And all I could think was."
His voice broke completely, "that I'd waited too long." What Beau didn’t know was that you were ready to wait for him for an eternity truthfully.
Your heart twisted "you idiot." You softly shoved his shoulder.
"I know."
Beau let his fingers wrap around the rope bracelet you gave him before you both graduated high school "I figured if I told you not to go..." He laughed weakly. "Maybe somehow it'd change something."
Beau shrugged as he wondered if he had just screwed all of this up even more "like you’d wake up and magically see the way that you consume my every thought." His words made your heart throb.
You sighed as you were scared to find out what was going to happen next "it didn't." You looked down.
He took one careful step closer "please just shout at me, call me an ass or an idiot." Beau wasn’t above begging but boy was he ready to get on his hands and knees.
His words made you crack a smile "but just come home and be my best friend again because I can't lose you from my life." His eyes were shining now.
But still he didn’t stop there "the last two weeks have been a kind of torture that I don't think I can go through any longer because in every room I look for you." The next time you’d see Dean he was intending on corroborating that story as Beau looked like a lost puppy looking for you.
He cleared his throat as he choked up "at every table I kept an empty seat because I know that you will be in it." And it was the truth, if there was a table that you weren’t welcome at then Beau didn’t want anything to do with it.
A tear slipped down his cheek "I need you in my life, even if I know I don't deserve it." Silence followed.
The kind that stretched forever.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the tired eyes.
At the shaking hands.
At the boy who'd stolen your juice box.
Who'd carried your backpack after you sprained your ankle senior year.
Who'd driven home to pick up your favourite bagels after you called him in tears telling him how you failed an exam once.
Who knew exactly how you took your coffee.
Who always walked on the outside of the sidewalk.
Who never forgot your birthday.
Who loved you enough to let you date someone else if it meant keeping you "you are an idiot." A watery laugh escaped him as he agreed.
You pressed your finger into his chest "you absolute ass." You furrowed your eyebrows making him laugh once more.
"I know."
Your head shook "you hurt me." Your words were genuine
"I’m sorry."
You looked up at the sky as it seemed that the heavens opened and rain began to pour "I missed you." Your words cleansed the two of you as they rolled off of your tongue like the rain on the sidewalk.
His eyes squeezed shut "I missed you too." He was close to getting one of those cardboard cutouts of you.
Hell, he already would have had one if it wasn’t weird.
Your own tears started falling "I mean I missed you." You used your palms to wipe your tears away.
"I know."
You shook your head "no, you don't." He had consumed almost all of your thoughts since the moment you kicked him out of your room.
You stepped closer until only inches separated you "I kept reaching for my phone." His breathing caught.
"I kept saving you a seat in lectures."
Since the two of you were now allowed to have classes again, any time you had a chance you used it.
His eyes opened "I nearly texted you every single night." He looked like he might cry all over again.
"I thought-"
You laughed through your own tears as you recomposed yourself "I thought my best friend didn't want me anymore." His face crumpled as he hated that he made you feel that way.
"I always want you."
"I know that now." You stared at each other, almost waiting for what was going to come next.
The boy rocked his feet back and forth as a way to somewhat self-soothe "so," he whispered forcing the question that almost started all of this to come out “you're still going out with Garrett?"
You smiled sadly "I've been on two dates." You raised your fingers in a 2 symbol.
"Oh."
You were quick to carry on “they were nice." You nodded as they hadn’t been bad at all.
His face fell but he quickly forced himself to look happy for you "but every time something funny happened." You reached for his hand "I wanted to tell you first." His fingers curled instinctively around yours.
Part of you felt sick announcing this to the world "I kept comparing him to you." His breath caught.
A newfound friendship has actually formed between you and Garrett since you started seeing him on those dates "but that wasn't fair to him." Hope flickered across his face as you shut your eyes "so after he took me home the second night I called things off with him."
Beau would have been lying if he said that internally he was jumping for joy "I think," you whispered as you shook your head.
You licked your lips as you blinked, "that I've been in love with you for a really long time too." Beau blinked like he had forgotten how to understand the English language for a moment.
"What?"
You almost laughed as you sighed "I just never let myself think about it." His silence made you carry on rambling, "I thought we'd ruin everything."
Beau reached for your hands which made you go quiet "we kind of did." He nodded in agreement, "we definitely did."
He laughed through his tears as you corrected him.
"So."
Beau used the pad of his thumb to wipe a tear from your eye as it rolled down your cheek "so." He began as he forced a smile onto his lips.
He looked adorably terrified as he took a deep breath "can I kiss you?" The question came out so quietly you almost weren’t sure if you heard it.
You rolled your eyes "you've loved me for years and you're asking permission now?" You placed your hands on your hips, a little amused by this.
"I'm trying to be respectful." You mimicked his annoyed tone "you are such an idiot." A giggle escaped from your lips.
He smiled at your words "I know." Beau nodded as he shook his head.
You cupped his face "but you're my idiot." Then you kissed him.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't perfect.
It was soft.
Familiar.
Like finally coming home after being away too long.
When you pulled away, Beau rested his forehead against yours "can I take you on a date?" The innocence in his words made you laugh.
You pretended to think about it for a moment "I don’t know if you can top Garrett." You teased making Beau’s face drop.
Beau ran his fingers along the bottom of your jaw "c’mon I’ll pay," his words made you snort "oh please like I’m gonna."
He laughed, and this time it was sweet "so is that a yes?" Beau wriggled his eyebrows "a thousand times over." You nodded as the boy finally led you away from the library.
And for the first time in two weeks, neither of you had to wonder where the other was.
You were exactly where you'd always belonged, together.
Summary: Murphy's law states that "anything that can go wrong, will go wrong". Normally you wouldn't believe something like that, but three weeks ago the univers cursed you and your luck changed.
Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Reader
Warning: Things go wrong before they can go right
Note: My first Beau fic and it's 9.1k long?? Sounds about right for my favorite. Hope y'all enjoy! 🫶
You are normally a ten out of ten. You are the girl who walks into a room and commands attention. Confident, impeccably styled, hot as the sun, and fully aware of it as a sharp, ambitious sports journalism transfer.
But there is a force out to get you. A localized curse. And its name is the insanely hot, broad-shouldered guy who lives in your apartment building. Every single time you cross paths with him, the universe strips you of your dignity and turns you into an absolute circus act.
Meanwhile, he is just a massive, sweet-faced golden retriever of a man who keeps catching fleeting glimpses of his breathtakingly gorgeous new neighbor, totally oblivious to your internal mortification.
~
There is a very specific, carefully cultivated science to being a ten out of ten. It is not just about the genetics you were handed; it is about the execution. It’s the way you carry yourself through the halls of Briar University, a sharp, hyper-ambitious sports journalism transfer who knows exactly which column is going to make the front page of the campus paper. It’s the crisp tailoring of your blazers, the deliberate click of your heels on the linoleum, the absolute certainty that when you walk into a press box or a crowded lecture hall, you command the room. You are confident. You are impeccably styled. You are hot as the burning sun, and you are fully, deliciously aware of it.
Usually.
Today, however, science has failed.
It is exactly 7:00 AM on a Monday morning. Taking the day off from your internship at the local sports network was, in theory, a stroke of absolute genius. In practice, it has merely granted you the chronological space to stagger through the lobby of your apartment building looking like a casualty from a glitter war.
The previous night had been your sister Amy’s bachelorette party. An event that had started with elegant champagne toasts and ended, somehow, with you leading a conga line through a neon-lit dive bar while wearing a plastic tiara. Now, the bill has come due. You are currently navigating the polished tile floor of the lobby with a gait that can only be described as a pirate limp.
You are missing your left shoe. Your right foot is encased in a black strappy, four-inch stiletto that is actively trying to murder your ankle, while your left foot is clad only in a black fishnet stocking that has given up the ghost, completely torn open at the big toe. There are questionable, sticky drink stains of an ambiguous berry flavor splashed across your once-pristine top. Your lipstick is smudged aggressively near your jawline, looking less like a makeup choice and more like a crime scene. There is a literal, gaping tear in the seam of your skirt that you’re attempting to hold closed with one hand, and wrapped tightly around your waist like a tragic, neon-pink wrestling championship belt is a molting feather boa. Every step you take leaves a sad trail of hot-pink fuzz in your wake.
You look like a survivor of an explosion at a craft store. Your brain feels like it has been pickled in cheap tequila, and the lobby’s fluorescent lights are vibrating directly against your optic nerve.
Just get to the elevator, you tell yourself, staring at the metallic doors like they represent the gates of paradise. Ten more steps. No one is awake at seven on a Monday. The college kids are sleeping off the weekend, the professors aren't leaving yet, you are safe. You can crawl into bed, hibernate for twenty-four hours, and pretend this lapse in your cosmic perfection never occurred.
Step. Fuzz falls. Step. Your bare toe hits the cold tile.
You reach the elevator bank. You press the upward arrow with a finger that still has a smudged hand-stamp from a club called The Thirsty Goat. You let out a long, ragged breath, watching the floor indicator light up. Three. Two. One.
A soft, melodic ding echoes through the quiet lobby. The stainless-steel doors slide open.
And the universe, in all its chaotic, malicious glory, decides to glitch.
Standing inside the elevator car is a man who can only be described as a structural hazard to your sanity. You don’t know his name. And you’ve only caught fleeting, breathless glimpses of him in passing over the last two weeks since you moved into the building. Still, you know exactly what he represents. He is broad-shouldered enough to completely fill the doorway, with a jawline that looks like it was chiseled by a Renaissance master who specialized in making women faint. He’s wearing a pair of heather-gray sweatpants that hang perfectly off his hips, a dark green Briar Athletics hoodie stretched tight across a massive chest, and a backward baseball cap over messy, ooey gooey brown hair. He smells like clean laundry, butterscotch, and pure, effortless testosterone.
He is a walking, breathing reminder that life isn't fair. He looks like a golden retriever trapped in the body of a starting linebacker.
The moment the doors part, his gaze lands on you. He freezes.
You freeze.
For three agonizing seconds, the silence in the elevator bank is absolute. The man pauses, his thick, dark eyebrows shooting straight up into his hairline as his chest expands with a paused breath. His eyes are a warm, ridiculous chocolatey brown and they span the entire catastrophic length of your body. They linger on the neon-pink feather boa wrapped around your waist. They travel down to your single, solitary stiletto. They drop further, focusing on your bare, fishnet-wrapped left foot, where your big toe is poking through the fabric, wiggling slightly against the cold floor.
Your internal monologue shifts into a high-pitched, frantic scream. Oh, my god. No. Not him. Not the insanely hot neighbor. Anyone but him. Fall into a sinkhole. Let the earth swallow me whole. I am a journalist. I am an intellectual powerhouse. I am a ten out of ten. I am wearing a dead pink bird around my midsection.
Desperate to salvage even a single, microscopic ounce of your usual badassery, you choose not to hide. You choose defiance. You draw yourself up to your full, uneven height—which is incredibly difficult when one leg is four inches shorter than the other—and lock your eyes onto his. You tighten your grip on your torn skirt, tilt your chin up, and give him a slow, cool, aggressively casual jerk of your head. It’s the kind of nod that says, Yeah, I’m wearing a boa. What of it? I run this town.
In reality, with the smudged lipstick and the blinking, bloodshot eyes, you probably look like a feral raccoon defending a dumpster.
You pray to every deity in existence that the elevator doors will just close, or that you will spontaneously combust, ensuring you never have to see him again.
Beau’s POV:
Damn, he thinks, his heart doing a weird, unexpected little thud against his ribs as he looks at her. Looks like she had a seriously good time.
He tries to keep his face completely neutral, but his eyebrows have a mind of their own. He’s been seeing her around the building for the past couple of weeks, and every time he does, he completely forgets how to speak. She’s usually so put together. Always in those sharp, killer outfits, looking like she’s about to walk into a boardroom and fire everyone in it. She’s beautiful. Like, intimidatingly beautiful. The kind of girl who makes a guy double-check his own reflection in the lobby glass to make sure he doesn't have food on his face.
But right now? She’s a total mess, and somehow, it’s even worse for his chest capacity.
He takes in the bright pink feathers, the missing shoe, and the little smudge of dark red lipstick right by her jaw. He wonders what she was celebrating. A birthday? A promotion? A random party? He feels a sudden, bizarre prickle of curiosity. Would it be weird to ask her? Yeah, probably. She looks like she might punch me if I say the wrong thing.
Despite the absolute chaos of her outfit, she still has that look in her eyes. That fierce, completely unapologetic glare. Even limping on one heel, she throws him a sharp, confident nod that makes her look kind of like a rockstar who just climbed off a tour bus after a sold-out stadium show.
God, she’s pretty, he thinks, his fingers twitching inside the pockets of his sweatpants. He wants to offer her his hoodie. He wants to carry her to her door so her bare foot doesn't have to touch the dirty tile. He wants to know her name.
Instead, because he is totally paralyzed by how stunning she looks even while falling apart, he just stands there like a giant, broad-shouldered idiot, holding the elevator door open with his hand and staring.
~
The universe does not operate on a system of checks and balances. It does not grant you a grace period after a total social annihilation to let you rebuild your reputation. If anything, the cosmos is a bored reality TV producer, actively scripting your downfall for its own twisted amusement.
Exactly one week has passed since the Incident of the Neon Feather Boa. Seven days of hyper-vigilance. Seven days of checking the peephole of your apartment door three times before stepping into the hallway, ensuring the coast was entirely clear before you dared to exist in the communal spaces of the building. You had almost convinced yourself that the curse was broken. You had rationalized it: a statistical anomaly. A one-time glitch in your otherwise flawless matrix.
No such luck. The universe absolutely hates you.
It’s a Tuesday evening, and you are returning from the building’s basement gym. Normally, an post-workout glow is a look you can pull off with a sort of effortless, athletic chic. Today, however, you didn't just workout; you soul-crushed yourself. You pushed through a brutal, high-intensity interval training circuit that left you operating on pure adrenaline and survival instincts.
As a result, you are currently dripping sweat. Not a cute, dew-kissed glisten, but actual, literal beads of perspiration rolling down your temples and the back of your neck. Your face is flushed a violent, alarming shade of crimson—the kind of deep, mottled red that suggests your cardiovascular system is screaming for mercy. To make matters worse, you made the executive decision this morning to wear your most compressive, skintight workout set. It’s a neon-accented matching top and leggings combo that you are suddenly, violently convinced highlights every single "ugly" curve you’ve ever overthought while staring into a full-length mirror. You feel exposed, shrink-wrapped, and entirely un-photogenic.
Your breath is still coming in heavy, ragged puffs as you round the corner into the elevator lobby, a water bottle clutched in your damp hand like a weapon.
You stop dead in your tracks.
There he is again.
But the cosmic comedy troupe isn't just content with throwing him in your path; they’ve dialed the contrast up to an abusive degree. The giant from the elevator—the broad-shouldered guy you’re 90% sure plays football for Briar based on the sheer mass of him—is not in his usual relaxed gray sweatpants.
Today, he is wearing a pristine, custom-tailored three-piece suit.
The fabric is a deep, charcoal gray that molds perfectly to the ridiculous taper of his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The crisp white dress shirt underneath is buttoned to the top, a perfectly knotted silk tie sitting against his throat. A matching vest hugs his chest, emphasizing the heavy muscle beneath the formal wear. His usually messy, brown locks have been styled back with a neat, expensive-smelling pomade. He looks less like a college athlete and more like a millionaire CEO who moonlights as an international supermodel. He is a walking billboard for elite masculine perfection.
The contrast between the two of you is staggering. He belongs on the cover of GQ. You look like a swamp monster that has just been dragged out of a bog by its ankles.
A rational human being would turn around, pretend they forgot something in the gym, and take the stairs. But you are a ten out of ten. You are a sharp, proud sports journalist. You do not retreat. You swallow the bitter taste of defeat, square your damp shoulders, and step into the elevator car right next to him.
The doors slide shut with a metallic scrape, sealing the two of you inside the small, mirrored box.
Immediately, the atmosphere shifts. The air becomes heavy, suffocatingly tight. The football player suddenly moves, his massive frame shifting away from you by a fraction of an inch. His broad shoulders go rigid. His entire body tenses up so violently you can practically hear his muscles locking under the expensive wool of his suit. He stares straight ahead at the metal doors, his jaw clamped shut so hard a muscle twinges near his ear. He looks incredibly uncomfortable. Angry, even.
Your stomach drops into your sneakers. A wave of intense, burning mortification washes over you, turning your already flushed face an even deeper shade of purple.
Great, you think, your internal voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. Fantastic. I smell like a locker room after a double-overtime game. He’s dressed for a gala or an athletic banquet, and I am actively polluting his oxygen supply with my post-cardio aura. He probably thinks I’m a sweaty stalker who tracks his elevator schedule.
You glue your eyes to the digital floor indicator above the door, praying for the numbers to change faster. Four. Five. You consciously try to slow your breathing, holding the humid air in your lungs so you don’t pant like a golden retriever next to a guy who looks like a god. Next time, I don’t care if I’ve just run ten miles. I am taking the stairs.
Beau’s POV:
Jesus fucking Christ, Beau thinks, his fingers instantly clenching into tight fists inside his suit pockets. Jesus Christ, don't look. DON'T STARE AT HER!
He is panicking. Pure, unadulterated, catastrophic panic is coursing through his veins, rendering him completely paralyzed. He had just come back from the mandatory athletic department dinner. An event where he’d felt stiff and out of place all night, and the literal second he steps into the elevator to go home, she walks in.
And she is wearing... that.
His brain completely shorts out. The skintight workout gear leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, hugging every single breathtaking, mind-boggling curve of her body. She’s glistening with sweat, her chest heaving as she catches her breath, and the sheer, raw, athletic heat radiating off her is hitting him in waves. She smells like sweet skin and citrus-scented deodorant, a combination that is currently doing dangerous things to his heart rate.
Do not look down, Beau, he chants to himself like a mantra, his eyes practically bulging out of his head as he forces them to lock onto the ceiling seams. Do not look at her chest. Do not look at her waist. Look at the elevator numbers. Look at the elevator numbers!
He can feel the heat rising up his own neck, choking him against his silk tie. He knows he’s standing completely stiff, rigid as a board, but he’s terrified that if he relaxes even an inch, his eyes will betray him and drop down to track the sweat rolling down her collarbone. She is so hot it actually, physically hurts.
Then, he hears how heavy her breathing is. Why is she breathing like that? he thinks, his chest tightening. Is she okay? Did she run all the way up here? Wait... am I breathing loud? Oh my god, I’m acting so weird. I’m standing here like a freak in a suit, staring at the wall and sweating.
He clenches his jaw, desperately trying to project the image of a normal, functioning human being, completely unaware that his tense silence makes him look like he's disgusted. In reality, he's just one second away from whimpering. He wants to loosen his tie, pull his jacket off, and offer it to her. He wants to ask her what her workout routine is just to hear her voice.
Instead, he just stands there, a massive, terrified football player trapped in a pristine suit, silently begging the elevator to move faster before he accidentally looks down and loses his mind entirely.
~
You are no longer operating under the assumption that you are just having a run of bad luck. No, this has surpassed the realm of coincidence and entered the territory of the supernatural. You are entirely convinced that a medieval witch put a generational hex on your bloodline, or perhaps you accidentally desecrated an ancient burial ground during your move to Briar University. There is simply no other logical explanation for why the universe keeps hitting the pause button on your status as a ten out of ten the exact millisecond your neighbor is within a ten-foot radius.
It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon, and you had decided to lean entirely into comfort. You were in the middle of baking a batch of celebratory cupcakes—a little self-care reward for acing your mid-term sports journalism portfolio profile. Because you had absolutely no intention of leaving the sanctuary of your apartment, you had dressed accordingly.
By "accordingly," you mean you are wearing your absolute ugliest, most faded gray booty shorts from high school track, the ones with the peeling graphic on the thigh. Plus a thin, oversized white tank top that has seen far better days. Your hair, which usually falls in perfect, glossy waves around your face, is a literal, unbrushed rat’s nest. You hadn’t even bothered to comb it post-shower, choosing instead to shove it into a chaotic, structural knot on top of your head that is currently held together by a single, desperate claw clip and sheer prayer.
To top off this masterclass in domestic dishevelment, disaster had struck in the kitchen. While aggressively whipping a bowl of homemade vanilla buttercream, the hand mixer had caught a rogue air pocket.
Splat.
A massive, globby streak of thick white vanilla frosting and a literal avalanche of rainbow sprinkles had launched directly out of the bowl and splattered right down the front of your tank top, sticking to your chest and stomach like a sugary, multicolored target.
Naturally, that is the exact millisecond your phone buzzes in your hand.
It’s the delivery courier. Your holy grail, a pristine, vintage 1950s Smith-Corona typewriter you had meticulously tracked down on eBay for your long-form feature writing. The typewriter has just been dropped off in the lobby. The courier refuses to bring it up to the fourth floor. It's now or never.
You peer out your apartment peephole. The hallway is dead silent. The building is quiet. Hoping against hope that the coast is entirely clear, you don't even bother putting on shoes. You sprint out the door in just your white tube socks, sliding down the hallway like a baseball player stealing second base, desperate to execute a swift, military-grade extraction of your package.
You take the service stairs to avoid the elevator curse, practically flying down the concrete steps. You burst into the lobby, breathless, frantically sign the courier’s electronic pad, and hoist the surprisingly heavy, bulky cardboard box into your arms.
You turn around to head back to the stairs.
And—boom.
The universe hits you with a cosmic folding chair.
The hot apartment guy, the massive, broad-shouldered football god is standing right there by the wall of metal mailboxes. He’s wearing a backward Briar snapback, a casual black t-shirt that clings to his biceps like a second skin, and shorts that showcase thighs that could clearly crush a watermelon. He has a stack of letters in one hand, but the moment your socks slide onto the lobby tile, his head snaps up.
You freeze. The heavy box is cradled against your chest, but it doesn't do a single thing to hide the fact that you are covered in baking debris.
Your heart drops into your throat. You stand there, a fierce, brilliant, usually terrifyingly confident woman, looking like a rogue toddler who broke into the pantry. The sweet, heavy scent of vanilla extract and artificial strawberry sprinkles radiates off your skin in the warm lobby air.
Knowing you can't run without dropping a hundred-dollar typewriter, you force yourself to lock eyes with him. You offer him a tight, pained, deeply defensive nod of greeting—the universal signal for do not perceive me while silently begging the lobby tiles to open up, swallow you whole, and deposit you into a different dimension.
The Guy by the Mailboxes:
Oh my god, Beau thinks, his fingers locking onto his electric bill so hard the paper wrinkles. She looks SO SOFT.
His brain instantly derails, trains crashing into trains, leaving him entirely speechless. He’s used to seeing her look like a high-powered, unapproachable goddess, but right now? She looks small, incredibly cozy, and so ridiculously cute his chest aches. Her hair is all messy and piled on top of her head in a way that makes him want to reach out and pull the clip loose just to watch it fall.
And then the smell hits him. It wafts across the lobby and it’s warm, sugary, buttery goodness. She smells like frosting. Like an actual, literal snack.
A wild, unbidden thought slams into his head before his filters can catch it: CAN SHE BAKE? NO WAIT… CAN I LICK HER?!
He blinks rapidly, his face instantly exploding into a furious, burning blush that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. No! That’s creepy, Beau! Jesus Christ, you can’t ask a girl if you can lick her before you even know her name! Even if you really, really want to lick her face! Calm down, Beau! Mom raised a gentleman, not a horndog! He mentally slaps himself, desperately trying to bring his inner golden retriever to heel.
To distract himself from the literal rainbow sprinkles stuck to her chest, he forces his eyes down to the giant box she’s hauling. He notices the heavy vintage lettering stamped on the side of the cardboard.
Wait, is that a typewriter? His eyes widen with genuine, boyish wonder. Who uses a typewriter? That is so cool. She’s like... a character in an indie movie. Like a cool, mysterious writer.
The urge to help her almost overrides his social paralysis. He wants to take the heavy box from her arms. He wants to carry it up the stairs for her. He wants to ask her what she's writing, buy her a coffee at the campus blend, and finally, finally ask for her name.
Ask her name, you idiot! his brain screams. Say something! Anything!
But as he opens his mouth to speak, his eyes accidentally dip right back down to the vanilla frosting smudge on her tank top. He freezes up entirely, his throat locking. He stands there like a giant, muscular statue, holding his mail, staring blankly at her sprinkles while his heart hammers against his ribs like a captive bird.
~
If there is one thing you are fiercely, aggressively protective of, it is your work. You aren’t just coasting through Briar University's sports journalism program; you are trying to tear down walls. For the last three months, you have been buried alive in a massive, career-making investigative expose detailing the systemic financial exploitation of student-athletes by major NCAA programs. It is a brilliant, ruthless, meticulously researched piece of journalism that could legitimately launch your professional career before you even graduate.
Naturally, because it is the most important thing in your life right now, the universe decides to use it as ammunition.
It’s a crisp Thursday afternoon, and you are navigating the apartment lobby while completely overloaded. You are currently juggling a scalding-hot extra-shot latte in one hand, your overstuffed designer tote bag in the other, and the entire printed, thick rough draft of your expose tucked insecurely under your arm. You are on your way back home coming from a high-stakes meeting with the editor-in-chief of the campus paper, looking sharp, professional, and entirely in your element.
Then, physics betrays you.
As you step toward the elevators, the heavy leather strap of your tote bag violently slips from your shoulder. In a desperate, split-second reflex, your elbow jerks to catch it, which completely dislodges the massive manuscript. To make matters worse, the faulty zipper on your tote bag chooses this exact moment to entirely fail.
Time slows down. Your life flashes before your eyes in agonizing slow motion.
In a horrifying, catastrophic cascade, your heavy notebooks, a dozen clicking pens, your laptop charger, and all fifty-plus loose pages of your printed expose spill out across the floor. The pages catch the draft from the opening lobby doors, sliding and scattering wildly over the polished tile like a flock of frantic white birds.
The only microscopic silver lining in the entire disaster is that through some miracle of muscle memory, you manage to keep your arm perfectly level, saving the hot coffee from spilling. But everything else is currently a disorganized disaster zone at your feet.
"No, no, no," you hiss under your breath, dropping into a frantic, ungraceful squat to start grabbing at the stray papers before they slide under the vending machines.
Then, a shadow falls over you.
You freeze, your hand hovering over page twelve. Standing right in the doorway, mere inches from your scattered life, is a pair of long, devastatingly muscular legs encased in dark athletic shorts. Your eyes slowly, dreadingly track upward. Past the sculpted calves, past a broad, solid chest covered in a tight black Briar Athletics tee, until you find yourself looking right at the chiseled face of Hot Apartment Guy.
You want to cry. You want to drop the coffee and just lay face-down on the tile forever.
But instead of staring or walking away, he immediately drops to his knees right there on the floor with you. Without a word, his massive, heavy-veined hands start scrambling across the polished tile, effortlessly gathering the wildly sliding papers into neat, organized stacks. He moves with an athletic, fluid grace that makes your own panicked scrambling look like a chaotic crab crawl.
"Here," a deep, rumbly, incredibly smooth voice says.
He leans closer, his broad shoulder brushing against yours, sending a sudden, electric jolt straight down your spine. He hands you a thick stack of your retrieved manuscript pages. As you reach out to take them with a trembling hand, he looks up, locking his warm, hazel eyes onto yours, and flashes a smile.
It isn't a smug smile. It is a bright, impossibly warm, open, and devastatingly handsome grin that completely redefines the term heartthrob. He has a tiny, boyish dimple near his mouth, and his teeth are perfectly white.
Your brain entirely, catastrophically short-circuits. The sports journalism prodigy who can interview intimidating coaches without blinking is suddenly wiped from existence. You just stare at his mouth, your lips parting slightly, your mind a vast, empty desert of thought. You are so mesmerized, so utterly paralyzed by the sheer proximity of his handsomeness, that you completely forget to say thank you. You just clutch your papers and blink at him like a dazed deer.
Beau’s POV:
Cute, cute, cute, Beau’s brain repeats like a broken record, his heart hammering against his ribs as he grabs a handful of typed papers. She is so cute when she’s flustered.
He’s trying his absolute best to be a good guy and help her out, but being this close to her is a form of sweet, agonizing torture. Because they are both kneeling on the floor, he gets a direct, unobstructed view of how her clothes hug her perfect curves. Damn, she has the best body I've ever seen. Look at her ass, he thinks, a sudden wave of heat rushing straight to his face. Don't be a dick, Beau. Act cool. Eyes on the paper. Act like a gentleman.
He forces his gaze away from her waist, stacking the sheets of paper tightly against his palm to straighten them out. He looks down at the top page to make sure nothing is ripped, and his eyes instantly catch the bold, typed heading of a plastic folder she had dropped.
Apartment 5C. Y/N Y/L/N.
Beau freezes for a fraction of a second, his hazel eyes widening behind his backward cap. Y/N. He finally has a name to go with the breathtaking girl who keeps destroying his peace of mind.
But as he hands the stack back to her, watching her gorgeous eyes glaze over as she stares at his face, a sudden, heavy realization slams into his head.
Wait... why is that name familiar? Why do I know that name?
He searches his brain frantically, his smile faltering for just a second as he tries to connect the dots. He knows he’s seen that name before. It wasn’t on a mailbox, and it wasn’t in a class syllabus. It was somewhere important. Somewhere related to the team.
Think, Beau, think! he commands himself, desperately trying to jog his memory while she stares at him, entirely speechless. Where the hell do I know Y/N Y/L/N from?
~
You have finally reached the final stage of grief: acceptance. You have officially surrendered to the fact that you are spiritually doomed to look like a feral gremlin in front of this man until the end of time. The universe has clearly drawn a line in the sand, and on his side is effortless, godly perfection, while on yours is a continuous loop of physical comedy.
But today? Today actually feels different.
You had spent the morning playing with your young nieces, running around the park and indulging in high-energy aunt duties. For once, you managed to emerge from a chaotic situation entirely unscathed. In fact, you feel incredible. You are wearing a gorgeous, perfectly tailored linen summer dress that nips in flawlessly at your waist, highlighting your curves in all the right ways. The fabric is a crisp, clean bay pink color. Miraculously, there are no stains on you. No spilled matcha, no stray laundry, no rogue vanilla frosting. You are a ten out of ten again. The queen has returned to her throne.
As you pull open the heavy glass doors to enter the apartment building lobby, the universe aligns the stars. He is walking out.
Your paths cross perfectly right in the center of the polished tile floor. The moment his hazel eyes lock onto you, he stops dead in his tracks. His massive, broad-shouldered frame goes still, and his gaze sweeps over your linen dress. Then, he bites his lower lip in a slow, hesitant movement that draws your eyes directly to his mouth. And he looks at you with this incredibly shy, sweet, utterly melting golden-retriever-like gaze. He actually flushes a faint pink, rubbing the back of his thick neck.
Your heart does a violent, ecstatic flip inside your chest.
Oh my god, you think, a wave of euphoric triumph rushing through your veins. He thinks I'm hot. He is actively checked out by how good I look right now. Finally! The curse is broken! I am a goddess!
You offer him a smooth, perfectly practiced, effortless smile as you glide past him. You practically float into the elevator car, your posture impeccable, your chest puffing with a massive surge of renewed confidence. The doors slide shut, and you are entirely alone in the metallic box.
Still riding the high of your absolute victory, you turn around to face the mirrored walls of the elevator to admire your look.
The smile instantly freezes on your face. Your soul leaves your body, exits the elevator shaft, and ascends directly into the stratosphere.
There, staring back at you in high-definition clarity, is the reality of your situation. On your left cheek, stretching from your cheekbone all the way down to your jawline, is a massive, bright green smear of what is very clearly washable Crayola marker—undoubtedly courtesy of your youngest niece’s enthusiastic arts-and-crafts hour.
Horrified, your hands fly to your head, and your fingers brush against a rigid, plastic texture. You turn your head sideways. Clipped aggressively and haphazardly into the back of your hair are about a dozen pastel-colored, neon-pink and baby-blue plastic flower clips. Your nieces must have snuck them into your hair while you were sitting on the living room rug, completely unbeknownst to you.
You look like a walking arts-and-crafts table. You look like you got into a fight with a craft store and lost.
Hot apartment guy hadn't been looking at you with a smoldering, breathless desire. He hadn't been biting his lip because he was overwhelmed by your beauty. He was biting his lip because he was actively trying not to laugh in your face.
The confidence evaporates from your body, leaving you staring at your reflection in absolute, unadulterated despair.
Beau’s POV:
OH MY GOD, Beau thinks, his mind spinning into a frantic, chaotic spiral as he steps out into the afternoon air. Does she have kids? She looks like she’d be so good with kids.
His heart is pounding against his ribs, but it's not just from how beautiful she looked in that dress. Though she looked like an absolute angel. It was the hair clips. Those tiny, ridiculous little pastel flowers stuck all over the back of her head, combined with the bright green streak on her cheek. It was the cutest, most wholesome thing he had ever seen in his entire life. It meant she had been playing, that she didn't mind getting messy, that she had a soft side beneath that fierce, intimidating journalist exterior.
But then, a dark, terrifying realization slams into his brain like a linebacker at full speed.
Wait... is she married?
His stomach instantly drops into his sneakers. He panics, his fingers twisting anxiously in the fabric of his athletic shorts. No, no, I haven't seen a guy around. I’ve never seen a dude come out of her apartment. But what if she has a secret family? What if she’s a single mom?
The sheer weight of the thought makes him break into a cold sweat right there on the sidewalk. He stares blankly at the campus bus passing by, his internal monologue escalating into a full-blown existential crisis.
Oh my god, I am so nervous to be a stepdad, he thinks, a genuinely stressed whimper trapped in his throat. I don’t know if I’m emotionally mature enough for raising kids yet! I'm just a football player! What if her kids don’t like me? What if they think I'm too big and scary? Will she let me be their stepdad if her kids hate me? What if I accidentally ruin their childhood?!
He covers his face with one massive hand, groaning out loud as he walks toward the athletic facility, completely terrified of a fictional family, entirely oblivious to the fact that his gorgeous neighbor is currently trying to scrub green marker off her face with spit.
~
"Bro, I’m telling you, she’s a beautiful mystery wrapped in a gorgeous enigma," Beau groans, the sound echoing loudly as he thumps his head against the hockey lockers where he is hanging out with Dean. The heavy thud vibrates through the bench area, perfectly matching the sheer frustration rolling off his broad shoulders.
Dean Di Laurentis looks up from taping his hockey stick and gives his best friend the look. The look that clearly says, You're my best friend, but you are incredibly stupid right now. Sitting on the opposite bench, the notorious Briar hockey player looks like a mix of profound boredom and mild amusement. He slowly tears the black tape with his teeth, spitting out a loose thread onto the rubber mat flooring.
"Beau. My man. You have been talking about the girl from apartment 5C for three weeks straight," Dean says, shaking his head as he smooths down the fresh tape on his blade. "Just ask her for her number or shut up. You’re killing my pre-practice vibe. And having a best friend with no game isn't a good look for me. Lock it down like I did with Allie, bro. Or, you know, just skip the poetry and tap that asap. Girls don't want a guy who stares at them like a lost puppy in the hallway. They want execution."
"I can't just ask her!" Beau throws his hands up in the air, pacing the narrow space between the locker rows. He’s still in his practice jersey, his massive frame dominating the room. "She's intimidating, Dean. I don't know who she's going to be from one day to the next. One day she’s a party queen rockin' a neon pink feather boa, the next she smells like a literal bakery and is covered in sprinkles. Then she’s on the floor scrambling over a secret manifesto, and yesterday she had kids' toys clipped into her hair and green war paint on her face!"
Beau stops pacing, running a hand over his face, his hazel eyes wide with genuine, existential panic. He can still vividly picture the green streaks across your cheeks and the little pastel butterfly clips holding back your chaotic mane of hair. "What if she’s a mom? Am I ready to be a stepdad, Dean? I still look for the plastic toy in the cereal box! I'm not financially or emotionally equipped to handle a parent-teacher conference!"
Dean blinks slowly, completely unfazed by his best friend's dramatic meltdown. He leans back against the metal lockers, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "You'd think Joanna would be the most dramatic Maxwell considering she's in theatre, but here you are. Why the hell would you be a stepdad anyway? You haven't even introduced yourself properly to this girl, Romeo!"
Beau shrugs, his broad shoulders dropping as a soft, helpless look takes over his face. "I want to be prepared for anything. This girl already has my whole heart, Dean. I see her in the hallway, and my brain just short-circuits. I completely forgot how to speak English last Tuesday when she sneezed."
Dean thinks for a second, tossing the roll of hockey tape from hand to hand. "What was her name again? You said you saw it on her papers when you were playing 52-pickup on the lobby floor."
"Y/N Y/L/N," Beau sighs, his voice instantly dropping an octave, his expression going soft and dreamily dazed just saying the syllables out loud. "It’s a pretty name. Elegant. Like her."
Dean freezes. The roll of hockey tape stops mid-air. A slow, wicked, entirely mischievous grin spreads across the hockey player's face. He drops the stick onto his lap, leaning forward with sudden, intense interest.
"Hold on. Y/N Y/L/N? The new transfer student writing for the Briar Chronicle? The one who is currently tearing the athletic department a brand new one with an investigative expose on student-athlete compensation?"
Beau’s jaw drops. His arms fall uselessly to his sides. "What?"
"Yeah, bro. The entire hockey team's been talking about her for days," Dean says, chuckling as he shakes his head in pure amusement. "Apparently, she is absolutely ripping the college administration apart to defend us. She’s exposing the millions the school makes off our jerseys while all we get is free cafeteria meal plans. She is a serious champion for the athletes. Every guy on the team is terrified of her, but they respect the hell out of her. She is seriously awesome."
Dean taps his chin thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming. "Actually, she’s supposed to be interviewing some of the varsity sports captains this week to get player perspectives. Pretty sure your football coach assigned you to talk to her since you're the football captain. Congratulations, Maxwell. Your mystery woman is about to grill you."
Beau stands frozen, his brain desperately trying to process the information. The terrifying, beautiful, chaotic goddess from his building wasn't a secret international spy or a multi-faceted enigma. She was a brilliant, fiercely protective sports journalist. And as he whipped out his phone and checked his email, he was apparently scheduled to sit in a room alone with her tomorrow morning.
On the other side of campus, you were completely unaware of the locker room crisis you had caused. For the past three weeks, your life had been an absolute whirlwind of stress, deadlines, and chaotic family obligations.
All you could think about recently was how transferring to Briar University mid-year was supposed to be a smooth transition. Unfortunately the moment you landed a gig at the Briar Chronicle, you had thrown yourself face-first into the deep end. Your investigative piece on athletic compensation had consumed your entire life. So you were off your game when it came to your appearance.
And of course you thought about how every single time you had looked like an absolute lunatic, he had been there. The Hot Apartment Guy. The massive, broad-shouldered god with sparkling brown eyes who always seemed to appear right when your life was in shambles. He would give you this tense, wide-eyed, awkward look before practically fleeing down the hallway, leaving you to curse your luck. You were convinced he thought you belonged in an asylum.
But later that evening, you are standing by the wall of metal mailboxes in the lobby of your apartment building. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you are wearing a completely normal, impeccable outfit. You are in a pair of perfectly fitting jeans, a sharp casual blazer, your hair is brushed and flowing, and your face is entirely free of green Crayola marker. You finally feel like yourself again. The ten out of ten is fully restored.
You hear heavy, echoing footsteps approaching the glass entrance doors. You look up, your journalism instincts automatically making you alert.
Through the doors walks the Hot Apartment Guy. He’s wearing his official, heavy Briar Football varsity jacket, his broad shoulders easily filling out the leather sleeves.
He spots you instantly. But instead of the usual shy, tense, awkward look he always gives you before fleeing into the night, his entire face completely lights up. His eyes spark with absolute recognition, and a massive, boyish grin breaks across his handsome face. He doesn't hesitate. He practically bounces right up to you across the polished tile floor, his chest heaving slightly as if he’d just jogged across campus, looking for all the world like a giant, eager golden retriever puppy who just found his favorite human.
He stops right in front of you, his massive frame towering over your space, radiating warmth and the clean scent of laundry and once again butterscotch.
"Y/N?" he asks, his voice incredibly deep, smooth, and entirely certain.
You blink, completely startled by the sudden shift in the matrix. Your mail clutches loosely in your hand. "Uh. Yeah? How do you know my name?"
"I'm Beau. Beau Maxwell," he says, offering a massive, calloused hand toward you. The fierce starting linebacker is suddenly looking a little pink around the cheeks, his tough exterior melting into pure sweetness. "I play football here. I think... well, I actually know for a fact that I'm scheduled to do an interview with you tomorrow morning for your athletic compensation expose."
He rubs the back of his thick neck with his free hand, letting out a nervous, breathless laugh that completely disarms you. "And, uh, I really wanted to clear something up before tomorrow. Because it's been driving me crazy."
"Clear what up?" you ask, your usual sharp, professional confidence instantly returning now that you aren't covered in frosting or wearing toddler hair accessories. You tilt your head, highly amused by his sudden burst of vulnerability.
Beau takes a deep, steadying breath, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with total, unadulterated adoration. He steps just a fraction closer, shutting out the rest of the lobby. "Those pastel flower clips in your hair yesterday. And the green marker. Are they... are they your kids' clips? Because if you have kids, I just want you to know that's totally cool. I'm actually great with kids. I mean, I'm a little nervous about the whole concept of being a stepdad, but I'm a really fast learner, and I can buy a lot of Legos, and I'm really good at building forts—"
"Stepdad?!" you choke out.
A loud, vibrant laugh bubbles right up from your chest, echoing through the quiet lobby. The absolute, peak absurdity of the last three weeks finally crashes down on you in a wave of hilarious clarity. He hadn't been judging you. He hadn't thought you were crazy. He had been planning a fictional family.
"Beau..." you say, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye, your heart warming in a way it never had before. "Those were my nieces' clips. I don't have kids. I was babysitting. Also, we literally just exchanged names two seconds ago, don't you think jumping to 'stepdad' is a bit of a cosmic leap?"
Beau’s entire massive posture slacks with an immense, visible, and utterly hilarious wave of relief. He lets out a long breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "Oh. Thank God. I mean—not that kids aren't great! Kids are awesome! But wow, okay, that makes this way easier."
He steps directly into your personal space, the nervousness completely melting away, replaced by that devastatingly handsome, dimpled smile you remembered from the paper avalanche on the floor. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with a sudden, thrilling heat that makes your breath hitch.
"In that case, Y/N... since we're neighbors, and we're officially breaking the ice, and we have a very important interview tomorrow..." He tilts his head, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rumble. "Can I please take you out for a real dinner tonight?"
You stare up at him, the imaginary curse officially dissolving into the warm evening air, replaced by a sizzling, undeniable chemistry. You slide your mail into your tote bag, taking a deliberate step closer until your blazer brushes against his varsity jacket.
You smile, silently thanking the universe and apologizing for all the cursing you’ve done the past few weeks. "I'd love to, Beau."
~
"So, no secret manifestos tonight?" Beau asks, his eyes dancing with mischief as he pulls out the chair for you at Luigi’s, a cozy, dimly lit Italian restaurant just a few blocks off campus.
"I left my top-secret documents locked in my desk," you counter, smoothing your skirt as you sit. "Though, if I had known I was going to be dining with the varsity football captain, I might have brought a wiretap to get an early start on tomorrow's interview."
Beau chuckles, a rich, deep sound that vibrates straight to your core as he slides into the booth opposite you. "Please, spare me. I'm already terrified of you. Dean told me you're tearing the administration apart. The hockey guys think you're a hero, and the football team is apparently currently drafting a petition to make you our official honorary mascot."
"Is that so?" You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, a playful smirk on your lips. "And what does the captain and starting linebacker think?"
Beau’s gaze softens, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the bustling restaurant fade into background noise. "The starting linebacker thinks you're incredible. Seriously, Y/N. I read your introductory column last week. Most journalists just want to write about who scored the winning touchdown or who got caught partying at the fraternity houses. You're actually looking out for us. You see the work we put in."
His sincerity catches you off guard. You're used to athletes being defensive or dismissive of student journalists, expecting shallow questions and media training answers. But Beau is looking at you like you hold the answers to the universe.
"Well," you clear your throat, suddenly feeling a bit breathless. "Someone has to point out that the school is selling your number thirty-three jersey for ninety bucks a pop while you're surviving on mystery meat from the campus dining hall."
"Hey, don't disrespect the mystery meat," Beau jokes, though his eyes remain warm. "It builds character. And bulk."
"Clearly," you murmur, your eyes dipping instinctively to his broad chest before you quickly snap your gaze back to his face. A flush creeps up your neck, and you hope the dim candlelight hides it.
Beau doesn't miss it. The dimple in his right cheek deepens as he leans across the table, his large hands resting near yours. "You know, when you dropped all those papers in the lobby three weeks ago, I wanted to do more than help you, I wanted to talk to you. But every time I get near you, my brain just completely shuts down. I'm used to tackling two-hundred-pound running backs, but a five-minute conversation with a beautiful girl? Absolutely terrifying."
"You didn't seem very terrified when you were offering to buy Legos and build forts for my nonexistent children," you point out, a laugh bubbling up again.
Beau covers his face with his hands, his ears turning bright red. "Oh my god, please let me live that down. I can't believe I said that out loud. I blame my buddy Dean. He told me to just 'lock it down,' and my brain translated that into 'commit to a twenty-year co-parenting plan immediately.'"
"I think it was sweet," you admit, reaching out to gently tap his wrist until he lowers his hands. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, sending a pleasant shiver through your veins. "A bit intense for a Tuesday evening check-in at the mailboxes, but sweet."
As the waiter brings your food, the conversation flows effortlessly. You find out that beneath the tough, athletic exterior, Beau is incredibly grounded. He talks about his sister Joanna with fierce protection, his face lighting up as he complains about having to watch her experimental theatre productions. He listens intently as you talk about your transfer experience, asking questions that prove he genuinely cares about your answers.
By the time the check arrives, you realize you haven't thought about your article or your deadlines once in the past two hours, and you’ve completely erased the past three weeks of disaster from your brain. For the first time in a month, the weight on your shoulders feels entirely gone.
The walk back to the apartment building is quiet, the crisp evening air wrapping around you both. Beau walks on the street side of the sidewalk, a classic, old-school gesture that doesn't escape your notice. His massive frame shields you from the wind, his shoulder brushing against yours with every step.
"Thank you for dinner, Beau," you say as you enter the familiar lobby. The space looks completely different now. It’s no longer a battlefield, but the place where everything changed.
"Thank you for agreeing to come out with a guy who was too afraid to speak three words to you," he replies, his voice low and intimate in the quiet evening.
You step into the elevator, and he follows, pressing the button for the fifth floor. As the elevator ascends, the tension in the small space shifts, becoming thick with an unspoken, electric energy. You look up at him, noting the way his jaw tethers, his eyes locked onto the floor numbers tracking upward.
When the doors chime open, you walk down the hallway toward your apartment, your heart rate speeding up with every step. You stop outside the door marked 5C.
"Well, this is me," you say, turning around to face him.
Beau stands a foot away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his varsity jacket. He looks down at you, his expression a mix of longing and hesitation. "Yeah. And I'm just right across the hall at 5B. If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar... or need a baking assistant."
"I'll keep that in mind," you smile, your keys jingling in your hand.
Beau takes a slow step forward, closing the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He reaches out, his large, warm hand gently cupping your jawline. His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, his touch incredibly tender for someone so powerful.
"I'm a football jock who gets it wrong sometimes," he whispers, his eyes dropping to your lips. "But I meant what I said. I'm a really fast learner Y/N."
Your breath hitches as he leans down, his lips meeting yours in a soft, slow kiss. It’s sweet and exploratory at first, but as you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, his grip on your jaw tightens slightly, pulling you closer until your body is flushed against his broad chest. The kiss deepens, becoming warm, consuming, and full of a promise that leaves your knees feeling weak.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is shallow, a devastatingly handsome smile playing on his lips. He taps your nose playfully.
"Goodnight, Y/N. See you at our interview tomorrow morning. Try not to be too hard on me."
"No promises, Maxwell," you breathless reply, watching him walk across the hall to his own door.
As you slip inside your apartment and click the deadbolt into place, the strength completely leaves your legs. You slide down the heavy wood until you’re sitting flat on the floor, a massive, helpless smile spreading across your face. Your lips still tingle with the warmth of Beau’s lips, and your heart is hammering a frantic, joyful rhythm against your ribs.
Thank you, universe, you think, closing your eyes and letting your head rest back against the door. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.
Then, a sudden hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat because, realistically, you owed the cosmos a massive apology. You had spent every waking minute of the past three weeks utterly convinced that the universe personally hated you.
Every single time you had crossed that threshold looking like a Victorian orphan or a natural disaster survivor, Beau had been there. You had cursed the stars, the moon, and whatever cruel deity was pulling the strings.
But sitting here now, feeling the lingering ghost of Beau’s hands on your jaw, you realize it was all just a cosmic hazing ritual. The universe wasn't punishing you. It was just testing your commitment to the plot. And as you think, you decide the universe is officially forgiven.
author’s note: this is just filthy smut. i might write one once where HE’S the one having an ovulation & is a needy bitch😤
You had a terrible idea. Or more like you thought it was, considering it was born out of desperation.
Currently, you're sitting on your boyfriend's bed in his football jersey—his number and last name stretching across your back—with absolutely nothing underneath.
You finally have time to overthink what you've just done.
Clearly, you've been frustrated from the moment you crossed the threshold, but not in an everyday, life-stress kind of way.
Sexually frustrated.
You still are, but the consequences of your actions are finally catching up with you. You aren't even drunk enough to excuse being this straightforward, but today is the day you're ovulating, and you need to get laid.
Immediately.
It doesn't soothe your nerves that you and Beau haven't actually had sex yet. Sure, a heavy make-out session was enough to get your panties soaking and your toes curling, but neither of you wanted to rush things - it was an unspoken understatement between you both. His teasing, wandering hands combined with your own imagination used to be enough to get you off, but right now, you know masturbation won't cut it.
You need him. Deeply, thoroughly buried inside you.
So, you remain waiting, seated on his bed in nothing but his jersey. Jesus, you're stupid—but you're incredibly horny, too.
You don’t know how much time passes before Beau finally unlocks his door and comes face to face with you.
He freezes for a second, his hand still on the doorknob, his brown eyes slowly taking you in, soon becoming so heated, you feel yourself on fire.
“I would’ve come sooner if I knew you’d be waiting for me like that,” he whistles teasingly, closing the door behind him without taking his eyes off of you.
“Beau,” you murmur his name, sliding off the bed and tentatively step closer to him. His arms almost immediately lock you by your hips to him, chest pressed to chest.
“Tell me,” he bumps his nose against yours, his mouth watering at the sight of you.
“It’s a really bad day,” you slide your arm around his neck, while the other remains on his chest.
“How so?” He asks, slowly peppering your jaw and cheeks with little kisses.
Never your mouth - he’s a tease like that.
“You’ve been making me wait,” you kiss his jaw, “making me beg for more,” you kiss his Adam’s apple and he grunts, “and I can’t take it anymore,” you whisper against his mouth.
Never kissing him - because you’re a tease like that.
“Poor baby.”
“I’m desperate, Bunny,” you whine, and on any other day it’d be pathetic, but right now? Right now, you needed him so much it started to hurt. “Please, make me feel good.”
“Such good manners,” he groans and slides his hands over your ass that’s covered by his jersey, “for a brat,” and slaps the flesh.
You jump, but the burn hurts deliciously.
Beau takes your chin into his thumb and pointer finger, forcing you to look up at him through hooded eyes. “Tell me. Is there anything underneath my jersey?”
You shake your head no.
His gaze flashes and his nostrils flare. “It’s only my name on you?”
“Mhm,” you nod, biting your lip, salivating at the idea of what he’s going to do with the information.
But he doesn't say anything. Instead, he slides his fingers into your hair, lightly squeezing as he pulls you into his waiting mouth.
He tastes like menthol and you taste like cherry—a combination that draws a low groan from both of you.
You wrap your arms around his neck, deepening the kiss by opening up, guiding your tongue to invite his into a teasing dance.
Under his jersey, your nipples harden, the material scrapes against your pebbled flesh, adding an insane amount of wave of need.
Beau's hands begin to wander—down to your neck, squeezing your pulse point until it flutters violently, then down your chest where his long fingers find your nipples, pinching them.
"My God," he grunts against your mouth.
He finds your waist again, bunching the jersey in his grip and pulling it up past your hips, completely exposing your pussy and ass.
"As much as I love seeing you in my jersey, I need to see you," he says. In a matter of seconds, he lifts the shirt over your head and tosses it somewhere into the room.
You're completely exposed, but under Beau's gaze, you don't feel uncomfortable. His hungry stare is somehow warm—filled with wonder, need, and love.
Your hands hang loose at your sides, your hair unbound, waiting for him. As desperately as you want him to strip, you wait.
"God, you're so perfect," he whispers. He guides his middle finger down the center of your chest, over your stomach, and slowly, tentatively, finds your clit.
"And so fucking soaked," he moans, gathering your wetness around his finger.
"Fuck," you breathe, the sheer lightness of his touch making your toes curl.
Beau draws his finger away and brings it back up to your chest. He circles your nipples, coating them in your own arousal. You hiss, but the sound immediately morphs into a loud moan as Beau takes one peak into his mouth—sucking, licking, and biting.
"Oh my God," you cry out, burying your fingers in his hair to keep him locked right there.
"Keep screaming, baby," he murmurs, pressing hot kisses against your sternum. "You taste like heaven."
"Please," you whine, tugging desperately at his shirt. He responds with a low, throaty chuckle.
Beau finally takes mercy on you and pulls his shirt off, but he doesn't go any further.
"Lay on the bed," he orders.
You do exactly as you're told.
Beau stands at the foot of the bed, watching you with a heavy, heated gaze. "Touch yourself for me."
You bite your lip, drawing your knees up and spreading them slightly, completely opening up and showing yourself to him. He lets out a desperate, ragged sigh.
"Do you touch yourself at the thought of me?"
You nod.
"What are you thinking of?"
You circle your clit. "I love your fingers. I want them buried deep inside me," you moan.
Beau's bulge is visibly begging for attention now. Wanting to rile him up even more, you continue.
"I imagine you between my legs, eating me out. I imagine you playing with my pussy like it's your own playground. Claiming it."
"Goddammit," he growls, his eyes locked entirely on your fingers disappearing inside your hole.
Beau kneels on the bed, slowly crawling his way up to you. He gently pulls your hand away from your pussy and brings your wet fingers straight to his mouth, sucking on them, tasting you. Your eyes are completely glassy with need as you watch him.
"It's my turn now," he whispers with a wink.
He slides down the mattress until his face is inches from your glistening clit. He breathes a stream of cool air directly onto your wet skin, making you jump a little, his palms plant firmly against the soft flesh of your thighs, forcing them to stay wide open for him. He presses slow, soft kisses along your inner thighs, impossibly close to where you desperately need him most.
"Beau..." You arch your hips up off the bed, a wordless plea emphasizing your need for him.
Without warning, he latches onto your clit and sucks hard.
He grunts against your pussy, the vibration sending a thrill of satisfying friction through you. You moan out loud, completely uncaring of how loud you're being. You tangle the fingers of one hand deep into his hair while your other hand plays with your nipple, twisting and pinching the peak.
He licks your clit, sucking hard on it before using his tongue to tease your hole. The sensation makes your toes curl as a breathless moan escapes you—it feels too good, and you're already right there.
"I can feel you squeezing my tongue," he murmurs, looking up from between your thighs.
"I'm so fucking close, Beau. Don't you dare stop," you pant.
"Such a needy little thing, aren't you?" he purrs. He slowly pushes a finger deep inside you, making your back arch off the mattress. "You take my finger so well," he breathes, pacing his rhythm steadily, watching your reactions to every stroke.
You can't even speak - you've never felt anything this intense before. You're certain the bedding beneath you is completely soaked, but Beau continues to eat you out like a madman, feasting on you like you’re his last meal. You can tell how worked up he is by the way his own hips rock against the bed, desperate for his own release.
"Oh! Fuck!" you scream, your legs shaking violently as a powerful orgasm shatters through you. Your breath hitches, but Beau keeps working his fingers inside you, forcing you to ride out every single wave of the climax.
"Good girl," he whispers, pressing a soft kiss to your overstimulated clit before pushing himself up onto his knees.
His chin and knuckles glisten with your release. He locks his gaze onto yours, holding intense eye contact as he slowly sucks his fingers clean. Your face is already burning hot.
"Open your mouth," he rasps. He dips his fingers inside you one more time to slick them up before bringing them straight to your lips. "Suck on them."
You do exactly as you're told. You swirl your tongue around his digits, keeping your eyes locked on his. Your gaze is heavy with hunger, matching his deep brown eyes, where his pupils are completely blown out like an addict's.
Reaching down with shaky hands, you grip his belt and pull him impossibly closer, frantically trying to undo the buckle.
He chuckles darkly, looking down at you. "So greedy."
"I want you," you whisper. You slide his jeans down his legs, exposing the prominent tent in his boxers, already visibly wet with precum.
Your tongue darts out to lick your lips at the sight.
Beau reaches down, gently brushing your hair out of your face. "Take me," he commands softly. He cups your chin, tilting your head up to force your eyes to meet his, all while his thumb idly strokes your bottom lip.
Summoning what little strength you have left, you push yourself up on shaky knees, ready to change positions and take control.
You knew Beau would be big considering his hands are literal paws, but actually seeing him makes your mouth water. He tracks every single emotion running across your face, watching intently as you run your tongue over your swollen bottom lip.
"Sweetheart, you're killing me here," he whines—the sound somehow desperate yet incredibly hot.
With a mischievous smirk, you maintain eye contact as you lower yourself onto your stomach and take him into your hand. Beau lets out a low grunt at the contact. His eyes widen as you press a long lick from the underside of his shaft all the way up to the head.
"Jesus fuck," he moans, watching you take him into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks as you suck him hard.
"Fuck my mouth," you demand, breaking away just long enough to press a sloppy kiss to the head.
"Sweetheart—" he starts, his voice strained.
"Please. I want it. Fuck my mouth."
"I don't want to hurt you," he breathes, trying to hold back.
You look up at him. "You won't. I trust you."
"I'm going to ruin your makeup,” he warns, his voice dropping dark.
"Good. Now, fuck my mouth."
Beau gathers your hair into a makeshift ponytail, his long fingers wrapping tightly around the strands to firmly guide your head exactly where and how he wants it.
He thrusts his hips, pinning your head in place as the head of his cock scrapes the back of your throat, forcing a heavy gag from your chest.
"Relax your jaw. That's it. Good girl, you take it so well," he praises as he continues to claim your mouth, using it entirely to his liking. Your jaw begins to ache, but you don't dare complain - the sight of him slowly coming undone is already making you wet again, a surge of pride blooming in your chest because you are the one doing this to him.
Your nails scrape against his muscular thighs and your eyes water as he pushes you down, forcing you deep until your nose presses hard against his pubic bone. He holds you trapped there for a fraction of a moment. As he pulls back slightly, you swirl your tongue along his thick shaft, feeling every heavy vein ridge against your wet mouth.
The lack of oxygen makes you lightheaded, your vision blurry as he pulls you away with a loud and wet pop, your lips connecting to his cock with a thin line of saliva.
He reaches out, and with his thumb, he wipes your tears away, smudging your ruined mascara even more. "So pretty while I ruin you."
You kitten lick his throbbing head teasingly. He guides you back, desperate for your warm mouth around him, swallowing every last drop of him as he comes down your throat with a long groan, his fingers pulling at your hair.
His warmth coats your throat, some of it escaping at the corner of your mouth, which he eagerly pushes back with his pointer and middle fingers, massaging your tongue with his cum.
“My pretty girl,” he guides you up to him and claims your mouth with a hungry kiss, tasting each other, making you whimper against his lips.
His cock already semi hard due to the heavy makeout, nudges your entrance where you're seated in his lap, hips slowly grinding against him.
He grabs your hips and pushes against you, forcing you to change positions, so now you’re the one laying on the bed while Beau is hovering over you.
“I’ve been dreaming about you like this,” he kisses your throat, “ass up while you’re sucking my dick,” he trails kisses down your chest, “tears running down your face while choking on my cock,” he bites your breast lightly, “pink pussy full of my cum.”
“Please,” you whine again, desperate for him to fill you.
“So needy,” he continues his way down your stomach, “so bossy,” he bites your thigh, “so mine,” he licks a strip from your hole to your clit, both hands on your thighs forcing them open.
Beau doesn’t continue, only now he’s kneeling between your legs, cock red and angry as he pulls his shaft, teasing and coats himself with your wetness.
You tremble at the contact, your pussy still puffy and sensitive, but wanting him anyways.
“Stop playing,” you grit out.
Beau laughs. “Baby, I know you’re ready, but I’m not. Once I’m inside you I need every mental strength to not come the second I start to move.”
“I’ll be so good for you,” you reach out and pull him flush to you, your breasts flattening against his muscular chest, while the head of his cock presses against your entrance.
Beau grunts so loudly, his eyes flashes as every inner strength leaves his being. Seeing that delights you, knowing you won.
"Behave," he says between kisses, biting your bottom lip to emphasize his warning. Then, ever so slowly, he slides in, stretching you so deliciously.
"Ah!" you moan as he stills inside you, letting you adjust to his width and length, soothing you with slow circles on your hips. You peer down to where your bodies are joined, sighing at the sight.
"You're so... so good," Beau stumbles over his words, his forehead pressed to yours as you pant into each other's mouths.
"Move. Please," you plead, shifting your hips carefully. Your movement earns a low growl from him, but he pulls out slightly before thrusting back in slowly.
"More," you whine breathlessly, watching him move as his pace begins to quicken.
"Taking me so well," he praises, a hand sliding up to squeeze your throat carefully. "So fucking warm," he continues, pushing deep inside you. "Milking my cock so well." He bites your nipple, pulling it between his teeth, earning a throaty groan from you.
"Beau," you catch yourself calling for him, reaching out. Your fingers slide into the dark, sweaty hair at his nape, pulling him down to kiss him senseless. Your tongues dart out to catch one another, swallowing away every moan.
"God, baby, you squeeze me so good," he growls, rubbing his thumb over your bundle of nerves, spitting on your clit to make it even wetter.
"Fuck," your toes curl, your heels biting into his ass to keep him so fucking close, so fucking deep that you feel every single ridge and vein of him.
"Come for me," he groans, kissing away a single tear that escaped—the sensation so fucking delicious that your eyes continue to water.
"So close, Beau... God, so fucking close," you gasp, feeling your orgasm approaching rapidly.
Your chest glistens with sweat and saliva, heaving as you try to catch your breath against Beau's frantic pace. He goes faster and deeper with each stroke. Your eyes roll back as he pinches your clit, pounding into you, skin slapping loudly against skin.
Your senses are dull, all you can smell is sex.
Suddenly, your coil snaps, shattering over Beau's cock. You squeeze him so incredibly tight that he immediately follows you over the edge loudly, his cum coating you and your thighs.
"Goddamn," he laughs breathlessly, his spent body stretching over yours. His head rests on your chest, his warm breath sending goosebumps racing over your skin.
"I'm so sore, but I want to go again," you admit a tad sleepily, stroking his hair tenderly.
"Was I too rough?" he asks, lifting his head to look at you with rising concern.
"God, no," you say, shaking your head as you cup his jaw. "It's just been a while since I've had sex."
"The feeling's mutual. I don't think I've ever come that hard before," he jokes.
You look at him in surprise. "You haven't had sex since...?"
"Since you called me stupid in every single syllable."
"Why?"
"Because from that exact moment, all that existed was you."
"You waited for me?"
"And I'd wait a hundred lifetimes more," he vows. "I want you however you'll let me have you."
"I love you."
It wasn't the first time you'd said it, and neither had he. But it is in quiet moments like these, where your heart feels so full, that you simply need to let him know.
"I love you," he smiles, leaning down to kiss you softly.
You smirk against his lips. "Though... I do want to ride you."
"Jesus, woman," he groans, pushing himself up with a dark grin. "Show me what you've got."
You bite your lip, shifting your weight as you climb onto his lap.
warnings: slow burn, fluff, longing, some angst, mention of possible injury, swearing
summary: three years after life pulled them in different directions, one Christmas in St. Barts brings you back to the boy who always felt like home. Somewhere between old traditions and new feelings, friendship begins to blur into something more.
wc: 7540
a/n: Title inspired Adele’s song, Lovesong. I’m such a sucker for childhood/best friend Dean, hence the fic. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. MWAH
Chapter 1
The last exam of your third year at NYU ended with the familiar scrape of chairs against polished floors and a chorus of relieved sighs echoing through the lecture theatre.
Three years of Business almost behind you leaving you with a year left, then the real world.
A grin spread across your face as you stepped out into the cold Manhattan afternoon. The city buzzed around you despite the chill, your breath visible in the air as yellow taxis crawled through traffic, impatient horns filling the streets. Tourists huddled in scarves and coats at intersections, students spilled out of nearby campus buildings bundled in layers, and the smell of roasted coffee drifted from cafés offering warmth against the December cold.
For once, you had nowhere to be, no lectures, assignments or presentations. Just an empty calendar stretching out in front of you, begging to be filled with a plethora of selfcare rituals.
You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, adjusting the oversized sunglasses perched on your nose more out of habit than necessity, and started the familiar walk back towards your apartment in SoHo.
Your phone vibrated inside your shoulder bag which you fished out immediately.
Mom
A smile appeared before you'd even answered.
"Hey, Mom. It hasn't even been a week."
"I know," she replied brightly. "Am I only allowed to call on Sundays now?"
"Oh, absolutely." You joked.
"Too bad, I ignored that rule."
You laughed as you crossed the street, boots crunching lightly over patches of old snow pushed to the curb.
"What if I just wanted to hear my daughter's voice?"
"You absolutely did not call me just because you missed me."
"I do miss you."
"But?"
"But I also have news."
"There it is."
Your mom laughed, rich and warm, the kind of laugh that always made you smile no matter how bad your day had been, an effect she had on everyone.
She could start conversations with complete strangers in grocery store queues. She remembered birthdays without reminders. She sent you photos of random dogs she'd met on walks because she thought you'd like them. Your dad had always joked she'd somehow befriended half of America.
"So," you said, weaving around tourists who had somehow managed to stop in the middle of the footpath. "What’s the news?"
"Oh, sweetheart." There was the dramatic sigh. "We finally did it."
"You?"
"We settled the acquisitions."
You slowed your pace. "The Chicago one?"
"And Miami."
"No way."
"And Dallas."
Your eyebrows shot up. "Seriously?"
"Mhm."
"The ones you've both been working on for, what, three years?"
"Exactly those."
You smiled despite yourself.
Your parents owned businesses across the country, and closing one deal usually meant opening another. The last few years had been nonstop meetings, overseas flights and endless negotiations.
Family holidays had quietly disappeared somewhere in the chaos.
"We're finally free," your mother continued.
"You sound relieved."
"I sound younger."
You laughed. "I think your dad cried after signing the paperwork."
"Dad? Cry?"
"He'd deny it."
"Obviously."
"So..." Her voice became noticeably lighter. "We're going back to St. Barts."
Your footsteps stopped completely. People brushed past you with irritated mutters, but you barely noticed. "What?"
"We're going back."
You blinked. "The beach house?"
"Yup."
"When?"
"In two days."
"Two days!?" You echoed, eyes widening.
"We've already had the staff open everything up."
You couldn't stop smiling. You could imagine the warm escape from the New York biting cold. The white sand, impossibly blue water, morning swims before breakfast, evenings watching the sunset from the balcony with your parents.
Then your thoughts wandered to the familiar estate next door. The family who had shared every St. Barts holiday with yours for as long as you could remember.
Then another thought entered your mind. Trying to sound casual, you cleared your throat. "So..."
"So?"
"Just us?"
"As much as I adore spending time with only you and your dad."
There it was.
"The Di Laurentises will be joining us."
Your heart skipped. "Oh."
"And before you ask..."
"I wasn't going to ask."
"Dean's coming too." Your mom practically sang his name.
You rolled your eyes despite the warmth spreading through your chest. "Hah. I don't care if he comes or not."
"Mhm."
"I don't."
"For sure."
"You sound unconvinced."
"I've known you for twenty one years, darling."
"Mom."
She laughed again. "I'll stop teasing."
"You'd better."
"Although you've been smiling this entire conversation."
"I have not."
"You have."
You caught your reflection in a shop window. Damn it, you so were.
"So," your mom continued innocently, "have you spoken to him lately?"
You shrugged even though she couldn't see it. "I mean... we follow each other on Instagram."
"That's not what I asked."
You hesitated for half a second. "No. Not really."
"Mhm."
"I mean it."
"I believe you."
She didn't, but she let it go. Because even as you kept walking, even as you kept talking, your mind had already drifted back to that phone call.
It had been late. One in the morning too late for a normal phone call.
You'd been curled up on your couch in your apartment, wrapped in a blanket, laptop balanced on your knees, half-watching Love Island.
Your phone had buzzed against the cushion beside you.
Dicky.
You'd stared at his nickname lighting up your screen for a second longer than necessary.
Then answered. "Hello?"
The deafening music hit you first, chaos on the other end of the line as voices were shouting over each other. There wasn’t anything but background noise until, “-Hello?” His voice was slightly slurred and definitely louder than it needed to be.
You sat up a little straighter. "Dean?"
"Hey." There was a loose and careless laugh. "You picked up."
You frowned slightly. "Yeah... why wouldn't I?"
"I don't know." More noise in the background, someone yelling, a burst of laugher. "You could've ignored me."
"But, I didn't."
He paused, then softer, "I know."
Something about the way he said it made your chest tighten. "What are you doing?" you asked.
"Celebrating."
"Celebrating what?"
"We won."
"Hockey?"
"Yeah."
Another voice cut through the phone. "Is that her?"
You blinked. "What—"
"Dude, let me talk to her!" the mystery guy shouted.
"Shut up," Dean muttered, though he was laughing.
You could practically picture it, Dean in the middle of a crowded room, surrounded by teammates, red cups, music too loud and energy too high. "You should've come here," he said suddenly.
"What?"
"You would've liked it."
"I doubt that."
"No, you would've." His voice dipped, more serious now. "You would've liked them."
"Your boys?"
"Yeah."
Another voice, different from the one before, shouted in the background. "You always talk about her but you never let us meet her!"
Heat crept up your neck. "Dean—"
"I do not always talk about her," he shot back, though there was no real conviction behind it.
"You literally—"
"Shut up!"
You couldn't help it but you laughed. "What is happening over there?"
"A lot."
"I can tell."
There was a shuffle, like he'd moved somewhere quieter since the music dulled slightly. His voice came through clearer. "I miss you."
The words landed without warning and you went still. "What?"
"I said I miss you."
"You’re drunk."
"Yeah." A beat went by. "But I still mean it."
Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone as the silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.
"You should've gone to Briar," he added, quieter now.
"You say that every time we talk."
"Because it's true."
"I like NYU."
"I know." Another pause. "But still."
You smiled despite yourself. "You sound ridiculous."
"I am ridiculous."
You laughed softly.
There was something about hearing him like this, unguarded, and unfiltered, that made everything feel strangely familiar, like those three years hadn’t passed at all.
Voices started getting louder again.
"Dean!"
"Hang up, man!"
"Let us talk to her!"
He groaned. "I gotta go."
"Okay."
"I'm glad you picked up."
Your heart did something stupid. "Me too."
The line went dead.
Around midday, your phone had been flooded with messages.
Dicky: I’M SO SORRY
Dicky I was fucked, lowkey still am. Hungover AF
Dicky: Please ignore everything I said
Dicky: Seriously
Dicky: I don't even remember half of it
You'd stared at them for a while before replying.
You: I figured, dickhead
She let the laughter settle before speaking again. "I hope your suitcases are ready"
"I'll pack tonight."
"And maybe wash those beach dresses you love." Your mom always knew you. "I'll text you the flight details."
"I love you."
"I love you more, sweetheart."
The call ended.
You stood on the sidewalk staring at the black screen for several seconds, cold air brushing against your cheeks.
St. Barts, with your parents and the Di Laurentis Family.
Dean.
You refused to admit his name was the reason your stomach suddenly felt full of butterflies.
Sleep barely found you over the next two nights.
You blamed the excitement of finally escaping the freezing New York winter after months of exams.
Not Dean. Definitely not Dean.
The warm Caribbean sun greeted you the second you stepped off the private jet. The familiar salty breeze carried memories you hadn't realised you'd missed, and after the biting cold of New York, the heat felt unreal against your skin.
By the time the black Range Rover pulled through the gates of your parents' beachfront villa, your smile hurt from how long it'd been there. The house looked exactly the same, with its white stone, towering palms and the ocean stretching endlessly beyond the infinity pool.
Before you'd even reached the front entrance, the front door burst open. "There's my girl!" Your mom wrapped you in a hug before you'd fully climbed the steps, your shoulder bag slipping from your grasp and landing on the stone path with a dull thud.
Your dad followed moments later, smiling as he squeezed you just as tightly. You'd missed them more than you’d realised.
“Let’s get you inside, everyone’s waiting,” he said, picking up your shoulder bag and bringing it into the house.
The cool marble floors met your sandals as you stepped inside, the familiar scent of the villa wrapping around you instantly, salt air, fresh linen, and something citrusy lingering in the background.
Then you heard the voices, familiar laughter and movement.
“Finally!” Mrs. Di Laurentis beamed, stepping forward to pull you into a warm hug before you could even properly take in the room. “Look at you, sweetheart.”
“Hi,” you laughed softly, hugging her back before Mr. Di Laurentis followed, greeting you just as warmly.
“You’ve grown up on us,” he said with a smile.
“I’ve been grown,” you teased, earning a chuckle.
Your name rang out across the room. You barely had time to react before Summer crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your shoulders as she squeezed you.
“Oh my god, I missed you so much,” she rushed out, pulling back only to grab your hands and tug you further into the living room. “You look insane. Like hot insane. NYU is treating you well, clearly, and your hair? Don’t even get me started, I need to know everything, like everything—”
She didn’t stop, not for a second.
Words spilled out of her faster than you could process, her excitement bubbling over as she dragged you further inside, her grip firm like she was afraid you might disappear again. But you weren’t really hearing her.
Your heart had started racing, too fast and too loud for your liking. Your eyes flickered around the room, scanning faces, corners, doorways.
Nick leaned casually against the kitchen counter, giving you a grin and a nod of greeting.
Your parents were talking with Dean’s.
Summer was still talking, something about Brown, about classes, about someone named Chloe, but her voice had faded into background noise.
Because Dean wasn’t anywhere. And suddenly, all you could think about was whether he didn’t come at all, or whether something had happened to him.
Why wasn’t he—
Strong and firm arms wrapped around you from behind. Familiar in a way that made your breath catch.
Before you could even react, you were lifted clean off the ground, a surprised laugh escaping you as you were spun mid-air. “Got you.”
Your heart stuttered then raced even faster.
He said your name, breath warm against your ear.
You laughed, breathless, instinctively grabbing onto his arms as he set you back down, though he didn’t let go. Not immediately.
You turned in his hold, and suddenly he was right there. Closer than you’d expected and closer than you remembered in the last three years. Everything about him hit you all at one, his scent, somehow unfamiliar but still him, his arms, stronger, broader and holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
You'd always had to tilt your head slightly to look at him, but now you had to tilt it even further.
Your eyes flickered up to meet his, and he was already looking at you, a grin spreading slowly across his face like he couldn’t quite believe you were actually here. “Miss me?” he asked, voice low, teasing.
The words struck something in you.
I miss you.
For a split second, you were back in your apartment, phone pressed to your ear, hearing those three slurred words through the noise of a crowded party.
You blinked the memory away and huffed out a quiet laugh, willing your heartbeat to settle. “In your dreams.”
“Every night,” he shot back easily.
You rolled your eyes, but you couldn’t stop smiling.
Around you, the room had gone quiet, everyone watching the two of you with knowing smiles.
“Oh my god,” Summer groaned dramatically, crossing her arms. “Dean, can you not steal her the second she walks in? She’s mine.”
You laughed, glancing over at her.
“Excuse you,” Dean replied, not even looking away from you. “I saw her first.”
“No, you didn’t,” Summer shot back. “I literally tackled her.”
“And yet,” he shrugged, tightening his hold just slightly, “she’s still here.”
“Unbelievable,” Summer muttered, though she was smiling. “We’re supposed to be besties. Remember that?”
“I do,” you laughed, finally stepping back just enough to breathe, though the warmth of his hands lingered where they’d been.
Dean’s gaze didn’t leave you, and somehow, being here suddenly felt even more real.
Dinner preparations quickly became the organised chaos they always had whenever the two families were together. Mrs. Di Laurentis had already tied an apron around her waist before anyone else had even unpacked, insisting nobody made homemade pasta quite like she did.
Your mom, naturally, refused to let that statement slide. "Oh please," she scoffed, pulling vegetables from the fridge. "Everyone knows my lemon herb chicken disappears before your pasta even makes it to the table."
"Only because you make enough to feed an army."
"I have to. Your family eats like one."
Laughter bounced around the open plan kitchen. Without needing to be asked, you rolled up the sleeves of your linen shirt and moved beside your mom at the island bench. "What do you need?"
She handed you a chopping board. "Everything."
Summer appeared beside you moments later. "And I was voluntold too."
"You looked available," Mrs. Di Laurentis replied sweetly.
"I literally walked into the room."
"Exactly."
The two of you spent the next hour doing whatever needed doing. Chopping vegetables, peeling garlic, washing fruit and the best task of all: taste testing.
"You two are terrible judges," your mom commented after catching Summer sneaking another spoonful of sauce.
Meanwhile, the men had migrated to the outdoor dining area overlooking the ocean, drinks already in hand. You'd heard enough conversations, similar to the one they’re having now, growing up to tune them out entirely.
Every now and then, though, you caught yourself glancing towards the patio. Only to find Dean already looking at you. Each time, he'd casually look away as if he'd been paying attention to whatever his father had just said.
A few minutes later, while you were focused on slicing lemons, movement caught your eye.
Dean had quietly pulled out his phone, but before you could react an audible click resonated from the phone’s speaker.
His thumb hit send before you could stop him.
Dean: when she cooks
Barely three seconds passed.
Tuck: you sure you aren’t in love with her or smn
Logan: bro folded years ago
G: that’s wife behaviour and you’re taking paparazzi pics
Dean snorted.
You lunged for the phone.
He lifted it above his head with insulting ease, smiling down at you while you reached for absolutely nothing.
“Delete it.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
“It’s already been appreciated by the group chat.”
You pointed the wooden spoon at him. “I’m telling your mother.”
Mrs. Di Laurentis looked up from the stove. “Dean.”
His expression turned innocent. “Yes?”
“Behave.”
He slipped the phone into his pocket. “See? Handled.”
You narrowed your eyes. “I’ll remember this.”
Not long after, both mothers finally declared dinner ready.
The dining table had been transformed, with a spread of fresh pasta, roast chicken, grilled vegetables and salads. There was definitely enough food to feed twice the number of people sitting here.
Everyone found their seats naturally, slipping into a routine that hadn't changed in years. Your parents sat together at one end the Di Laurentis parents opposite. Summer dropped into the chair beside you before anyone else could claim it. Nick beside Dean, the latter sitting directly across from you, probably for the best.
Conversation flowed as easily as the wine. Summer barely paused long enough to breathe, jumping from university gossip to beach plans to celebrity scandals she'd become strangely invested in.
Halfway through dinner, you reached for another piece of chicken on your plate. It disappeared and when you looked up, Dean had already taken a bite. "Seriously?"
"What?"
"There is an entire table covered in food."
"Yours looked better." He shrugged. “Plus, you weren’t eating it.”
"I was literally reaching for it."
"I got there first."
You stared at him in disbelief. "You've got issues."
"And yet," he said, stealing a roasted potato from your plate this time, "you keep sitting across from me."
Summer groaned. "Oh my god."
Your mother tried very hard not to laugh and Mrs. Di Laurentis failed entirely.
The next two days slipped by far too quickly. Some things, however, never changed. Namely, Dean's unwavering commitment to making your life as difficult as humanly possible. Three years apart clearly hadn't matured him. Physically, sure. He'd grown broader, taller and somehow even more confident. Mentally? He was still the same menace you'd grown up with.
Not twenty minutes ago, you'd been peacefully curled up on a sun lounge by the pool, completely absorbed in your book, when he'd appeared out of nowhere and cannonballed into the water beside you. The wave he'd created had drenched you from head to toe. Your book, your dress, your hair, everything.
His response? A completely unapologetic, laugh-until-he-couldn't-breathe kind of laugh. You'd chased him halfway around the pool with a rolled-up towel while the rest of the family watched like it was prime-time entertainment.
Christmas crept closer with every passing day, and both villas slowly transformed alongside it. Fairy lights wound around towering palm trees instead of pine. Wreaths adorned white stone walls. Garlands draped elegantly from balconies overlooking the endless stretch of turquoise water, glowing softly once the sun dipped below the horizon.
There was something wonderfully surreal about celebrating Christmas where the air smelled of salt instead of cinnamon, where bare feet replaced boots, and swimsuits replaced woollen sweaters. Yet beneath the excitement lingered a quiet sadness. The holiday suddenly felt painfully short.
After Christmas came New Year's, and after New Year's came packed suitcases. Then flights. Back to New York. Back to your fourth year at NYU. Back to assignments, internships and a calendar that always seemed too full. Although neither family had said it aloud, everyone knew the same thing. No one knew when life would slow down enough for all of you to be together like this again.
"So..." Summer interrupted your thoughts, tossing a box of ornaments onto the outdoor lounge. "Annual decorating committee?"
You smiled. "As always."
It had become an unspoken tradition growing up. Every year your families were together, the three of you decorated the villas while everyone else somehow found reasons to disappear.
Nick had once been part of it too, but he barely looked up from his laptop. "I'm preparing for court," he called from the dining room.
"You've been preparing for court since we got here," Summer shouted back.
"It's called being responsible."
"It's called being boring."
"I'm billing you for emotional damages."
Summer snorted.
With that settled, the three of you got to work. Music drifted through portable speakers balanced on the kitchen windowsill.
Summer untangled fairy lights, dictating there weren’t enough spread around the villa. Dean wrestled with extension cords that seemed determined to knot themselves together. You handled everything else. By late afternoon, almost every corner of the property glowed with Christmas decorations.
Almost.
You stepped back onto the patio and frowned. "The balcony looks empty."
Dean glanced up. "It looks fine."
"It absolutely does not."
"It absolutely does."
"It needs lights."
"It doesn't."
"It does."
Summer looked between you both before wisely deciding not to involve herself. "I'm staying out of whatever this is."
You wandered towards the garage before either of them could stop you. A few moments later, you emerged dragging a folding ladder behind you.
Dean didn't notice. He was still arguing with an extension cord.
You leaned the ladder carefully against the back wall beneath the second storey balcony. One string of warm white lights later and the whole patio would look complete.
The ocean stretched behind you, afternoon sunlight dancing across the water as you reached over the railing to secure the final section. "There."
You smiled to yourself.
Perfect.
Just as you reached to fasten the very last clip—
"What are you doing?" Dean's voice rang out sharply behind you.
You startled completely that your shoulders jerked and your foot slipped, “Oh-” For one suspended second, nothing happened, until gravity won. You instinctively reached for the ladder, but missed. Your stomach lurched as your body tipped backwards.
"Oh my God!" Summer screamed.
You had just enough time to realise there was absolutely nothing beneath you except—
You squeezed your eyes shut as a fat splash resonated through the villa. The water swallowed you whole. Cold crashed into your back like concrete before bubbles surrounded you, pulling every sound away.
For a brief second, everything was quiet. Then movement. Fast as if someone had jumped in after you. Before you'd even broken the surface, strong arms found your waist.
You burst through the water coughing once before laughter escaped you instead. "Oh my God." You wiped water from your face, still laughing. "I actually fell!" Dean was right beside you, one arm still firmly around your waist to keep you afloat. You lightly smacked his shoulder. "Don't sneak up on me like that!"
He didn't laugh, not even a little. His grip tightened. "What the fuck were you thinking?"
Your smile faltered. "Dean?"
"What were you thinking?"
"I was putting up lights."
"By yourself. On a fucking ladder. With no one watching!"
"There was a pool."
"What if there wasn't!?"
The smile slowly disappeared from your face. He wasn’t annoyed or teasing, he was angry.
"What if you'd fallen onto the tiles?" he continued, his jaw clenched. "Or hit your head on the edge?"
His eyes searched yours frantically, as though checking for injuries you hadn't noticed yet. "What if you'd landed on your neck?”
He swallowed hard. "What if..." His voice caught. "You'd cracked your head open?"
Silence settled between you, and you finally understood. He wasn't picturing what had happened, he was picturing everything that could have happened. His arm around you wasn't letting go because he hadn't realised he was still holding you.
You reached up slowly, resting a hand against his forearm. "Dean."
He didn't answer.
"Dean." His eyes finally met yours. "I'm okay."
Nothing.
"You don't need to think about all the 'what ifs.'"
His jaw flexed. "But—"
"They didn't happen." You offered him a small smile. "I fell into a pool."
"I still watched you fall."
The quiet admission hit harder than anything he'd said so far. You softened, "I know."
“You scared the shit out of me.”
The words landed hard. For once, nobody had anything to say. Even Summer went quiet above you, her usual commentary dying before it reached her tongue. You stared at him, water dripping from your lashes, your laughter completely gone now. Dean wasn’t trying to be funny. He wasn’t annoyed. He was scared. And somehow that unsettled you more than the fall itself.
You softened, your hand resting lightly against his forearm. “I’m sorry.”
His grip loosened slightly, but he still didn’t let go.
“I’m fine,” you said gently. “I promise.”
He looked at you for a long second before finally exhaling. “I’m still hiding that ladder.”
You laughed quietly. "I figured."
"And next time-"
"There won't be a next time."
"You don't do anything involving heights without one of us."
"Yes, Sir."
Something flashed in his eyes, you excused it for the worry he felt.
Summer finally leaned over the edge of the pool, hands on her knees. "Can I speak now?"
The two of you looked up.
She pointed dramatically at the water. "You two have been floating there having an emotional breakthrough while I'm still recovering from the heart attack you both gave me."
Despite himself, Dean let out a reluctant laugh and the tension broke.
The Di Laurentis family had wandered back to their own villa shortly after dinner, promising they'd see everyone in the morning before disappearing down the stone pathway that connected the neighbouring properties.
The house suddenly felt... quiet. Your parents had retired upstairs not long ago, the distant murmur of their voices fading as another door clicked shut. You, on the other hand, were nowhere near tired. You lay sprawled across your bed, staring lazily at the ceiling fan turning overhead. Your brain had simply decided now was the perfect time to replay every interaction you'd had with Dean since arriving.
His stupid grin. The photo he'd secretly taken. The way he'd looked genuinely terrified when you'd fallen into the pool. You rolled onto your side with a groan. "Get a grip."
There was no chance you were sleeping anytime soon, so, an idea popped into your head. The centre of St. Barts would still be buzzing. The restaurants, the little jazz bars tucked between boutiques, the waterfront cafés that stayed open well past midnight. Summer would absolutely be awake.
She'd happily spend three hours talking your ear off over overpriced mocktails while pretending to enjoy live jazz she secretly knew nothing about. You reached for your phone on the bedside table. You met a black screen.
"Seriously?" you pressed the power button. Nothing. A frown settled on your face as you followed the charging cable to the wall. The switch beside the outlet had been flicked off. You sighed dramatically before flicking it back on. There went calling Summer, but then again, who needed a phone when your best friend’s house was literally next door? The connected pathway between the two villas meant you could be there in less than a minute.
You wandered into your walk in wardrobe, scanning the rows of dresses before settling on one of your favourites. The halter neck dress flowed effortlessly to your knees, the fabric fading from warm sunset orange into soft golden yellow, light enough that it danced with every breeze. You slipped into a pair of sandals, quickly brushed your hair, then padded downstairs and out onto the stone pathway illuminated by warm garden lights.
The Caribbean night wrapped around you instantly. The air was warm despite the late hour, carrying the scent of saltwater and blooming jasmine. The Di Laurentis villa glowed softly through the palm trees ahead.
Most of the downstairs lights had already been switched off and only one upstairs room remained lit, Summer's room. Rather than walking all the way around to the front entrance, you followed the old route the two of you had used since you were kids.
The stone retaining wall, hooking onto the narrow ledge onto the balcony. You'd lost count of how many times you'd climbed up here over the years. Balancing carefully, you hoisted yourself onto the balcony and brushed imaginary dust from your dress.
Voices drifted through the closed glass doors, meaning she was definitely awake. You knocked twice against the glass, but nothing came of it. You knocked again, then finally, the curtains shifted.
Your brain stopped working as Dean stood there, behind the glass door, shirtless. Once he’d noticed it was you, the sliding door rolled open. Fresh from what looked like a shower, his dark hair still damp, loose grey sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips. You very deliberately did not let your eyes wander.
But you’re just a girl and they wandered anyway."Oh."
Brilliant. Fantastic first word.
Dean's eyebrows lifted. "Hi?"
You blinked rapidly, forcing your attention back to his face. "I thought this was Summer's room."
"It used to be." He stepped aside slightly. "We swapped years ago."
"Right." Of course you hadn't known that.
There was a brief pause. Then his expression changed completely, concern replacing it almost instantly. "Everything okay?"
You frowned. "What?"
"Your head." His eyes flicked across your face. "Does it still hurt from earlier?"
It took you a second to realise he was talking about your spectacular drop into the swimming pool. "Oh." You smiled reassuringly. "No, I'm fine."
"You sure?"
"Dean."
"I'm serious."
"So am I." You tapped your forehead. "Hard as concrete."
"I noticed."
You narrowed your eyes. "Rude."
He smiled, finally relaxing. "So..." He leaned casually against the doorframe, you couldn’t help but watch as his muscles shifted, mouth growing dry. "What're you doing climbing onto my balcony at midnight?"
"I couldn't sleep."
"So naturally your solution was breaking and entering."
You rolled your eyes. "I wanted to see if Summer wanted to head into town."
He tilted his head. "Now?"
"Mhm. The jazz bars are probably still open."
"You like jazz?"
"Three years can do wonders, Dean." You teased.
Dean laughed. "Fair enough." He finally took a proper look at you. Until now he'd been too busy making sure you weren't concussed, but now, his words caught in his throat.
The soft colours of your dress glowed beneath the balcony lights, your hair moving gently with the sea breeze. For one dangerously long second he forgot what conversation you were having. "You're wearing that?"
You placed both hands on your hips. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing." He cleared his throat. "I just..." His eyes drifted toward the ocean. "It gets cooler near the waterfront."
You looked pointedly around. "It's still warm."
"You'll still get cold later in the night. Trust."
You laughed. "I'll steal something from Summer's wardrobe then. Where is she anyways?"
"Sleeping." However, somewhere inside the villa, a muffled laugh echoed faintly. Dean ignored it, but you didn't seem to notice.
"Oh." You looked genuinely disappointed. "I'll just leave then." You turned slightly, already preparing to climb back down.
"You know..." His voice stopped you. "I could come."
You looked back.
"Unless my presence is that unbearable."
A smile tugged at your lips. "I don't know." You pretended to consider it. "You can be pretty insufferable."
"I've been told."
"But." You shrugged. "I suppose having a six foot two hockey player walking around with me isn't the worst idea."
"I knew you liked having me around."
"Don't push it."
You started turning back towards your own villa. "I'll just grab a sweater."
"Nah." He disappeared into his room before you could question him. A few seconds later he returned carrying a cream cable knit cardigan. Without warning, he tossed it towards you and you caught it against your chest. "Wear that."
"Dean, I have plenty of sweaters."
"I know, but this one’s closer than walking back to yours."
You looked down at it. It was enormous. The sleeves alone looked long enough to swallow your hands. "You realise I'm going to drown in this."
"It'll build character."
Rolling your eyes, you slipped your arms through the sleeves. The cardigan hung loosely over your dress, almost reaching your thighs. It was absurdly oversized, but it also happened to match your outfit surprisingly well. You folded the sleeves back twice before looking up. "Happy?"
Dean forgot how to answer. The oversized knit, the warm colours of your dress peeking beneath it, the breeze catching strands of your hair. He'd never seen anything quite so unfair. "Yeah." His voice came out quieter than intended. "Looks good."
You smiled. "Thank you."
He looked away before you noticed he was still staring. "Come on." He cleared his throat. "The town won't walk to us."
Together, the two of you climbed down from the balcony and headed towards the beach, neither of you noticing the curtains in Summer's room shift ever so slightly before quickly closing again.
The beach was almost deserted. Moonlight shimmered across the gentle waves, turning the ocean into a sheet of silver that stretched endlessly toward the horizon. The tide rolled in lazily, foaming around your ankles before retreating again. After a few minutes, you kicked off your sandals.
Dean watched you hook your sandals over two fingers before stepping barefoot into the cool sand. "Better?"
You sighed contentedly as another wave rolled over your feet. "Way better."
He shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "You lasted, what... five minutes?"
"They were cute sandals."
"Were?"
"They've officially been demoted."
The conversation faded after that, replaced by the rhythmic crash of waves against the shore. Neither of you felt any pressure to fill the silence. After nineteen years of friendship, quiet moments had become just as comfortable as conversations.
After a while, you glanced sideways at him. "So... how's hockey?"
His face lit up almost instantly. His shoulders relaxed and his smile became effortless. You hadn't realised how much you'd missed seeing that look.
"It's been really good," he admitted. "We had a great season."
"I remember."
"You do?"
"You drunk called me, remember?"
Dean groaned loud enough for the ocean to hear. "Oh my God, are you ever going to let me live that down?"
"Absolutely not."
He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck, laughing to himself. A comfortable silence settled between you again before he spoke. "I started helping coach a primary school hockey team this semester."
Your eyebrows lifted. "Seriously?"
He nodded. "They're absolute disasters, but they’re honestly the best part of my week." He looked ahead as he spoke, his voice growing more animated with every story. "There was this little bloke who spent nearly a month trying to learn how to stop properly. Every lesson he'd either spin around or end up flat on his ass."
"And did he finally get it?"
"He did." Dean laughed to himself.
Ahead, faint laughter carried across the beach. A group of children, no older than twelve, stood barefoot in a loose circle, kicking a football between themselves without letting it touch the sand. One of them spotted you immediately.
"Pretty lady!"
Every head turned and you froze. A little boy sprinted towards you. "Will you play with us?"
You looked back at Dean and he simply shrugged. "Looks like you've been recruited."
The children were already pulling you towards their circle before you could answer. "Oh, okay," you laughed. "I'm coming."
Within seconds you were attempting to keep the ball in the air. Key word, attempting. The ball bounced off your knee before dropping straight into the sand. The kids erupted into dramatic groans.
"I'm sorry!"
"You have to do better than that, miss!"
"I've been set up to fail."
One of the girls giggled before demonstrating the proper technique. "There!"
"Like this?"
"No!" More laughter.
Dean stayed where he was for a while, watching. He'd spent months coaching children and he knew how long it usually took them to warm up around strangers. Yet somehow, you'd become part of their game within minutes. You laughed every time you messed up. Celebrated whenever one of them managed an impressive kick. High fived the youngest boy after he'd kept the ball in the air three times in a row. You never once tried to make yourself the centre of attention. You simply made everyone around you feel included. Dean found himself smiling without realising it.
"You!" One of the boys suddenly pointed at him. "Come play!"
Dean blinked. "Me?"
"Yes!"
You looked over your shoulder. "Dean!"
He didn't answer, too busy watching you.
"Dean!"
"Huh?"
You laughed. "Earth to Dean."
The children started chanting his name until he reluctantly wandered over.
"I'm warning you," he said. "I'm terrible at soccer."
"You play hockey."
"Different feet."
You rolled your eyes before reaching for his hand, and without thinking, your fingers slipped between his. “Come on.”
Dean's entire train of thought derailed. He'd held your hand before, hundreds of times. You'd fallen asleep leaning against him more than once growing up. So why did this feel any different? Your hand was warm, comfortable and natural. Yet his pulse had somehow doubled.
For the next half hour, the two of you stumbled through the game together. You laughed whenever Dean accidentally kicked the ball into the ocean. The children declared him "the worst player ever." He took the title surprisingly well.
Eventually, the youngest girl wrapped her arms around your waist. "Will you come play again tomorrow?"
You smiled. "If we're around."
"You promise?"
"I promise."
One by one they hugged you goodbye before waving enthusiastically as they disappeared further down the beach. You watched until they were out of sight.
"They loved you."
You looked sideways at Dean. "They loved you too."
As you continued walking towards the lights of the town, your fingers brushed against his again. Neither of you reached for the other's hand this time. But neither of you moved away, either.
The lights of Gustavia slowly came into view, glowing like scattered lanterns against the shoreline. Music drifted through the warm night air. Somewhere nearby, someone laughed loudly enough to echo down the street. Restaurants overflowed onto the footpaths, couples lingered outside little cafés, and tiny boutiques remained open long past what should've been closing time.
The two of you wandered without much direction, ducking into little souvenir shops, stopping to watch a street musician perform outside a wine bar and sharing a paper cone of hot cinnamon coated churros from a vendor who insisted they were "the best on the island." They probably weren't, but at one in the morning, they tasted incredible.
You nudged Dean with your elbow."You know..."
"Hm?"
"I've seen your Instagram."
He glanced over with a grin. "You stalk me? I’m flattered."
"I happened to be online when you posted."
"How convenient."
"It was." You looked at him knowingly. "I've seen the girl."
His smile faltered. "Girl?"
You stopped walking, hands on your hips. "You know exactly what I mean."
He scratched the back of his neck. "Which one?"
Your jaw dropped. "What do you mean, which one?"
His silence answered everything.
"Oh my God." You laughed, shaking your head. "Don't tell me there've been so many you genuinely don't know who I'm talking about."
"It sounds worse than it is."
"It sounds exactly like what it is."
He sighed. "I wasn't looking for anything serious."
"So Briar really has turned you into one of those hockey boys."
"I was one before Briar."
"Disappointing."
"I thought you'd be proud."
"I'm reconsidering our friendship."
He clutched his chest dramatically. "Ouch."
You smiled despite yourself as you continued walking. After a moment, curiosity got the better of you. "So... is there anyone now?"
His smile faded. "Yeah."
The answer caught you off guard, and your heart clenched painfully. "Oh."
He slipped his hands into his pockets. "I don't think she knows."
Your brows knitted together. "She has no idea?"
He shook his head. "I don't think she's ever looked at me that way."
"Well," you said, looking over at him, "she's blind."
He laughed quietly. "You don't even know who she is."
"I don't need to." You shrugged. "I've known you almost twenty years."
"And?"
"You're funny."
"I am."
"You weren't supposed to agree."
"I'm also incredibly humble."
You rolled your eyes. "You're kind."
His teasing smile softened.
"You care about people."
He looked at you without saying anything.
"You always have."
The sounds of the town faded into the background. "You'll tell her eventually?" you asked.
"Maybe."
"You should."
"What if it ruins everything?"
You thought about it for a moment. "If someone matters enough that you're scared of losing them..." You offered him a small smile. "They're probably worth the risk."
Dean held your gaze for a long second before smiling to himself. "Yeah."
You bumped his shoulder. "See? Problem solved."
"If only it were that easy."
You laughed, turning your attention back to the lights of the harbour. You never noticed the way Dean watched you walk beside him. Or that he hadn't been talking about anyone else.
By the time you left the town, the streets had grown quieter. The walk back felt easier somehow. Conversation drifted from childhood memories to university stories, from embarrassing family holidays to arguments over whether pineapple belonged on pizza. Dean insisted it did. You threatened to walk home alone. He apologised immediately.
The moon sat high overhead by the time the villas came back into view. Neither of you seemed particularly eager for the night to end. Eventually, you stopped outside your front door.
"I had fun tonight," you admitted.
Dean folded his arms."That's usually the effect I have on people."
You laughed. "No, seriously."You smiled at him. "Thank you."
"For?"
"For coming with me."
His expression softened. "I would've regretted letting you wander around by yourself."
"You really thought I'd get kidnapped?"
"I thought you'd somehow convince strangers to adopt you."
"That's... surprisingly possible."
"I know."
You looked at him for a moment. Longer than either of you expected. Then, before you could overthink it, you stepped forward and wrapped your arms around him. Dean froze. Not because the hug itself was unusual. The two of you had hugged countless times over the years, but something about this one felt different. Maybe it was because there was no audience. Maybe because you were no longer awkward teenagers. Maybe because your cheek rested against his chest just long enough for him to hear you sigh.
Slowly, his arms came around you. One settled against the small of your back. The other cradled the back of your head with practiced gentleness, his fingers slipping into your hair almost absentmindedly.
He rested his chin lightly against your temple. "Sleep well," he murmured. Then, quietly, he said your name.
Your heart skipped. When you finally stepped back, the oversized cardigan slipped from one shoulder. "Oh." You laughed softly. "I almost forgot."
Your fingers reached for the hem."I should give this back."
Dean caught your wrist before you'd managed to take it off. His touch was light. "Keep it."
You blinked. "But you'll need it."
"I've got plenty."
"Dean—"
"I'll get it back before we leave." His smile returned. "Eventually."
You studied him for another second before giving in. He started walking backwards toward the pathway connecting the villas. "Night."
"Night."
You watched until he disappeared into the darkness between the palm trees. Only then did you unlock your front door. Inside, the house was quiet. You slipped off your sandals, climbed the stairs, and wandered into your bedroom without switching on the lights. Moonlight spilled across the floor, silver and soft, catching on the hem of Dean’s cardigan where it hung loose around your thighs.
You reached to take it off. Then stopped. The fabric smelled like him, cedarwood, sea salt from the walk and that new cologne you still were’t used too. You should have folded it over the chair. You should have changed into pyjamas. You should have gone to sleep and blamed the strange warmth in your chest on the island air. Instead, you pulled the cardigan tighter around yourself and looked at your reflection in the mirror.
You climbed into bed, still wearing his cardigan. This was supposed to be simple. A holiday, with old friends, familiar families and a warm beach with a few weeks away from New York. So why did one walk with Dean feel like the beginning of something you couldn’t undo?
blurb: after a drunken confession gets misunderstood, tucker spends the next morning thinking he lost his chance before realizing you meant him all along.
warnings: 18+ mdni, fluff, drinking/intoxicated confession, misunderstanding, jealousy, lowkey possessive Tucker, explicit sexual content, oral sex, protected sex, praise, teasing, slight public-risk element because the boys are downstairs, language.
꒰১Taglist໒꒱ @littlemissclairebiggs
The problem with being drunk was that you had never been very good at lying when you were sober.
A few drinks only made it worse.
By the time the party had spilled from the living room into the kitchen and halfway down the hall, you were warm all over, curled into one corner of the couch with your legs tucked underneath you, laughing at something Dean had said that probably wasn’t as funny as he thought it was. He knew it, too. That was the problem with Dean. He didn’t need anyone to laugh at his jokes. He already found himself entertaining enough.
Hannah was beside you, shoulder bumping yours, her cheeks pink from the heat in the room. Allie stood near the arm of the couch with a red cup in her hand, watching Dean argue with Garrett over which one of them had worse taste in music.
“You can’t insult my playlist when you listen to old man rock during workouts,” Garrett said.
Dean looked offended. “Old man rock?”
“Your entire Spotify sounds like someone’s divorced uncle buying a motorcycle.”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Dean pointed at you like he had just won something.
“See? She gets it.”
“I’m not getting involved,” you said, even as you kept smiling.
“You already did.” Dean dropped onto the coffee table in front of you, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. His attention shifting onto you was always dangerous. Dean with a target was impossible. “Actually, since you’re feeling honest tonight.”
“No.”
“I didn’t even ask yet.”
“That’s why I’m saying no early.”
Allie grinned. “Smart girl.”
Dean ignored her. “Out of everyone in this house, who would you hook up with?”
Garrett groaned from the kitchen doorway. “Don’t start.”
“I’m curious.”
“You’re nosy,” Hannah corrected.
“I contain multitudes.”
You pressed your cup to your mouth to hide your smile, but that only made Dean’s eyes narrow with interest. He knew weakness when he saw it. Worse, he could smell embarrassment from across a room.
“Oh, you have an answer.”
“I do not.”
“You absolutely do.” He leaned closer. “Look at her face.”
“My face is normal.”
“Your face is guilty.”
“It is not.”
“It’s very guilty,” Allie said, not helping at all.
You gave her a betrayed look. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am. I just also want to know.”
From the kitchen, Tucker moved quietly around the counter, gathering empty bottles and tossing them into a trash bag because, of course, he was cleaning during a party he didn’t even throw alone. That was Tucker. He did things without announcing them, without waiting for praise. He remembered who liked what, who needed water, who had left their jacket upstairs, who needed to be walked home before they got too drunk to text properly.
He was wearing a faded Briar T-shirt and jeans, hair a little mussed, mouth tipped in that quiet half smile he got when everyone else was being ridiculous. He looked over when your laughter rose, and for one second, his eyes caught yours.
Your stomach flipped, and you looked away too fast, fast enough that Dean noticed it, too.
“Oh,” he said.
You pointed at him. “No.”
“Oh, this is good.”
“Dean.”
“You looked at someone.”
“I looked at the room. That’s how eyes work.”
Garrett appeared behind him, instantly interested now that someone else was suffering. “Who did she look at?”
“No one,” you said.
Dean’s grin widened. “She has a crush.”
“I have patience,” you said. “And you’re testing it.”
That only made them laugh. Your face felt hot. The room felt even hotter, or maybe that was the alcohol, or maybe it was the fact that Tucker was still in the kitchen, close enough to hear pieces if he wanted to.
The worst part was that you did have a crush.
A soft, stupid, inconvenient crush on John Tucker that had started slowly and then gotten completely out of hand before you knew what to do with it. It was the way he listened. The way he made space for people without making them feel like a burden. The way he looked at you sometimes, like he was catching details no one else cared enough to notice.
The way he called you sweetheart in that warm voice and ruined your ability to think like a normal person.
Dean tapped your knee with two fingers. “Come on. We’ll be mature.”
Garrett snorted.
“We will not tell a soul,” Dean added.
“You’re literally asking in a living room full of people.”
“Fine. We’ll only tell a few souls.”
You should have kept your mouth shut. You really should have. But you were tipsy, and warm, and tired of pretending you didn’t glance toward the kitchen every time Tucker moved.
So you sank lower into the couch, smiled into your cup, and said, “John. Obviously.”
The reaction was immediate.
Dean sat up straight. Garrett made a noise like someone had handed him a gift. Allie’s brows shot up. Hannah blinked, then turned toward the kitchen, then back to you like she was putting something together too late.
And from somewhere near the hall, Logan looked over.
“Me?” he asked.
Your smile faltered.
Dean burst out laughing. “Logan?”
Garrett pointed at him. “Did not see that coming.”
Logan looked delighted and confused at the same time. “I mean, I’m flattered.”
You stared at him, trying to make the room slow down enough for your brain to catch up. “What?”
“You said John,” Dean said, like this explained everything.
“There are two Johns,” Hannah said carefully.
Dean waved that off. “Yeah, but nobody calls Tucker John.”
Your eyes shot to the kitchen.
Tucker had gone still with a bottle in his hand. Not dramatically. He didn’t freeze in the middle of the room or make some big scene. His posture barely changed, but you saw it because you were always looking at him more than you should have been. His shoulders set a little tighter. His mouth softened out of its smile.
Then he dropped the bottle into the trash bag and looked away.
Your stomach twisted.
“No,” you said, but it came out too soft under all the noise.
Logan raised both hands, grinning. “Hey, I’m not complaining.”
“You should be,” Garrett said. “This is the first time anyone’s ever chosen you while drunk and meant it.”
“Rude.”
Dean leaned back, laughing. “Well, this changes everything.”
“It changes nothing,” you said.
“Sounds like something a woman with a Logan crush would say.”
“I don’t have a Logan crush.”
Logan placed a hand over his chest. “Now that hurt.”
The room kept moving around you, loud and amused, everyone turning the moment into a joke before you could untangle it. You looked toward Tucker again, but he was already turning toward the fridge, pulling out a water bottle.
A minute later, he crossed the living room and handed it to you.
“Here,” he said.
Your fingers brushed his.
Even tipsy, even embarrassed, you could tell he was pulling himself back from you. Tucker was still being kind. Still careful. But there was distance in his expression now, a quietness that hadn’t been there before.
You held the bottle with both hands. “You’re mad at me.”
His gaze flicked over your face. “No, sweetheart.”
“You are.”
“I’m not mad.” His voice stayed gentle, which somehow made it worse. “Drink some water for me, all right?”
For me.
You wanted to grab onto the words and make them mean what you wanted. Instead, you twisted the cap off and took a sip.
Dean was still laughing with Garrett. Logan was still pretending to be smug. No one else noticed the way Tucker’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.
You noticed.
Of course you noticed.
Later, when the party thinned and the floor felt a little less steady beneath your feet, Tucker was the one who found your jacket. He was the one who tugged it around your shoulders when you kept missing the sleeve. He was the one who crouched in front of you by the entryway, holding your shoe steady so you could slip your foot inside without tipping over.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you mumbled.
“I know.”
“You always do that.”
His hands paused at the laces. “Do what?”
“Take care of everybody.”
He tied the knot, then sat back on his heels and looked up at you. His face was softer from that angle, the party lights warm on his skin.
“Somebody’s gotta do it.”
You wanted to tell him that wasn’t why he did it. You wanted to tell him he took care of people because it was built into him, quiet and stubborn and good. You wanted to tell him you said John because you meant the one in front of you.
Instead, you touched his shoulder lightly and said, “I said John.”
Something shifted in his face.
“I know,” he said.
But he didn’t know. Not really.
And before you could make your mouth explain it properly, Hannah came over with your bag, and Tucker stood, and the moment slipped away into the cold night air.
He walked you home because he insisted, keeping his hands to himself except when you stumbled on the curb and he caught your elbow.
At your door, you looked up at him, still fuzzy and frustrated and aching with something you didn’t know how to name.
“Tuck.”
His eyes moved over your face.
“Get some sleep,” he said softly. “We’ll talk when you’re sober.”
Then he waited until you were inside before he left.
By morning, you had a headache, a dry mouth, and a terrible feeling that something had gone very wrong.
The Advil on your nightstand helped with the first two.
The third got worse when you checked your phone and found a text from Hannah.
hannah: before you panic, you didn’t do anything bad
hannah: but you may need to clarify something
you: oh god
hannah: yeah
You stared at the screen for a full minute, slowly remembering flashes of the night before. Dean being nosy. Allie laughing. Logan looking over.
John.
Obviously.
Your eyes closed.
“Oh no.”
By the time you made it back to the hockey house later that afternoon, your stomach was tied in knots. You had planned to talk to Tucker privately. That was the mature thing. The adult thing. The thing you were absolutely going to do as soon as you stopped wanting to walk into traffic.
Unfortunately, Dean opened the door.
His grin started before he even said hello.
“Well, well, well.”
“Don’t.”
He stepped aside to let you in. “Our girl returns.”
“I’m not your girl.”
“Logan’s girl, apparently.”
You stopped in the entryway. “I am going to kill everyone in this house.”
From the living room, Logan called, “Not me, I’m the victim.”
“You are not the victim.”
He appeared over the back of the couch, all lazy grin and bright eyes. “I had a beautiful woman confess her feelings and then immediately take it back. I’m wounded.”
“I didn’t confess my feelings to you.”
Garrett walked in from the kitchen with a bowl of cereal. “That’s not what we heard.”
You looked around, heat crawling up your neck. “Where’s Tucker?”
The room went a little too quiet.
That was when you realized he was standing at the far end of the hall, one hand on the laundry room door, his gaze fixed on you.
He had heard you.
Of course he had.
Dean, sensing blood in the water, leaned against the wall. “Why do you need Tucker? Thought you were here for your man John.”
“I was,” you snapped, then immediately wanted to disappear.
Logan’s grin dropped into open delight. Garrett choked on his cereal.
Tucker did not move.
Dean blinked. “Wait.”
You pressed your hands over your face. “I meant Tucker.”
Silence.
Then Logan said, “I’m sorry, what?”
“I meant Tucker,” you repeated, quieter this time, but clear enough that no one missed it. “Last night. When I said John. I meant John Tucker.”
Garrett started laughing first. Dean followed a second later, so loud and delighted you wanted to throw something at his head. Logan looked between you and Tucker, offended in the most dramatic way possible.
“So I was collateral damage?” Logan asked.
“Yes,” you said.
Dean clapped a hand over his mouth like he was trying and failing to control himself. “The wrong John got the ego boost.”
You wished the floor would open up and swallow you whole.
Tucker still hadn’t said anything.
His expression was unreadable in that quiet Tucker way, but his eyes were locked on you now. Not distant like last night. Not hurt. Careful, maybe. Like he was trying to decide whether he could believe what he had just heard.
The laughter around you faded into a dull buzz.
Then Tucker nodded once toward the hall.
“Come here a second?”
Your heart climbed into your throat.
Dean made a low, obnoxious sound, and Garrett slapped his arm.
“Shut up,” Garrett said, still smiling.
You walked past them without looking back.
Tucker led you down the hall, not touching you, and stopped just outside his room. The door was open behind him. You could see the navy comforter on his bed, a folded hoodie on the desk chair, a pair of sneakers lined neatly near the closet. Everything about it was so Tucker that your chest hurt.
He turned to face you, and for a moment, neither of you spoke.
Then you said, “I’m sorry.”
His brows pulled together. “What are you sorry for?”
“For last night. For making it weird.”
“You didn’t make it weird.”
“Tucker.”
“All right,” he said, mouth twitching faintly. “Maybe a little weird.”
Despite yourself, you laughed. It came out nervous.
“I wasn’t trying to embarrass you,” you said. “I thought it was obvious.”
“That you meant Logan?”
Your eyes widened. “No.”
“Because it sounded pretty obvious to everyone else.”
“That’s because everyone else is stupid.”
His smile showed for half a second, then faded into something softer. “You said John.”
“Your name is John.”
“Nobody calls me John.”
“I know.” You rubbed your palms against your jeans, hating how shy you suddenly felt. “That’s why I thought it would be obvious.”
Tucker stared at you.
Then he huffed a quiet laugh and looked down, shaking his head. “You’ve had a crush on me long enough to start using my government name?”
Your face went hot. “Don’t say it like that.”
“How should I say it?”
“You shouldn’t.”
He stepped a little closer, not enough to crowd you, just enough that you noticed. You noticed everything when it came to him.
“Were you serious?” he asked.
The teasing was gone now.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His gaze searched yours. “You were pretty drunk.”
“I was tipsy.”
“You were drunk enough that Dean almost made sense.”
“That is not fair.”
“It’s a little fair.”
You smiled, but Tucker didn’t. Not really. His eyes stayed steady on your face, gentle and cautious in a way that made your heart squeeze.
“I’m not gonna do anything because of something you said last night,” he said. “Not unless I know you mean it now.”
Your breath caught.
Sweet, decent Tucker, making sure there was solid ground beneath both of you before he took a single step.
You looked at him and felt every bit of your embarrassment settle into something warmer.
“I mean it,” you said.
His jaw flexed.
“You sure?”
“I’m sober. I’m humiliated, but I’m sober.”
That got you another almost-smile.
“And you meant me?” he asked.
You tried to roll your eyes, but your voice came out softer than you wanted. “I said John.”
“There are two of us, sweetheart.”
“Yeah.” You held his gaze. “But there’s only one I wanted.”
The air between you changed.
It wasn’t loud or sudden. There was no dramatic shift, no big movement. Tucker just went very still, and for the first time since you had known him, you saw the restraint in him crack.
He stepped closer.
Not touching yet. Not quite.
“How long?” he asked.
You blinked. “What?”
“How long have you wanted me?”
You looked past him into his room, then back at his face. “A while.”
His eyes dipped to your mouth.
“I’ve been trying to be decent about it,” he said. “Thought I was doing a pretty good job until last night.”
“What happened last night?”
His mouth tilted, but there was still something bruised underneath it. “I had to listen to you say his name and pretend it didn’t bother me.”
You shook your head. “I said yours.”
Tucker’s hand lifted slowly, giving you time to move away. You didn’t. His fingers touched your jaw, warm and careful, his thumb brushing just beneath your cheek.
“Say it again.”
Your breath came in a little unsteady. “I meant you.”
His eyes held yours.
“Good,” he murmured.
Then he kissed you.
The first kiss was soft. Almost too soft. His mouth moved over yours like he was still asking, like he was giving you every chance to decide this wasn’t what you wanted after all.
You answered by fisting your hand in his shirt and pulling him closer.
The second kiss broke whatever careful thing he had been holding onto.
Tucker made a low sound against your mouth, one hand sliding to your waist as he stepped into you. Your back touched the doorframe. His body was warm and solid in front of yours, and the shock of finally having him this close went straight through you.
He kissed like he did everything else, steady until he wasn’t. Patient until he had a reason not to be. His hand held your waist, thumb pressing lightly through the fabric of your shirt, while the other tilted your face up for him.
When his mouth left yours, it only went as far as your cheek, then your jaw, then the sensitive place just below your ear.
“Tuck,” you breathed.
He paused.
The sound of his name seemed to do something to him. His fingers tightened at your waist, and his breath brushed hot against your skin.
“One more time,” he said.
You closed your eyes. “Tucker.”
He kissed your neck, slower now, open-mouthed and warm. Your knees weakened, and he noticed, of course he noticed, because his arm slid more firmly around you.
Behind you, the living room erupted in laughter over something completely unrelated, muffled by the hallway and the blood rushing in your ears.
Tucker lifted his head. His eyes had darkened, but his voice stayed low. “You want to stop?”
“No.”
“You want to go in?”
You nodded, then remembered he needed words. “Yes.”
His gaze softened for one brief second.
Then he reached past you, pushed his bedroom door open wider, and walked you backward inside.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The sound was small, but it made your stomach tighten.
Tucker turned the lock, then faced you again. For a second, he just looked at you, like he was memorizing the sight of you standing in his room with kiss-swollen lips and nervous hands.
Then his eyes dropped to your mouth.
For a moment, he did not say anything. He just stood there with his hand still near the lock, jaw tight, chest rising a little too slow, like he was trying to decide how much restraint he had left.
Then he crossed the room.
You barely had time to breathe before his hands were on your waist and his mouth was on yours.
The kiss was not soft this time. It was deep, certain, his fingers pressing into your sides as he walked you backward toward the bed. You went with him, hands catching at his shoulders, your stomach flipping at the difference in him.
Tucker was always careful. Always steady.
Now he was steady in a way that felt dangerous.
Your legs hit the edge of the mattress, and he pulled back just enough to look at you.
“You meant me,” he said.
It was not really a question.
You swallowed. “Yes.”
His eyes moved over your face, then down to your mouth again.
“Good.”
Then he kissed you again.
His hands slid beneath your shirt, warm palms dragging up your bare skin. You shivered, and he noticed, but he did not stop to ask if you were cold. His mouth stayed on yours while his fingers curled into the hem.
“Arms up,” he murmured.
You obeyed before you could think better of it.
He pulled your shirt over your head in one smooth motion and tossed it aside. His eyes dropped to your chest, still covered by your bra, and the way he looked at you made your face warm.
Not because he looked shocked.
Because he looked focused.
Like every second of holding back had led him here.
“Tucker,” you whispered.
His gaze came back to yours. “Don’t get shy on me now.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.” His thumb brushed over your ribs, just beneath the band of your bra. “But you don’t have to be.”
He reached behind you and unclasped it. The straps slipped down your arms, and he pulled it away slowly, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
You were bare from the waist up now, standing in front of him in only your jeans, and Tucker went quiet again.
“You’re staring,” you said, but your voice came out weaker than you wanted.
“I know.”
Your breath caught.
His mouth came back to your neck, then lower, open and warm over your collarbone. His hands held your waist as he kissed down your chest, taking his time with you in a way that made your knees feel unreliable.
You gripped his shoulders.
He smiled against your skin. “You wanted me quiet and sweet?”
“No.”
His mouth brushed over your breast, and your answer broke into a gasp.
“No?” he repeated.
You shook your head, fingers tightening in his shirt. “No.”
“Good.” He lifted his head. “Because I’m not feeling very sweet right now.”
The words sent heat straight through you.
You reached for his shirt, impatient now, tugging at the fabric. Tucker let you pull it up, then took over when your hands got clumsy. His shirt came off and landed somewhere near yours.
For one second, you forgot how to move.
He was all warm skin and hard muscle beneath your hands, his stomach tightening when your fingers dragged down the center of his chest. You had seen him shirtless before. Everyone had. But not like this. Not with his mouth still swollen from kissing you and his eyes fixed on yours like he wanted to watch you realize exactly what you had asked for.
Your hands went to his belt.
He caught your wrist before you could open it.
“Not yet.”
Your pulse jumped.
He sat you down on the edge of the bed, then dropped to his knees in front of you. His hands moved to the button of your jeans.
He opened them, dragged the zipper down, and pulled the denim over your hips. You lifted yourself enough to help, and he slid them down your legs. He pulled off one shoe, then the other, then removed your jeans completely and dropped them beside the bed.
You were left in your underwear.
Tucker’s hands settled on your knees.
He spread them apart slowly.
Your stomach tightened at the look on his face.
“There,” he said, voice low. “That’s better.”
Your fingers twisted in the comforter. “You’re being very smug.”
His hand slid up your thigh, his thumb pressing into the soft skin there.
“I spent too long pretending I didn’t want this,” he said. “I’m not pretending anymore.”
You reached for him, but he pushed your hand gently back to the mattress.
“Tuck.”
His eyes lifted.
“Say it again.”
You knew what he meant.
“Tucker.”
The tension in his face shifted into something darker.
He leaned in and kissed the inside of your thigh.
“Again.”
“Tucker.”
His mouth moved higher.
You sucked in a breath when his fingers hooked into your underwear.
He pulled them down slowly, eyes on yours until they passed your knees. Then he took them off completely and tossed them onto the floor with the rest of your clothes.
Now you were naked on the edge of his bed, and he was still kneeling in front of you in only his jeans.
The imbalance of it made your whole body burn.
Tucker noticed.
Of course he did.
His hands slid up your thighs, firm and warm, spreading you open again when your legs tried to close.
“Don’t hide.”
The words were quiet, but there was no uncertainty in them.
You let your knees fall apart.
His eyes dropped.
A rough breath left him.
Then he leaned in and put his mouth on you.
Your back arched instantly, one hand flying to his hair, the other gripping the sheets. Tucker’s hands locked around your thighs, holding you open as he licked into you with none of the hesitation he’d shown at the door. He was still controlled, still Tucker, but this was a different kind of control. The kind that let him take his time because he knew exactly what he was doing.
“Tucker,” you gasped.
He hummed against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.
His fingers dug into your thighs, keeping you where he wanted you.
“That’s it,” he murmured, mouth brushing against you. “That’s what I want to hear.”
You barely had time to process the words before his mouth returned.
He figured you out fast. What made your legs tremble, what stole your breath, what had you clutching his hair and murmuring his name like nothing else mattered.
When you tried to muffle yourself with your hand, he stopped just long enough to reach up and pull it away.
“No.”
You blinked down at him, dizzy. “They’ll hear.”
His thumb stroked over your wrist once before he pinned your hand gently to the mattress.
“Then they’ll know.”
Your body reacted before you could stop it, clenching around nothing, and Tucker saw it. His eyes darkened, mouth curving slightly before he lowered his head again.
This time, he added his fingers.
You cried out before you could catch it.
“There,” he said, voice rough with satisfaction.
He worked you with his mouth and hand until the room blurred at the edges, until the noise downstairs faded into nothing but a distant hum. He did not need to keep bringing up the mistake. The possessiveness was in the way he held you open, in the way he dragged your sounds out of you, in the way his eyes lifted every time you said his name.
You were close too quickly.
Tucker knew that too.
He curled his fingers, and your whole body tightened.
“Tuck,” you gasped.
He looked up at you.
“Come for me.”
You did.
It hit hard, rushing through you in a wave that made your thighs tremble around his shoulders. Tucker did not stop until you were shaking, until your hand had gone loose in his hair and your breathing had turned uneven.
Only then did he ease back.
He kissed your thigh once, slower now, almost gentle.
Then he stood.
You watched him wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, and the sight made heat bloom in you all over again.
His eyes stayed on yours as he undid his belt.
The buckle opened. Then the button. Then the zipper.
He pushed his jeans down his hips, taking his boxers with them, and kicked both aside. Now there was nothing between you except the few inches of space he crossed when he leaned over you again.
You reached for him, wrapping a hand around him, and Tucker’s breath caught hard.
His head dipped, mouth brushing your shoulder.
“Easy,” he said, voice strained.
You moved your hand again, slower this time, learning the weight and heat of him.
His hips pressed forward into your touch before he caught himself.
“Sweetheart.”
You liked how wrecked he sounded.
You did it again.
This time, his hand covered yours, stilling you.
“Condom,” he said, rough and breathless.
Even now, worked up and possessive and looking at you like he wanted to forget the rest of the house existed, Tucker remembered.
He reached over to the nightstand, yanked the drawer open, and pulled one out. The wrapper tore between his fingers, and you watched him roll it on, your mouth dry, your whole body aching.
When he looked back at you, something in his expression softened for half a second.
Then he moved over you.
He guided you farther up the mattress, settling between your thighs as you lay back beneath him. His body covered yours, warm and solid, one hand braced beside your head while the other hooked under your knee and pulled your leg higher around his waist.
The first press of him against you made you gasp.
Tucker’s eyes stayed on yours.
“You still want me?” he asked, quiet but direct.
“Yes.”
“Say my name.”
“Tucker.”
He pushed into you slowly.
Your mouth fell open, and no sound came out at first. The stretch was full and deep, enough that your fingers dug into his shoulders. Tucker moved inch by inch, jaw clenched, his breathing rough against your cheek.
When he was finally inside you completely, he stopped.
The pause made everything sharper. The weight of him. The feel of him. The way his hand held your thigh up against his side.
You wrapped your other leg around his waist.
“Move.”
His eyes flashed.
The first thrust was slow, deep, dragging the breath from your lungs. The second was firmer. By the third, your nails were in his back and his mouth was against your neck, breathing hard as he found a rhythm that made your thoughts scatter.
This was not soft, not exactly.
It was intimate because it was Tucker. Because he watched you. Because his hand slid under your back to hold you closer. Because every time your breathing changed, he noticed.
But it was rougher than you expected from him. More possessive. His hips drove into yours with a steady, controlled force, his hand firm on your thigh, keeping you open for him. His mouth moved against your jaw, your throat, your lips, like he could not decide where he wanted to claim you most.
“You feel that?” he murmured, voice low against your ear. “That’s what you do to me.”
You moaned, and his pace deepened.
His hand came to your jaw when you turned your face into his shoulder, guiding you back to him.
“No hiding from me.”
“They’ll hear.”
His eyes held yours.
“Let them.”
Your body clenched around him.
A rough sound left his throat, his forehead dropping near yours.
“You liked that,” he breathed.
You could not deny it. Not with him still inside you. Not with his hand on your face and his hips pressed tight to yours.
So you whispered, “Maybe.”
His mouth curved.
Then he moved again, slower this time, deeper, making your back arch.
“Good,” he said. “Then let me hear you.”
His name slipped out louder this time, and Tucker rewarded it with a thrust that made your legs tighten around him. He kept that rhythm, deep and deliberate, his hand sliding between your bodies to touch you where you were still sensitive from his mouth.
The pleasure sparked fast.
“Tuck.”
“I’ve got you.”
His fingers moved in time with his hips, and suddenly you were right there again, clinging to him, breathing his name against his mouth.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Come on, sweetheart.”
You came hard, your whole body tightening around him, a broken sound leaving you as he held you through it. Tucker cursed softly, his rhythm faltering, his face burying against your neck.
A few thrusts later, he followed, pressing deep as his body went tense over yours.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
You could feel his heartbeat against your chest. His breathing was uneven, his hand still curled around your thigh, but the roughness in him had gone quiet.
He kissed your shoulder, then your cheek.
“You okay?” he asked, softer now.
You opened your eyes and found him watching you, warm and serious beneath the mess of his hair.
“Very okay.”
“Good.”
He kissed you once, slow and careful, then eased out of you. He disappeared only long enough to take care of the condom, then came back with tissues, a bottle of water, and one of his shirts.
You sat up, still unsteady, and he helped clean you up without making a big deal of it. Then he slipped the shirt over your head, pulling it down around your thighs.
From downstairs, Logan’s voice carried faintly through the floor.
“Tell her I forgive her!”
You covered your face. “Oh my god.”
Tucker laughed quietly and pulled you into his side.
“Don’t worry,” he said, kissing your hair. “I’ll handle him.”
SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.
WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!
A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! 🇺🇸 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
1. Garrett’s not so secret feelings
After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.
As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.
Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."
Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.
One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."
Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.
In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.
His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.
For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.
Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.
2. Self-Care Day with Summer
Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.
All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.
As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.
Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.
Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.
"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.
The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."
"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.
"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.
But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...
Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.
3. The Injury
"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.
"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.
"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.
A dangerous one.
Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."
That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.
His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.
"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.
The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.
The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.
Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.
Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.
You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.
Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.
Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.
But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
4. Tucker’s Deathbed
Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.
Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.
He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.
Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.
"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.
Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.
You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.
It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.
Oh how you loved being right.
You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.
Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.
It was simply woven into who you were.
"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.
Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.
Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.
Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.
You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.
Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.
5. The Male Gaze
"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.
Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.
Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.
Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."
Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.
Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.
His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.
"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.
"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.
Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.
They'd all noticed. Of course they did.
Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.
Jealousy.
Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.
He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.
You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."
Silence.
Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.
"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.
Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.
He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.
+1 The Hat Trick
The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.
The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.
He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.
How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.
Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.
Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.
Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.
By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.
Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.
Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.
Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.
One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.
He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.
When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.
Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.
With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.
Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.
Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.
The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.
Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.
You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.
Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.
A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.
You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.
His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.
It looked right. Far too right.
"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.
The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.
Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.
"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.
Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"
A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.
Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!
summary: you move in with your brother after a bad break up, trying to relieve the ache in your chest. you didn't expect to stay up at night dreaming about his teammate, trying to make your paths cross at any given occasion
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, swayman!reader, reader’s ex cheating
wc: 5k
note: sooo what happened was i took a request for more olivia inspired fics and mixed it with a beautiful idea that @cheerymints shared with me about minty x goalie!sister and i lowkey love the result so much. hope you guys feel the same <3
the blue hues of new york city passed you by through the car window, your ears filled with the static sound of whatever radio station was playing in the background. you weren’t paying attention in the slightest.
there was a lot going on in your mind; you hoped that sinking into the passenger seat of your brother’s car as he drove you two hundred miles up north would ease it all, and it did for the first hour while you stood with your face pressed against the cold window at your right side.
you grabbed your phone and checked your unread messages as the man behind the wheel cursed under his breath at an old man driving ridiculously slow, or so he seemed to have said. you scrolled mindlessly through the hundreds of messages that had built up in your friends’ group chat: goodbye texts directed at you, pictures of them smoking blunts in the bathroom of your saturday brunch designated restaurant, addresses of new spots to go try like you'd be back after the weekend.
knowing you wouldn't, at least for a while, was nearly your breaking point. it was so mundane, but that had been your entire life for the past couple of years. you weren’t entirely sure you were doing the right thing by fleeing the scene, but you couldn’t bear to walk through the streets you once walked through with your ex boyfriend, not after he’d betrayed you and thrown every little piece of your heart in the garbage.
jeremy’s low, warm voice distracted you from your thoughts, mostly revolving around the man you swore you never wanted to see again.
“i know it’s hard,” he mumbled, voice a little rough from not speaking for a while. “but you got this. you’re smart, you’re funny, it’ll take no time for you to get new friends.”
“i don’t want new friends, i just want him to disappear off the face of the earth.”
he chuckled quietly, head shaking as his gaze stayed fixated on the road ahead. he didn’t need to ask who ‘him’ was referring to, he knew. he’d known it since you’d found out about the cheating, about the lies, about everything that had gone wrong with your relationship.
the first number you’d dialled, before your parents’ or your friends’ or anyone else’s, had been jeremy’s. the same jeremy that had been calling you daily ever since he moved away from home, the same jeremy that nearly threw hands at you middle school’s principal when you told him a teacher was making your life miserable, the same jeremy that always took your side when you argued with your parents, even when you were in the wrong.
“do you remember shay?”
your ears perked up at the mention of his ex girlfriend’s name, the one you hadn’t heard of in at least ten years. you nodded slowly, brows furrowed in confusion.
“we broke up because she cheated on me.”
“what?!” you nearly gasped, shifting in your seat to take a look at his face. “why didn’t you tell me?”
“well, first of all you were ten years old,” he started off, finally bringing the first smile of the day onto your face. “and then i just didn’t want to think about it anymore. talking about it would’ve brought back all the bad feelings.”
“i’m not sure that’s a very healthy coping mechanism, jer.”
“that’s not the point. you come talk to me about whatever you want whenever you want,” he turned his head for a second, just enough to catch a glimpse of you. “i’m just saying i think it’ll be good for you to stay away from the city, see new faces, a new place and everything.”
“if you say so.” you shrugged defeatedly, falling back against the seat.
“i sure do. you’ll come to me one day and say ‘mighty and wise jeremy, you were right as per usual’. you just wait and see.”
you called him ridiculous among giggles, but he couldn’t bring himself to care: the only thing jeremy wanted was to make you laugh, and you finally gave him your best wholehearted, sincere laughter, much like the ones he elicited out of you when he bursted into your room after he came home from school and started his usual tickle wars, or when he rolled you around into the snow during wintertime when you were little.
you would never admit it to him, maybe not even to yourself, but a small part of you was genuinely happy to be moving to boston, at least for a little. you’d enjoyed the city whenever you’d visited your brother, and knowing his soothingly calm presence would be there by your side was a breath of fresh air.
for the first few days of your stay, you cradled yourself in whatever remaining feelings of heartbreak the recent events had caused. afterall, everyone always said to just let yourself feel things and not push them away and pretend nothing had happened, not like your brother had done.
that was all it took for you to find a brand new light, something that despite being surrounded by friends and in an allegedly happy relationship, you never seemed to have in new york. whether it was because you finally got to live close to a family member for the first time in years after moving away from anchorage, or because jeremy wasted no time before getting you into the bruins circle, you didn’t know.
it felt nice to be introduced to people that played such a big role in your brother’s life, and you managed to meet all of them within the first couple of days, or so you thought.
one week into your bostonian vacation, the encounter came casually. alessandra, your soon-to-be sister-in-law, sent you off to deliver to jeremy the lunch he’d forgotten at home in the morning, when he left hurriedly for practice. you were walking across the arena with the tupperware in your hands when your steps came to a halt in front of the brown door that said ‘locker room’.
you weren’t overly familiar with hockey etiquette, but a big part of you was fairly sure barging into a locker room filled with potentially naked men wasn’t the wisest decision. so, that left you with one plausible option.
“jay!” you called out at the top of your lungs, praying nobody would pass by.
you balanced yourself on the balls of your feet, hands fidgeting with the glass container as you debated whether or not phoning your brother instead would work better than yelling his name in the hallway.
“i don’t think i’m jay, but maybe i can go call him for you?”
the sudden, unknown masculine voice startled you at first. he appeared like a spark in the dark and you were too distracted to realize someone had even made his way to you. you looked up with inquisitive eyes, and was met with the same expression painted over greyish irises and a clean, polite face.
“you must be sway’s sister.” the man in front of you spoke up, eyes lighting up with the sudden realization.
he looked rather disheveled: hair messy and sticking up in odd directions, a couple of sweat droplets trickling down his forehead, cheeks rosy. yet, being in front of him still sent a wave of self-consciousness your way. your brain short-circuited for a moment, and you hoped he wouldn’t notice your dumbfounded expression.
“hope it’s not the nose that gave it away.”
he smiled wide, showing off the cutest dimple under his right eye. you might’ve said the first thing to come to mind without even thinking, but at least you got to bask in the sight of him laughing.
“if that can help, yours and his don’t really look alike.” he shook his head, still beaming, before extending his hand towards you. “i’m fraser.”
fraser.
the name rolled around in your head like there was nothing else in there, occupying your thoughts throughout the entire day. or, days. you felt totally insane.
the way you'd felt when your eyes had first met his engulfed you completely, and you’d be lying if you said it wasn’t exciting to feel your body tingle whenever he was around, for your heart to skip a beat whenever he flashed that dreamy smile at you. but it did feel wrong. you probably shouldn’t have been able to move on so quickly from a breakup that had nearly consumed you.
you kept to yourself for the following days, hiding the light in your eyes whenever jeremy threw his name around at home, talking about his latest chirp that had the whole team laughing or the prank charlie and nikita had played on him in the locker room.
it felt like it was working; instead of thinking about him all day everyday, his face only appeared into your mind sporadically.
that new arrangement, obviously, was short-lived. it lasted until a friday night that had started like any other, when mason reached out to invite you over to his house, where he was hosting an event that was somewhat of a small party with some teammates and their partners, and some people outside of their hockey world. there was no point in staying at home, you could’ve used the distraction.
yet, despite all the intriguing, fascinating people that stood in the redhead’s living room and that you would’ve liked to talk to, all you could focus on was fraser. you were mid-sentence, talking to this stunning blonde girl about your college careers, when he walked in. he showed up with an unbuttoned shirt over his graphic t-shirt, his hair still partially damp. he’d completely stolen your attention.
you looked at the girl in front of you, at how nonchalant she was, at how she was not drooling over a guy in the corner of the room, and you felt a slight hint of envy.
all you could do afterwards was sit awkwardly on the couch and steal glances at him, mind racing with the thought of him coming closer, calling your name, talking to you about anything at all. it was ridiculous, and you knew you had to stop yourself before you got in too deep.
“so, you already know what you’re going to wear next month?”
the sudden voice brought you back to earth. you looked around yourself to try and spot the source of the sound. then, your eyes fell on kiley, charlie’s wife, standing in front of you with a warm smile.
“where are we going next month?”
“girl,” she sighed, chuckling at your naivety. “the team gala. don’t tell me you forgot.”
“well... uh, i don’t think i’ll be there. i don’t want to third wheel jer and al all night long, i already do that all the time.”
the woman looked at you like you’d suddenly grown three heads, much to your own confusion. then, she took a seat next to you on the couch and shifted slightly to face you.
“you don’t have anyone to come with you?” she asked, and you shook your head. “you could always ask fraser.”
you nearly choked on your saliva, heart fluttering in your chest as you coughed. the sole mention of his name was enough to have your hands feel tingly, like a thousand ants were walking across them.
“what? why him?”
“i don’t know, you guys are about the same age, no?” she shrugged, fortunately not scrutinizing your behaviour. “and he’s also a good kid, he’d definitely do you the favour.”
part of you wanted to scream that you didn’t want it to be a favour, you wanted it to be real. you wanted fraser to want you even half as much as you wanted him, to feel the need to be close to you at any possible moment. instead, you swallowed those feelings back before their fight grew too strong, nodding slowly towards kiley.
“yeah, i might.”
but you didn’t, not that night. you couldn’t bring yourself to find enough courage to bring it up, even when him and mason approached you to ask for your opinion on the last text the homeowner had sent to his romantic conquest of the moment, and whether or not it could’ve been the reason why she’d ghosted him for two days.
“fraser said you’re a girl and you should know.”
fraser’s eyes rolled, an exasperated breath left his lips. “i didn’t say that. i said she might be able to help you better than i can.”
then, he turned towards you, still jokingly annoyed at the man next to him. “it’s not because you’re a girl, it’s because you’re much more emotionally intelligent than him and i put together.”
“you are putting a lot of faith in someone who’s straight up ignoring the fact that her boyfriend of two years just cheated on her.”
“good riddance!” mason yelled, raising his beer bottle in a cheering manner.
“he’s drunk,” fraser whispered, leaning closer to you and nearly making you faint. “but he’s right, it is good riddance. even a day spent thinking about that idiot would be too much.”
mason's smile widened, his gaze met yours as he pointed at him with his thumb. "he's shooting his shot at you."
"did i already say he's drunk? he's rambling on."
you knew, of course you did, but you wished he wasn't. you wished his words were honest, you wished fraser would just wake up one day and confess his undying love for you. you swallowed the gigantic lump that had formed in your throat, forced a smile on your lips and mindlessly nodded. your delusion would have had to wait until the end of the night.
like clockwork, the moment you laid on your bed, the ceiling started shifting and changing colours, until all you could see was the brown-haired, charming and soft-spoken boy you'd known for a handful of weeks, yet was infesting your thoughts like the most stubborn vine clinging to your walls.
from then on, you spent nearly every single night sleepless, tossing and turning. your thoughts kept flying to the gala that was closer and closer everyday, and the missing partner that was supposed to be fraser. what if he said no? what if he had a girlfriend he'd already invited? what if he wanted nothing to do with you?
on one particular occasion, you woke up earlier than usual and feeling under the weather, restless after spending the night caught up in that vortex of fraser and your ex and the ghost of your life in new york. you tiptoed your way out of the house, to avoid waking someone up. you needed some fresh air.
you had no idea where you were headed, but you let your feet wander around in the early lights of day, painting boston in bright yellow and soft orange.
you roamed the dimly lit streets unhurriedly, basking in the chilly air that reminded you of home and childhood and times when your greatest concern was a fifth grade science test. while you distracted yourself with all kinds of memories, you passed by a college campus filled with guys that slurred their words after having one too many and girls who stumbled around and muffled their laughter.
there were times where that used to be your life, light-hearted and carefree. each day that passed, you felt yourself shift closer into that older version of you. your time in boston was helping you infinitely in that sense, but putting you through the tough challenge of having a middle school-like crush after years of not having to worry about unspoken feelings and stolen glances.
your steps came to a stop when, as you entered your favourite park in the area, a voice that had grown way too familiar reached your ears like the sweetest melody known to man.
“hey, baby sway.”
your eyes buzzed at the sound. ‘baby’. you rotated on your feet, eyes falling onto the easily recognizable figure. fraser was standing a few inches from you, water bottle in his hand and running attire on. he’d just called you ‘baby’, and there wasn’t a single part of you that was acting normal about it.
the shirt you were wearing suddenly turned into lava, burning every inch of your skin and becoming unbearable. you weren’t too sure it was a standard thing to feel at the sight of someone, especially when said someone was your own brother’s teammate.
“well, boston isn’t so big afterall.”
“your brother did recommend this neighborhood when i was looking for a place, so…”
so, it wasn’t fate that had decided to make your paths cross on a fine tuesday morning. it was actually none other than jeremy, clearly. the need to get your head out of the clouds was more urgent than ever, but you knew every attempt would be useless.
“hey, listen,” you started, hands playing frantically with the edges of your phone as you tried to find the right words to not sound like a complete fool. “i need to ask you a favor. you don’t have to do it, of course, i just figured i’d try.”
“that sounds serious, go on.”
“i was talking with jer the other day and he mentioned the gala, and i… uh-“
“you need a partner?” he interrupted you like he was reading your mind, lips barely quirking upwards.
“i don’t need one, but it would be nice.”
“i’m honoured you thought of me first.”
“i actually asked mason, marat and andrew before, but they were all taken, so…”
“oh, is that how it is?” he laughed it off, shaking his head with fake disappointment. he then looked at you with a sincere smile, one that showed off his dimples perfectly. “of course i’ll come with you.”
any type of restrain you'd given yourself so far, for futile reasons and still anchored to your past, was fully gone. you couldn't rationalize something so sudden and forceful like your feelings for fraser, and you were sick of trying. you were going to head into it like a car with no brakes, whatever the outcome might've been.
the clacking sound of your high heels on the marble floors was the only thing keeping your head from floating away. your arm was carefully draped over fraser's, and you walked side by side like a well-polished couple of actors from old hollywood.
you'd cracked a joke about how he put in minimal effort and obtained maximum gain with his "boring black suit". what you'd left out was that said suit fit him like a glove, and the way his hair curled at the ends and looked slightly less tousled than usual wouldn't allow you to look away and at the lavish crystal chandeliers or the tasteful floral arrangements, eyes too fixated on the man by your side.
nearly the entire night was a whirlwind of introductions, conversations completely out of your area of expertise and forced smiles. none of it mattered when you glanced around the room, somehow always meeting fraser's eyes. they carried something different, something deeper than the usual 'please come save me' silent request, but you didn't want to get too ahead of yourself with your wishful thinking.
after your social battery had run out, you'd found a secluded area in a different room, with a hard wooden loveseat and a bunch of old, dusty matching armchairs scattered across the space. your heels were disregarded somewhere on the floor, you were scrolling on your phone when the sound of the heavy door opening shot you on your feet.
then, your vision focused and you recognized your companion for the night, who had not only noticed your absence from the main hall, but had gone out of his way to come find you.
"you look like you're waiting for someone to throw you a lifeline." fraser mumbled as he stepped closer, and you couldn't help the muffled giggle that escaped your lips. "you also look gorgeous."
"i know, it was the first thing you said when we met earlier."
"that's how you know i mean it."
"maybe that's how i know you're a good actor."
all of a sudden you realized just how quickly the distance between the two of you had reduced to a couple of inches. you took him in, staring intensely at all the details you'd never noticed from afar, like the barely visible scar under his eye or the mole on his temple. his cheeks had a light pink tint, probably from the champagne glass you'd seen him holding earlier.
you hoped he wouldn't feel the weight of your look, but that hope vanished as his lips quirked upwards.
"what's up with you?"
"nothing, what's up with you?"
he jokingly scoffed, head shaking. "oh, then i'm the actor?"
"allegedly."
he hummed quietly, feet barely moving as he took one more step closer to you. you could feel his hot breath fanning against the tip of your nose. your heart was pounding so hard you could feel it vibrate in your ears. there was no reasonable explanation for such closeness, at least not according to your overly-conscious self.
fraser's hand moved slowly, almost uncertainly, inching closer to your face until his large, warm palm rested softly over your cheek. his gaze dipped down to your lips for a second, redirecting far too quickly for your liking.
"i can assure you i'm not acting."
"mhm, if you say so."
"what, you'd rather i showed you?"
your throat dried up before you could profess another word. you moved almost mechanically, hand coming up to grab the collar of his shirt. you wanted him closer. needed him, even. each breath meant inhaling the scent of his cologne, and you were certain it was messing with every single part of your nervous system.
his face leaned closer, making the air around you thick and heavy with desire. this time you were completely sure, there was no reason for him to be getting so close to you, if not to fulfill your dream and finally press his lips to yours.
the tension was palpable as you let yourself lean closer as well. your eyes fluttered shut, anticipation creeping up inside of you so much you could already feel the softness of his lips on yours and the slightly bitter and fruity taste of his champagne.
then, that very same old wooden door that had led fraser to you opened with a heavy sound.
"shit!" you and fraser whispered simultaneously.
both of you jumped away from each other like you’d just been electrocuted, breath hitching in your throats as you leaned forward to try and take a look at whoever the intruder was. you were about to ask, when the overly familiar and unmistakable head of auburn hair came into view.
mason stopped abruptly in his tracks when he saw you two stand awkwardly next to each other, you staring down at your nails and fraser tugging on the wrists of his shirt.
"am i... interrupting something?"
"no!" the two of you spoke up at once yet again, far too quickly to be reliable.
the older boy shrugged, eyebrow arching with doubt. then, he cleared his throat. "we're all about to head home, i'm pretty sure sway was looking for you."
you and fraser nodded quietly, stealing one more glance of each other. you slipped back into your shoes, grabbed your purse and followed them back into the main hall you'd escaped earlier, finding it already half empty.
you were barely there during the ride home, zoning out in your brother's backseat while him and his fiancée discussed salmon tarts and someone's gender reveal party. you felt like you'd been thrown back in time to the car ride that took you to boston in the first place, except you weren't holding back tears because of a boy, your mind kept going back to the almost-kiss with another one instead.
when you did get home, the mental fatigue was so strong you couldn’t bring yourself to get out of your clothes, throwing yourself on your bed and drifting off immediately. your thoughts lulled you to sleep, filled with scenarios that involved you and fraser finally managing to kiss and, god, so much more than that. you felt your skin heating up even in your half-conscious state.
you woke up to the vibration of your phone, mindlessly and carelessly resting on the mattress instead of the bedside table. after all, you were laying there in a gown and high heels, the phone had been the least of your concerns.
yet, the text that lit up the screen was under a name that suddenly erased every ounce of sleep still in your system. you sat up almost immediately, hands running through your hair as you gathered enough courage to actually open the notification from fraser.
'got a minute? i'm walking around the block and i wanted to see you'
that was it. he was going to tell you that what nearly happened the previous night was a mistake. maybe he'd been drunker than you thought, maybe it had just been the heat of the moment. every apocalyptic scenario forcefully materialized in your brain.
you were quick on your feet, shooting a text back and sprinting towards the bathroom to change into regular clothes. you caught your reflection in the mirror as you approached the front door to leave, taking in your frizzy hair and the overbearing dark circles surrounding your eyes.
hoping fraser wouldn't notice and you wouldn't have to admit that you were restless because you'd been thinking about him way too much, you left the house and squinted at the bright daylight attacking you.
fraser was right there, sitting on the steps of the apartment building with his phone still in his hands, screen showing your recent messages. hearing your footsteps from behind him, he turned around and your eyes locked. his lips moved immediately into a grin.
"good morning. rough night?"
you rolled your eyes whilst his laughter filled your ears. "so now you're making fun of me?"
"i would never, i'm simply concerned about your sleep schedule."
"told you, you're such an actor."
he stood up slowly, giving you just enough time to take the sight in: the sun made his eyes look an even lighter, icy shade, his muscular legs peeked out from his shorts and it was way too early for you to be thinking rationally.
"so, since you brought it up..."
he was most likely waiting for you to chime in with some silly remark, but the words never came out of you. you felt nervous, your palms were sweating with something between anticipation and pure fear, because you had no clue what route he was going to go down. the silence felt so thick you were sure a knife could cut through it.
he cleared his throat and beckoned for you to follow him, and you did. you weren't sure how that was helping the situation, but you two strolled along the sidewalk side by side, arms occasionally brushing and turning your stomach upside down.
"about last night, i-"
"we don't have to talk about it."
"i wish mase didn't interrupt us." he spoke up at the same time as you, cheeks heating up slighty.
suddenly, you felt like the dumbest person on the planet and hoped the earth would open up and swallow you whole. your panicked words caused his face to tense up: the shift was small but you watched clearly as it happened. your lips parted and you spoke again before your brain could process it.
"what would've happened?"
his expression seemed to soften and even his steps slowed down as the two of you reached the very same park you'd met at before, crossing the threshold through the open gate.
"come on, you know." he nervously chuckled, looking at your amused demeanor. "you're going to make me spell it out?"
"i'd rather you showed me." you quoted his words from the previous night, wide smile that mirrored his own.
"gladly."
he wasted no more time, he felt like the two of you had already wasted too much. one of his hands hovered your waist for a second, unsure of what to do, before finally settling on your body and using it to pull you closer. his other hand found its spot back on your cheek, feeling already familiar, like that was its rightful place.
he leaned in, you leaned in. every breath you took mixed with his own. then, after what seemed like a lifetime of waiting and yearning and longing, you closed your eyes and finally felt the softness of his lips slot perfectly against yours.
the kiss was messy, with bumping noses and restless hands all over your backs, but you wouldn't have wanted it any other way. you only managed to pull back once you both were breathless, heaving and foolishly smiling at each other.
"so, was this what you were about to do last night?"
he took his bottom lip between his teeth, uselessly trying to suppress a grin threatening to come through. his hand moved swiftly across your face, taking ahold of a stray strand of hair and carefully tucking it behind your ear.
"pretty much, yeah."
"and was it up to expectations?"
his arms circled your waist and he pulled you closer into him, pressing a quick kiss on the corner of your lips.
"i'd say it exceeded all expectations."
"you're infl-"
a car drove by with all the windows rolled down, the radio blasting the chorus of 'i want you back' by nsync abruptly interrupted your words. romantic lyrics about wanting someone echoed around you with peak comic timing.
"seems fitting." fraser chuckled at your irritated expression, which softened right after.
you shook your head, beaming while your arms wrapped around his neck. you stood there, ridicoulously close to each other and surrounded by chirping birds and shining rays of sun kissing your skin.
"trust me, i want you more than any stupid song could ever say."
Summary: the one where the honeymoon phase becomes literal
Warnings: 18+ content
Series Masterlist
The thing about honeymooning in the Seychelles is that everything is almost aggressively perfect.
The private villa is stunning — all white stone and warm wood and floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto a private beach. The bedroom has a king-size bed draped in white linens, the bathroom has an outdoor shower surrounded by tropical plants, and the infinity pool seems to spill directly into the ocean beyond.
Sidney had spared no expense. Private villa, private beach, private chef who comes twice a day to prepare meals and then disappears. Complete privacy, complete luxury, just him and you for two weeks.
His pregnant wife.
He’s still getting used to both of those facts. Wife. Pregnant. Both feel surreal, like a dream he’s afraid he’ll wake up from.
But you’re very real, currently lying on a lounger on the private beach in a white bikini that’s barely there, reading a book and looking like every fantasy he’s ever had.
“You’re staring,” you say without looking up from your book.
“I’m admiring,” Sidney corrects, taking a sip of his drink. He’s in the lounger next to you, supposedly reading, but he’s been on the same page for twenty minutes because he can’t stop looking at you.
“You’re staring,” you repeat, but you’re smiling. “You’ve been staring since we got here three days ago.”
“Can you blame me?” He asks. “My wife is gorgeous and barely wearing anything. I’m only human.”
You set your book down and turn to look at him. “Your wife is also getting hot. Want to go in the water?”
“Sure,” he says, standing and offering you his hand.
You take it, letting him pull you up, and he can’t help but glance at your stomach. Still flat, no visible sign of the baby yet, but he knows it’s there. His child, growing inside you.
“Stop looking at my stomach,” you tease.
“Can’t help it,” he admits. “There’s a baby in there.”
“A very tiny baby,” you remind him. “Probably the size of a lentil right now.”
“Still a baby,” he insists. “My baby.”
You laugh, pulling him toward the water. It’s perfectly clear, perfectly warm, and you wade in up to your waist before diving under. Sidney follows, the salt water cool against his skin.
When you surface, you’re grinning, water streaming down your face. “This is paradise.”
“It really is,” Sidney agrees, pulling you close. The water makes you buoyant, and you wrap your legs around his waist easily.
“Best honeymoon ever,” you say, kissing him.
“We’ve only been here three days,” he points out. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Nothing could ruin this,” you insist. “Private beach, perfect weather, handsome husband. What more could I want?”
“Food?” Sidney suggests. “Georges is making dinner in a few hours.”
“Okay, food too,” you concede. “But mostly the handsome husband part.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, and feels your body respond against him. Even in the water, even in broad daylight, his body responds immediately to having you this close.
“Careful,” you murmur against his lips. “Keep kissing me like that and I’m going to want you to fuck me right here.”
Sidney pulls back slightly. “In the water?”
“Why not?” You ask. “Private beach. No one around. When are we ever going to get this chance again?”
“Because sand and salt water are not ideal for that,” Sidney says practically. “And because I’m not risking anything that could hurt you or the baby.”
You sigh dramatically but unwrap your legs from his waist. “Fine. You’re probably right.”
“I’m definitely right,” he says, though he’s already regretting being practical because you look disappointed.
You swim for a while longer, splashing and playing like kids, before heading back to the loungers. Sidney towels off while you reapply sunscreen, and he tries very hard not to think about the way your hands move over your body.
“Can you do my back?” You ask, holding out the bottle.
“Trying to kill me,” he mutters, but he takes the sunscreen.
You lie face-down on your lounger and he straddles it behind you, smoothing sunscreen over your shoulders, your back, the curve of your waist. Your skin is warm from the sun and soft under his hands, and he’s very aware of how little clothing there is between you.
“Lower,” you instruct. “I don’t want to burn.”
He moves lower, to the small of your back, the curve of your ass. His hands are professional, medical almost, but his brain is decidedly not professional.
“Okay, done,” he says, pulling back.
“Thank you,” you say, rolling onto your back and adjusting your bikini top. “You’re very thorough.”
“I’m very careful with you,” he corrects.
“I know,” you say softly. “It’s one of the things I love about you.”
You pick up your book again, and Sidney picks up his, and you read in companionable silence for a while. Or rather, you read. Sidney continues to pretend to read while actually watching you.
He’s made it through maybe three actual pages when you speak again.
“Sidney?”
“Hmm?”
“What would you do if I took this off?” You gesture at your bikini top.
Sidney’s brain short-circuits. “What?”
“My top,” you clarify. “What would you do if I took it off? We’re on a private beach. No one’s around.”
“I would-” He clears his throat. “I would tell you to put it back on.”
“Would you?” You ask, and there’s a challenge in your voice now.
“Yes,” he says firmly. “Because even though this is a private beach, someone could theoretically see. A boat could go by. Someone could be on the cliff with binoculars. And I’m not sharing that view with anyone.”
“Possessive,” you tease.
“Extremely,” he confirms. “You’re mine. All of you. I’m not risking anyone else seeing what’s mine.”
“What if I want to?” You challenge. “What if I want to feel the sun on my skin?”
“Then we’ll do it at night,” Sidney says. “When it’s dark and no one can see.”
“You’re no fun,” you complain, but you’re smiling.
“I’m plenty of fun,” he defends. “I’m just not interested in anyone else seeing my pregnant wife naked.”
“I’m barely pregnant,” you point out. “You can’t even tell.”
“I can tell,” he says. “Your breasts are already getting fuller. I notice.”
You look down at yourself. “Are they?”
“Yes,” he says definitively. “And they’re more sensitive. I noticed that too.”
“Very observant,” you say. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I think you should fuck me on this beach.”
Sidney nearly chokes on his drink. “What?”
“You heard me,” you say, sitting up and swinging your legs off the lounger. “I want you to fuck me. Right here. On the beach. In the sun.”
“Absolutely not,” Sidney says immediately.
“Why not?” You ask. “It’s private. No one’s around. And I’m your wife. You can do whatever you want with me.”
“I can do whatever I want with you in the villa,” Sidney counters. “In the bedroom. Behind closed doors. Where no one can see.”
“But I want you here,” you say, standing and walking toward him. You straddle his lounger, one knee on either side of his hips, and lean down to kiss him. “I want you to take me right here on this beach. I want to feel the sand and the sun while you fuck me.”
“You’re being a brat,” he says, but his hands have already gone to your hips, holding you.
“Maybe,” you agree. “But you like it when I’m a brat.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m going to give you what you want,” he says, even though his body is very clearly interested in giving you exactly what you want.
“No?” You ask, rolling your hips against him. You can feel how hard he is through his swim trunks. “You sure about that?”
“Very sure,” he says, though his voice is strained. “I’m not fucking you where someone could see.”
“No one’s going to see,” you insist. “Look around. There’s no one. Just us and the ocean and the sun.”
“Someone could come by,” he argues. “A boat. A person walking. Someone on staff.”
“The staff knows not to come to the beach when we’re here,” you counter. “And boats stay outside the reef. And there’s no one for miles. We’re completely alone.”
“The answer is still no,” Sidney says, even though every part of him wants to say yes.
“Fine,” you say, and you slide off his lap and stand. “Then I’ll just have to convince you.”
“That’s not going to-” Sidney starts, but he stops because you’re reaching behind you and untying your bikini top.
“What are you doing?” He asks, his voice climbing.
“You said you didn’t want anyone else to see,” you say, letting the top fall away. “But there’s no one here to see. Just you. So I’m taking it off.”
Sidney’s mouth goes dry. You’re standing there, topless in the sun, and you’re right, there’s no one around. But the principle of the thing-
“Put it back on,” he says, but it comes out more like a plea than a command.
“Make me,” you challenge.
“You-”
“Or you could fuck me,” you suggest. “Right here. And then I’ll put it back on.”
“That’s blackmail,” he says.
“That’s negotiation,” you correct. You hook your thumbs in your bikini bottoms. “Should I take these off too?”
“Don’t you dare,” Sidney warns, standing.
“Why not?” You ask innocently. “You just said no one can see. So what does it matter?”
“It matters because-” Sidney stops, realizing he’s walked into your trap.
“Because?” You prompt.
“Because you’re mine,” he finally says. “And I don’t want to risk anyone seeing what’s mine. Even if the chances are basically zero.”
“Then claim me,” you say softly. “Right here. Show me I’m yours.”
Sidney looks around. The beach is completely empty. The villa behind them is closed up for privacy. There are no boats visible on the horizon. You’re completely alone.
“You’re really not going to let this go,” he says.
“Not a chance,” you confirm. “I want this, Sidney. I want you. Right here, right now.”
He looks at you — his wife, standing topless on a private beach, asking him to fuck you — and his resolve crumbles.
“If anyone sees,” he warns.
“They won’t,” you promise.
“If I see so much as a hint of another person-”
“Then we’ll stop,” you agree. “But we won’t. Because we’re alone.”
Sidney closes the distance between you, his hands going to your waist. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you counter.
“I do,” he admits, and then he’s kissing you, hard and possessive.
You melt against him, your bare breasts pressing against his chest, and he groans into your mouth. His hands slide down to your ass, cupping you through your bikini bottoms.
“Here,” you murmur against his lips. “Right here.”
He walks you backward toward one of the loungers, lowering you onto it. You lie back, looking up at him, and he takes a moment just to look at you. His wife. Pregnant with his child. Asking him to fuck you on a beach in paradise.
“Beautiful,” he breathes. “So beautiful.”
“Then touch me,” you say. “Stop staring and touch me.”
He does, his hands skating up your thighs, over your stomach, to your breasts. You arch into his touch, gasping, and he can feel how sensitive you are already.
“Sidney,” you moan. “Please.”
“Please what?” He asks, even though he knows.
“Please fuck me,” you beg. “Right here. Right now. I need you.”
He hooks his fingers in your bikini bottoms and pulls them down slowly. You lift your hips to help, and then you’re completely naked on the lounger, spread out for him like an offering.
“Anyone could see,” he says one more time, but it’s weak now.
“But they won’t,” you say. “It’s just us. Just you and me and the sun and the ocean. Please, daddy. Fuck your pregnant wife.”
The combination of words obliterates any remaining resistance. Sidney strips off his swim trunks and positions himself between your legs.
“You’re already so wet,” he observes, his fingers sliding through your folds.
“I’ve been wet since you put sunscreen on me,” you admit. “Been thinking about this for hours.”
“Thinking about me fucking you on the beach?” He asks, working you with his fingers.
“Yes,” you gasp. “Thinking about you inside me. Thinking about you claiming me out here where anyone could theoretically see. Thinking about how possessive you’d be.”
“I am possessive,” he confirms. “And if anyone did see, I’d have to kill them.”
“Good thing we’re alone then,” you say breathlessly.
He positions himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against you. “Last chance to go inside.”
“Not a chance,” you say. “I want you here. Now.”
He pushes inside slowly, and the feeling of you, warm and wet and tight around him, makes him groan. The sun is hot on his back, the ocean breeze cool, and you’re underneath him, taking him, looking up at him with those eyes.
“God, you feel perfect,” he groans.
“So do you,” you gasp. “So deep.”
He starts to move, slow and controlled, acutely aware that you’re outside, exposed. Every sound seems louder — your moans, his breathing, the slap of skin against skin.
“Harder,” you demand. “Stop being gentle. Fuck me like you mean it.”
“Someone could hear,” he protests.
“So let them hear,” you counter. “Let them know how good you fuck your wife. Let them know I’m yours.”
Something primal takes over. Sidney braces one hand beside your head and hooks the other under your knee, opening you wider, and starts fucking you in earnest. Hard, deep, claiming.
“That’s it,” you moan. “Yes, just like that-”
“Mine,” he growls. “You’re mine. My wife. My pregnant wife. No one else gets to see this. No one else gets to hear you moan like this.”
“Only you,” you agree breathlessly. “Only ever you-”
“Carrying my baby,” he continues, his hand sliding to your stomach even as he keeps thrusting. “Everyone’s going to know I knocked you up. Everyone’s going to see you pregnant and know I fucked you.”
“Yes,” you cry out. “Want everyone to know-”
He adjusts the angle and you arch off the lounger, gasping. “Right there?”
“Right there,” you confirm. “Don’t stop-”
He doesn’t. He fucks you hard and deep, the lounger creaking underneath you, and he keeps one eye on the horizon because he really will stop if anyone appears, but there’s no one. Just you and him and paradise.
“Touch yourself,” he commands. “Make yourself come on my cock.”
Your hand slides between your bodies, finding your clit, and you work yourself while he fucks you. The visual of it — you touching yourself while he’s inside you, out in the open air, the sun shining down — is almost too much.
“Close,” you gasp. “So close-”
“Look at me,” he demands. “I want to see your face when you come.”
You do, your eyes locking with his, and he can see the pleasure building in your expression.
“Come for me,” he says. “Come for your husband. Show me how good I make you feel.”
You fall apart with a scream that echoes across the empty beach, your whole body trembling, and Sidney follows immediately after, burying himself deep and filling you up.
“Mine,” he groans. “All mine.”
He collapses on top of you, careful not to put his full weight on your stomach, and you wrap your arms around him.
“That was incredible,” you breathe.
“That was reckless,” he counters, but he’s smiling.
“That was perfect,” you correct. “Admit it. You loved it.”
“I loved it,” he admits. “But I’m never doing that again. My heart can’t take it.”
“Sure,” you say, clearly not believing him. “We’ll see.”
He pulls out carefully and reaches for your bikini, handing it to you. “Put this on. Before I have a heart attack worrying someone saw.”
“No one saw,” you assure him, but you start putting your bikini back on. “We were completely alone.”
“This time,” he mutters, pulling on his swim trunks. “Next time we’re staying in the villa.”
“Next time?” You tease. “I thought you were never doing that again.”
“Next time we have sex,” he clarifies. “Which will be in the villa. With walls and doors and privacy.”
“If you say so,” you say, but you’re grinning.
Once you’re both dressed again, Sidney pulls you into his lap on the lounger. “You’re a menace.”
“You married me anyway,” you point out.
“Best decision I ever made,” he says, kissing your temple.
“Even when I make you do reckless things like fuck me on a beach?”
“Especially then,” he says. “Keeps life interesting.”
You cuddle into his chest, content. The sun is starting to lower in the sky, casting everything in golden light, and Sidney holds you close.
“This really is paradise,” you murmur.
“It is,” he agrees. “But the paradise part isn’t the beach or the villa or the ocean.”
“No?”
“No,” he confirms. “The paradise part is you. Having you here. Knowing you’re my wife. Knowing you’re carrying my baby. That’s the paradise.”
You lift your head to kiss him. “You’re very sweet.”
“I’m very in love,” he corrects.
“That too,” you agree.
You sit like that for a while, watching the sun move across the sky, completely at peace.
“Sidney?” You say eventually.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for this. The honeymoon, the privacy, all of it. I know you had to work around your training schedule.”
“Worth it,” he says. “Every minute with you is worth it.”
“Even when I’m being a brat?”
“Especially when you’re being a brat,” he says. “Keeps me on my toes.”
You laugh, the sound happy and free, and Sidney thinks about how much has changed in three years. From arguing about hockey statistics at a charity gala to this — married, pregnant, on a honeymoon in the Seychelles.
“What are you thinking about?” You ask.
“How far we’ve come,” he admits. “How lucky I am.”
“We’re both lucky,” you correct. “I’m the one who got to marry Sidney Crosby.”
“You’re the one who got to marry Sidney,” he corrects. “Not Sidney Crosby the hockey player. Just Sidney.”
“Best Sidney there is,” you say. “My Sidney.”
“Your Sidney,” he agrees. “Always.”
The sun continues its descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, and Sidney holds his wife on a beach in paradise and thinks that this — this moment right here — is what happiness looks like.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he knows what matters.
Not the trophies or the fame or the records.
This. You. Your baby. A lifetime of moments just like this one.
SUMMARY: After months of careful co-parenting, Nathan MacKinnon realizes that sharing custody of his children will never be enough when he still loves the mother of his kids. With four-year-old twins Cara and Romeo and two-year-old Leo caught between “Mommy’s house” and “Daddy’s house,” Nate begins trying to prove that he can be the partner he failed to be before. But Y/N isn’t ready to forgive easily, even if every soft moment with him makes it harder to keep her distance. As they slowly find their way back to each other, an unexpected pregnancy changes everything, forcing them to decide whether their second chance is strong enough to rebuild their family for good.
WC: 5.6k
WARNINGS: Co-parenting after separation, past relationship issues, emotional hurt/comfort, mentions of loneliness in a relationship, pregnancy, unexpected pregnancy, reconciliation, children dealing with separated parents, mild angst, soft family fluff, second-chance romance, happy ending.
AN: saw this request in the request box but i deleted it by mistake when i was going to answer the request :(
By the time Nathan realized he wanted his family back, you had already learned how to live without waiting for him.
That was the part that drove him the craziest.
Not because you were cruel about it. You weren’t. You were polite, calm, organized in that way mothers became when they had no other option. You answered his texts about the kids. You packed their overnight bags with labeled pajamas and favorite stuffed animals. You sent him reminders about Cara’s ballet shoes, Romeo’s dinosaur water bottle, and Leo’s bedtime routine because, at two years old, Leo had decided that only the blue blanket counted as a blanket and everything else was an insult.
You co-parented beautifully, too beautifully, sometimes.
Because every time Nate showed up at your house and saw the little world you had built without him fully inside it, something heavy twisted in his chest.
“Daddy!” Cara screamed the second you opened the door.
She launched herself at him in a blur of pink leggings, wild curls, and glittery sneakers, and Nate caught her with the kind of ease that used to make you fall in love with him all over again “My girl,” he said, pressing a loud kiss to her cheek. “Did you get taller since yesterday?”
Cara giggled, wrapping both arms around his neck. “No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes!” Romeo came barreling after her, nearly crashing into Nate’s legs with a toy truck in one hand and a half-eaten granola bar in the other. “Dad, look! It’s a monster truck but it’s also a fire truck.”
“That’s a serious vehicle,” Nate said, crouching enough to pull his son into his other arm. “Very important. Does it save people or crush cars?”
“Both,” Romeo said proudly “Efficient.”
You leaned against the doorframe, Leo balanced on your hip, his face still soft and sleepy from his nap. He blinked at Nate like he was deciding whether or not to forgive him for not being there when he woke up “Hey, buddy,” Nate said softly, his voice changing completely.
Leo stared, then his bottom lip trembled “Oh, come on,” Nate murmured, stepping closer. “Don’t do that to me.”
Leo immediately reached for him.
You passed him over without a word, and Nate took him like Leo weighed nothing, tucking the toddler against his chest. Leo melted into him, thumb going straight into his mouth, one small hand fisting the front of Nate’s hoodie.
For a second, the five of you stood there in the doorway.
It was painfully familiar.
Painfully easy, Cara on one side of him. Romeo talking too fast about his truck. Leo clinging to him like he’d waited all day for this. Nate looking at you over their heads with that expression you hated because it made your resolve feel thin.
Like he missed you, like he knew exactly what he had lost. “You look tired,” he said quietly.
You raised an eyebrow. “Romantic.” His mouth twitched. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know what you meant.”
“I can take them for dinner,” he offered. “Give you a break.”
“You’re already taking them tonight.”
“I mean now. Early. I can take them early.” You crossed your arms. “You have practice recovery, media, probably something else on your schedule that you forgot about.”
“I’m done for the day.”
“Miracle.”
“Y/N.” The way he said your name made your stomach pull tight. Not annoyed. Not impatient. Just soft. Careful. Like he knew one wrong move would make you step back.
You hated that he was learning, you hated it because it was exactly what you had begged for before everything fell apart “I’m fine,” you said.
Nate looked like he didn’t believe you, but he didn’t push. That was new too. Old Nate would have pushed because he liked fixing things fast. Problems, arguments, feelings. He liked direct lines and clear answers. You had loved that about him until you became the thing he kept trying to solve instead of listen to.
“Okay,” he said.
That one word did more damage than any argument could have, because he accepted your boundary.
And somehow that made you want to cry.
The separation had not happened because either of you stopped loving each other. That would have been easier. Cleaner. Less cruel, it happened because love had gotten buried under exhaustion.
Three kids in four years. His career. Your loneliness. Nights where you felt like a single mother with a partner who technically lived in the same house. Mornings where he came home from road trips and went straight into dad mode, but not partner mode. Arguments whispered in the kitchen because the twins were sleeping down the hall. Resentment packed silently into diaper bags, car seats, and bottles of children’s Tylenol.
Nate had loved you. You knew that, but sometimes being loved by him had felt like being loved from a distance.
And one night, after a fight that wasn’t really about the dishwasher, or his schedule, or your tone, you had finally said, “I can’t keep begging you to notice me.”
He had gone quiet, you had hated that silence, a week later, he moved into an apartment close enough for the kids, far enough for your heart.
Now he was here, months later, looking at you like he’d finally noticed everything and you were not going to make it easy for him,
Not when Cara still asked why Daddy didn’t sleep at home anymore, not when Romeo sometimes packed two of his favorite toys because he thought one house might get lonely without him, not when Leo had started saying “Daddy house” and “Mama house” like it was normal.
You had survived the heartbreak once, you weren’t handing him your heart again just because he had started bringing coffee and looking sorry “Are you coming to Cara’s recital tomorrow?” you asked, changing the subject.
Nate gave you a look. “Of course I am.”
“You said that like I insulted you.”
“Because you did.”
“Nate.”
“I’ll be there,” he said firmly. “Front row if she lets me.”
“She wants flowers.”
“She’ll get flowers.”
“Not roses. She said roses are for adults and princesses need tulips.”
“Pink?”
“Obviously.” His lips curved. “Obviously.” You looked away first, that was how it had been lately. Little exchanges that felt too much like before. Inside jokes neither of you had given permission to survive. Shared looks over the kids’ heads. His hand brushing yours when passing Leo’s sippy cup. His voice softening when he asked if you had eaten. Your body remembering him before your brain could stop it.
And Nate noticed every single time, he didn’t say anything, but he noticed, that was part of the problem. He was patient now.
Patient Nate was dangerous.
The next day, he showed up to Cara’s recital with pink tulips, a tiny bouquet of daisies for Romeo because “he might feel left out,” and a stuffed lion for Leo, who immediately tried to bite its ear.
Cara nearly combusted with joy “Daddy, you came!” Nate crouched in front of her, fixing the little sparkly clip in her hair that had started sliding sideways. “I told you I would.”
“You brought princess flowers.”
“Only the best princess flowers.” Cara beamed and threw herself into his arms, you watched from a few feet away, arms folded, trying not to soften. Trying not to remember the first time he held Cara and Romeo in the hospital, one twin in each arm, his eyes wet and terrified and proud.
He had looked at you then like you had created the whole universe, now he glanced up and caught you watching “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” His eyes dropped briefly to your dress. Nothing inappropriate. Nothing obvious. Just enough for you to notice “You look beautiful,” he said quietly.
Your heart betrayed you immediately, you gave him a dry look. “I’m at a preschool ballet recital, Nathan.”
“And?”
“And you don’t need to do that.”
“Do what?”
“That.”
“Tell you the truth?” You looked away, cheeks warming. “You’re impossible.”
“I used to be worse.” That made you pause, his voice was still light, but his eyes weren’t. You swallowed. “Yeah. You were.” He nodded once, accepting it. Not defending himself. Not making a joke. Not turning it into a fight “I know,” he said.
It was annoying how much that mattered, after the recital, Cara demanded both her parents in every photo. Not one with Mommy, then one with Daddy. Both. Together. Standing close “Closer,” she ordered, hands on her hips, still wearing her tutu.
“Cara,” you warned “No, Mommy. You’re too far.” Nate’s mouth twitched as he stepped closer, his arm hovering behind your back but not touching. Asking without asking.
You could have stepped away, you didn’t.
His hand settled carefully at the small of your back, warm. Familiar. Devastating, Romeo took the photo on your phone and somehow managed to include half the ceiling, Nate’s shoulder, your face, and Leo trying to escape “Perfect,” Nate said solemnly.
“It’s terrible,” you said, laughing before you could stop yourself.
Nate looked at you then, not the photo. Not the kids, You.
And the laughter died softly in your throat, for a moment, it felt like everything around you blurred. The noisy parents, the kids running in costumes, Leo babbling in Nate’s arms, Romeo yelling that he was a photographer now. Nate’s thumb moved once against your back, so slight you almost convinced yourself you imagined it.
You stepped away “I should get them home,” you said, Nate’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Yeah. Sure.”
He walked you to the car anyway, he buckled Leo in because Leo yelled, “Daddy do it!” and then he helped Romeo with his seatbelt because Romeo was “too busy protecting the truck.” Cara asked if Daddy was coming home for dinner.
The silence after that was brutal, you froze beside the open car door, Nate looked at Cara, then at you “Not tonight, sweetheart,” he said gently, Cara’s face fell. “Why?”
You gripped the door, Nate crouched beside her seat. “Because Mommy and Daddy have different houses right now.”
“But I don’t like different houses.”
“I know,” he said, voice rougher. “I know, baby.”
“Can you say sorry?” Your chest hurt, Nate’s expression shifted “I have,” he said quietly. “But sometimes saying sorry doesn’t fix things right away.”
Cara looked confused by that, because she was four and sorry usually fixed stolen crayons and accidental shoves, Nate kissed her forehead. “I’m working on it.”
That answer stayed with you all night, I’m working on it and he was.
You saw it in ways you didn’t want to, he stopped missing calls, even during travel days. He learned Leo’s daycare teacher’s name. He showed up early to pediatric appointments instead of five minutes late with an apology and coffee. He FaceTimed every night when he was on the road, not rushed, not distracted. He let the kids talk nonsense for twenty minutes if they wanted. He asked you things too. Real things.
How are you sleeping?
Did your meeting go okay?
Did you ever call the plumber about the sink?
Do you need me to take them Sunday morning so you can rest?
You kept your answers short, he kept asking anyway, then one Sunday morning, he showed up with breakfast, not for the kids.
For you.
The kids were with him that weekend, which meant you were supposed to have a quiet morning. Instead, at 8:15, your doorbell rang, and when you opened it, Nate stood there in sweatpants with a coffee tray, a brown paper bag, and a sheepish expression.
“No,” you said immediately, he blinked. “You don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“You’re doing that thing where you show up looking unfairly good and holding carbs.”
“I didn’t know carbs were manipulative.”
“With you? Everything is manipulative.” He huffed a laugh. “The kids are with my mom. She wanted them for a few hours.”
“So naturally you came here.”
“I brought your favorite.” You stared at him, he lifted the bag slightly, your stomach growled, Nate’s eyebrows rose “Don’t look proud,” you snapped.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“A little.” You should have shut the door, instead, you stepped aside.
He entered your house like he was trying not to breathe too loudly. Like he remembered that this was no longer his home, even though traces of him were everywhere. The framed picture in the hallway of him holding the twins after their first birthday cake disaster. The Avalanche hoodie you still wore when the kids were sick because it was oversized and soft. The mug he always used, still in the cupboard because throwing it away had felt too dramatic.
He set breakfast on the kitchen island, you took the coffee, he smiled faintly. “Still two sugars?”
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Remember things.” His face softened. “I remember everything.” your throat tightened, you hated that, you hated him a little for becoming this version of himself now “You can’t just…” You stopped, frustrated with yourself. “You can’t just bring coffee and look at me like that and expect me to forget how lonely I was.”
His smile disappeared “I don’t expect you to forget,” he said, you looked down at the cup in your hands “I was right there, Nate,” you whispered. “I was right there, in the same house, with your kids, loving you, waiting for you to come back to me. And you didn’t. Not really.”
He inhaled slowly, like the words physically hurt “I know.”
“You don’t get to say that and make it better.”
“I know that too.” You looked at him then, his eyes were red-rimmed, though he wasn’t crying. Nate had never been good at crying. Anger came easier to him. Focus. Stubbornness. Silence. But this version of him looked stripped down. Honest in a way that scared you.
“I failed you,” he said. “Not because I didn’t love you. I did. I do. But I thought providing was enough. I thought being there for the kids meant I was being there for you too, and it wasn’t. I left you alone in a life we built together.”
You pressed your lips together, he stepped closer, then stopped himself, hands flexing at his sides “I want you back,” he said. “I want our family back. But not because it’s easier or because I miss waking up here or because the kids want it. I mean, yeah, I miss all of that. I miss it so much it makes me feel sick sometimes. But I want you back because I love you, and I want to love you better than I did.”
Your eyes burned “Nate…”
“I’m not asking you to decide right now.”
“Good.” His mouth twitched sadly. “I know you’re playing hard to get.” You scoffed, even as a tear slipped down your cheek. “I am not playing.”
“No,” he said softly. “You’re protecting yourself.”
That broke something in you, you wiped the tear quickly, annoyed at yourself for giving him proof that he still had access to your heart “I don’t know how to trust this,” you admitted.
“Then don’t yet,” he said. “Make me earn it.”
And you did.
You made him earn every inch, when he asked you to dinner, you said no twice before saying yes to lunch. When he reached for your hand after walking the kids to the park, you let him touch your fingers for three seconds before pulling away. When he flirted with you in your kitchen while the twins painted at the table and Leo smeared applesauce on his shirt, you rolled your eyes and pretended your cheeks didn’t heat.
Nate took all of it.
Sometimes he even seemed amused by it “You know,” he said one evening while washing dishes after family dinner — family dinner, because Cara had insisted and because you had been too tired to argue — “you’re very stubborn.”
You dried a plate beside him. “I learned from the best.”
“Me?”
“Unfortunately.” He smiled. “I like when you insult me. Feels familiar.”
“Glad your standards are low.”
“My standards are extremely high. I’m in love with you.”
You nearly dropped the plate, Nate kept washing dishes like he hadn’t just cracked your chest open in the middle of your kitchen, you stared at him. “You can’t just say that.”
He glanced over. “Why not?”
“Because.”
“Because you’ll like it?”
“No.”
“Because you already do?” You narrowed your eyes. “You’re getting cocky.”
“I’ve been very well-behaved for weeks.”
“That doesn’t earn you cocky.”
“It earns me a little cocky.” You hated that you laughed, his smile softened at the sound, from the living room, Romeo yelled, “Daddy, Leo is eating the couch!”
Nate sighed, drying his hands. “That kid’s diet is concerning.” you followed him into the living room, where Leo was absolutely not eating the couch but was pressing his mouth dramatically against the cushion while Cara screamed that he was being a dog.
Nate scooped Leo up and flipped him over, making him shriek with laughter “No eating furniture, baby ” he said. “We talked about this.”
Leo giggled. “No.”
“Yes.”
“No.” Nate gasped. “Are you arguing with me?” Leo grabbed his face with both hands. “Dada.”
And then, because your life was apparently determined to ruin you, Nate looked over Leo’s head at you with such naked softness that your heart gave up pretending.
You loved him, still, again.
Maybe it had never stopped.
A few weeks later, after the kids had fallen asleep during a movie night at Nate’s apartment, you found yourself standing in his kitchen, staring at the fridge while he carried Leo to his crib.
There were drawings taped everywhere, Cara’s lopsided family portrait. Romeo’s monster truck. A handprint turkey Leo had made at daycare, though it looked more like a crime scene.
And in the center, held up by an Avalanche magnet, was a photo.
The terrible one from Cara’s recital, half ceiling. Nate’s shoulder. Your face laughing. Leo blurry. Romeo’s finger in the corner.
It was awful, it was perfect “You kept that?” you asked when Nate came back He looked at the photo. “Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Because you were laughing.” The answer was so simple that it hurt, you turned toward him, he stood a few feet away, hands in his pockets, watching you carefully.
“I miss you,” you said before you could lose your nerve, his whole face changed.
“Yeah?” You nodded, throat tight. “And I’m still mad at you.”
“I know.”
“And scared.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want to confuse the kids.”
“Me neither.”
“And if we do this, if we even try, you don’t get to halfway come back. You don’t get to make promises because you’re lonely and then forget them when life gets hard again.”
“I won’t.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No,” he admitted. “But I know I’ll fight harder than I did last time.” You stared at him, he stepped closer, slow enough that you could stop him.
You didn’t “I don’t want a new life,” he said quietly. “I want ours. Messy, loud, exhausting. Cara yelling at everyone like she runs the place. Romeo putting trucks in my shoes. Leo trying to eat furniture. You stealing my hoodies and pretending you hate when I call you beautiful.”
Your eyes filled again “I do hate it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” you whispered. “I don’t.” His hand lifted to your face, thumb brushing your cheek. You closed your eyes for half a second, leaning into him before you could overthink it.
Then he kissed you, it wasn’t desperate. Not at first. It was careful, almost questioning, like he was giving you every chance to change your mind. But you didn’t. You grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him closer, and Nate made a sound against your mouth that felt like relief, like pain, like coming home.
You kissed him until your chest ached, until months of distance collapsed into something warm and familiar.
Until one of you — you weren’t even sure who — whispered, “I missed you,” and the other answered, “I’m here.”
After that, things shifted, not all at once, you were still careful. Nate still lived at his apartment. You still made him prove that he could be consistent, present, patient. But he came over more. Stayed for bedtime. Made breakfast on Saturdays. Took the kids so you could sleep. Took you on dates that sometimes ended with him kissing you against your front door like teenagers, both of you trying not to laugh when the baby monitor crackled from inside.
The twins noticed first, of course, Cara was suspiciously pleased “Daddy kissed Mommy,” she announced one morning over pancakes.
Romeo dropped his fork. “On the mouth?” Nate choked on his coffee, you closed your eyes. “Cara.”
“he did!” Cara insisted. “I saw it!” Romeo turned to Nate, deeply serious. “Are you married again?” Nate cleared his throat, cheeks pink. “That’s not how it works, buddy.”
“Why?”
“Because…” Nate looked at you helplessly, you smiled sweetly. “Go ahead.” He narrowed his eyes at you “Because grown-up stuff takes time,” he said finally, Romeo considered this. “But you love Mommy?”
The room went still, Nate looked at you first then at Romeo “Yeah,” he said softly. “I love Mommy very much.”
Cara smiled into her pancakes like she had orchestrated the entire thing, you had no doubt she had.
The pregnancy test happened on a Tuesday.
You had been feeling strange for days. Tired in a way that sleep didn’t fix. Nauseous at smells that normally didn’t bother you. Emotional enough that you cried because Leo said “Mama pretty” while holding a banana.
At first, you blamed stress.
Then dates started lining up in your head, one night, Nate’s apartment, the kids asleep, a kiss that turned into more, a second chance that apparently had very immediate consequences.
You bought the test after preschool drop-off and stared at it on the bathroom counter like it might change if you glared hard enough, it didn’t.
Pregnant.
You sat on the edge of the bathtub, one hand over your mouth, the other resting instinctively on your stomach “Oh my God,” you whispered.
It wasn’t fear exactly, it wasn’t regret. it was shock, overwhelming, dizzying shock.
You and Nate had three kids. Three beautiful, chaotic, beloved kids. You were only just finding your way back to each other. You hadn’t even fully explained it to the twins yet. Nate hadn’t moved home. You hadn’t decided what forever looked like now.
And now there was another baby, Nate’s baby, your baby, a fourth little person created in the fragile space between heartbreak and healing.
You didn’t tell him right away, not because you wanted to hide it. Not because you doubted him, because you needed one day where the news belonged only to you.
You spent that afternoon watching the kids play in the backyard, your hand drifting to your stomach again and again.
Cara was bossing Romeo around in a game that had unclear rules. Romeo was yelling that his dragon truck couldn’t be grounded. Leo was sitting in the grass trying to put leaves into a bucket with intense concentration.
Four.
You imagined another baby there. Another high chair. Another car seat. Another tiny MacKinnon face with your eyes or Nate’s stubborn chin.
Your chest tightened, when Nate arrived that evening, he knew immediately, that was the worst part, he walked through the door, kissed Leo’s head, let Cara wrap herself around his leg, listened to Romeo explain a complicated truck emergency, and still his eyes found yours.
“What’s wrong?” he asked quietly.
“Nothing.” He gave you a look, you exhaled. “Can we talk after bedtime?” His face went pale, you hated that his first instinct was fear.
“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Bedtime took forever.
Cara needed water. Romeo needed to know whether sharks slept. Leo cried because Nate wouldn’t let him bring a wooden block into the crib.
By the time the house was quiet, Nate looked like he was preparing to be stabbed, you stood in the kitchen, arms crossed over your chest.
He didn’t sit, neither did you “You’re scaring me,” he said finally “I’m pregnant.” The silence was instant, complete.
Nate blinked, once, twice “What?” you let out a shaky breath. “I’m pregnant.” his eyes dropped to your stomach, then back to your face.
“preg…” you raised an eyebrow through your nerves. “Nathan.” “I know,” he said quickly, flustered in a way Nate almost never was. “I know. I just—”
“You asked.”
“I panicked.” Despite everything, you laughed, the sound broke him out of whatever shock had frozen him. He stepped closer, then stopped “Are you okay?” he asked.
That was the first thing he asked, not how. Not when. Not what now , Are you okay?
Your eyes filled “I think so,” you whispered. “I don’t know. I’m overwhelmed.”
“Yeah,” he breathed. “Yeah, that’s fair.”
“I know this is a lot. We’re barely—”
“We’re not barely anything,” he said, voice firm but gentle. “We’re us. You looked away, tears slipping down your cheeks.
“Nate.” He came closer then, carefully taking your hands “I’m scared too,” he admitted. “Not of the baby. Never of the baby. Just… of messing this up. Of not being what you need. But I want this. I want you. I want all of it.”
“You already have three kids who treat your body like playground equipment.” he smiled, eyes wet. “What’s one more?” you let out a watery laugh. “Insane thing to say.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.” He dropped to his knees in front of you, your breath caught “Nate…” He placed both hands gently on your waist, looking up at you with an expression so open it made your knees weak “I missed this,” he whispered.
“You missed me being pregnant and threatening to murder you because I couldn’t sleep?”
“Yes.”
“You’re romanticizing.”
“Probably.”
“I threw up for five months with Leo.”
“I remember.”
“You cried when Cara and Romeo were born.”
“I’ll cry again.” Your hand slipped into his hair, and he leaned into your touch immediately “I don’t want this baby to be the reason we get back together,” you whispered.
Nate shook his head. “They’re not.”
“They?” He smiled faintly. “Could be twins again.” you smacked his shoulder. “Don’t you dare put that into the universe.” He laughed, pressing his forehead gently to your stomach. “Sorry. Baby. Singular. Hi, baby.”
Your heart cracked wide open “You’re ridiculous,” you whispered “I know.” he kissed your stomach once, so softly you barely felt it, then he looked up at you “I was already coming back,” he said. “Before this. I need you to know that.”
“I do.”
“I love you.”
“I know.” his eyebrows lifted, you smiled through your tears “And I love you too.”
Nate stood so fast you barely had time to breathe before he was kissing you, his hands framing your face, your tears caught between you. This kiss was different from the first one after the separation. Less cautious. Less afraid. Still tender, but certain now, like both of you had finally stopped standing in the doorway.
A month later, Nate moved home, the kids reacted exactly as expected, Cara screamed, Romeo asked if Daddy’s house was dead now, Leo carried one of Nate’s shoes around for twenty minutes yelling “Dada home!” like a tiny town crier.
And you stood in the bedroom doorway watching Nate unpack his clothes into the dresser you had never fully emptied, he caught you staring “What?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re doing that thing.”
“What thing?”
“Looking at me like you’re trying not to smile.” You failed immediately, he crossed the room and wrapped his arms around you from behind, one hand resting carefully over the small swell that had only recently begun to show “Hi,” he murmured against your neck.
“Hi.”
“You okay?”
“Tired.”
“Hungry?”
“Always.”
“Nauseous?”
“Don’t say the word.” he kissed your shoulder. “Sorry.” from downstairs, Romeo yelled, “LEO PUT TOILET PAPER IN THE DOG WATER!” you and Nate froze “we don’t have a dog,” he said.
“I know.” then both of you ran, life did not become perfect.
It became yours again.
Nate still had road trips. You still had days where exhaustion made you short-tempered. The kids still tested every ounce of patience either of you had. Cara once announced to her preschool teacher that Mommy had a baby in her belly because Daddy “moved back in and kissed her a lot,” which led to the most humiliating pickup of your life. Romeo asked if the baby could be named Truck. Leo remained deeply committed to chaos.
But now, when Nate came home, he came home fully, he found you in the laundry room when you cried over tiny baby clothes you thought you’d packed away forever. He sat on the bathroom floor with you during morning sickness, rubbing your back and letting Leo sit in his lap because the toddler refused to be excluded from any family crisis. He took the twins to practice and came home with a video of Cara telling Cale Makar that she was going to be “a big sister again but already a big sister before,” while Romeo skated in circles yelling that the baby was going to play hockey.
At your first ultrasound, Nate held your hand so tightly you had to whisper, “You’re going to break my fingers.”
“Sorry,” he said, loosening his grip for exactly three seconds before tightening it again, then the heartbeat filled the room. Fast, strong, real.
Nate went completely still, you looked over, his eyes were wet “Don’t,” you whispered, already crying. “I’m not doing anything.”
“You’re crying.”
“So are you.”
“I’m pregnant. I’m allowed.”
“I’m the father. I’m allowed.” You laughed through your tears, and he kissed your knuckles, on the screen, your fourth baby flickered in grainy black and white.
One baby.
Not twins.
You made sure the technician confirmed it twice, just so Nate could stop looking smug about his earlier comment.
That night, after the kids were asleep, you and Nate curled together on the couch. His hand rested on your stomach, thumb moving slowly over the fabric of your shirt “Do you ever think about it?” he asked quietly.
“About what?”
“How close we got to losing this for good.” you were silent for a moment “Yeah,” you admitted. “I do.” his jaw tightened. “I hate myself for that sometimes.”
You turned in his arms. “I don’t want you to hate yourself.”
“I hurt you.”
“You did,” you said softly. “But you came back differently.” His eyes searched yours. “Am I doing enough?” you touched his face. “Yes.” the relief in his expression was almost painful “I’m still going to mess up sometimes,” he said “So am I.”
“I don’t want to be your regret.”
“You’re not.” He swallowed “You’re my second chance,” you whispered. “But you’re also my first love, Nate. That never changed.”
He kissed you slowly, one hand still protective over the baby, the other cradling the back of your head.
Months later, when your belly was round and impossible to hide, when Cara had decided the baby was definitely a girl because she “needed backup,” when Romeo still campaigned passionately for the name Truck, and when Leo had begun kissing your stomach every night before kissing Nate’s cheek, you realized something.
You had not gone back to what you had before, you had built something better, something more careful, something chosen.
One snowy evening, Nate came home from practice to find all three kids asleep in the living room, tangled in blankets after a movie. Cara’s head rested against Romeo’s shoulder. Romeo had one arm around Leo. Leo was clutching the stuffed lion Nate had bought him months ago.
You stood in the kitchen, one hand on your back, the other on your stomach, Nate came up behind you and kissed your temple “Hey, Mama,” he murmured, you leaned back into him. “Hey.”
He rested his hands on your belly, and the baby kicked almost immediately, nate smiled against your hair. “They know me.”
“They know you’re loud.”
“I’m not loud.” You looked toward the sleeping kids, as if on cue, Leo shifted and mumbled, “Dada home.”
Nate’s face softened completely “Yeah, buddy,” he whispered, even though Leo was asleep. “Dada’s home.”
You turned in his arms, looking up at him, for a long time, neither of you said anything, you didn’t need to.
The house was messy. The kids were sprawled everywhere. There were toys under the couch, dishes in the sink, and a fourth baby growing between you. Your life was loud, imperfect, and nothing like the simple version of love you once thought you’d have.
But Nate was there, really there, his hands on you. His heart open. His family under one roof again and when he bent down to kiss you, slow and warm in the quiet kitchen, you smiled against his mouth, because this time, when Nathan MacKinnon came home, he stayed.
c/w ❀.ೃ࿔ angst, silent treatment, he logs into reader’s IG, hurt/comfort, miscommunication, #male tears, groveling, one-sided voicemails, make-up sex, oral (fem receiving), unprotected p in v, praise, jersey stays on, creampie, spanking, pet names (baby, babydoll, sweetheart, honey, pretty + no y/n) + dean climbs onto reader’s roof ❀⊰ *
By the seventh day, Dean had officially decided something was wrong with your phone.
Not because you never got mad at him—you absolutely did—but because this wasn’t how you fought. You’d tell him exactly what he did wrong. You expected him to listen. You expected the two of you to work through it together. But seven straight days without a single word? That wasn’t you.
He’d texted enough times that your conversation sat permanently pinned to the top of his messages. Half of them had gone unanswered. The other half were just him talking to himself because apparently he couldn’t stop.
Links to TikTok edits that reminded him of the two of you. A screenshot of some guy getting absolutely leveled during practice because he knew you’d laugh. A question about how much sugar he needs for those cookies he loves.
Then the inevitable spiral. You okay? Baby? You still mad? Can you at least tell me if you’re still alive? Nothing.
His foot bounced impatiently against the hardwood while he stared at his phone for what had to be the fiftieth time that afternoon. One more text couldn’t make it any worse than it already was.
. ݁₊ ⊹ 📱.ᐟ.ᐟ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝙱𝚊𝚋𝚢?
He watched the little “Delivered” appear underneath it. Still nothing.
Dean dragged a hand over his face before opening Instagram instead. He was running out of places to check.
Maybe you’d posted something. Maybe you’d liked somebody’s story. Hell, maybe you’d accidentally give him some tiny sign you weren’t planning on pretending he didn’t exist forever.
Your profile loaded. Then it disappeared. He frowned, searching for your username again. Not found.
He closed the app and opened it again.
Nothing.
His eyebrows pulled together as he leaned back against the kitchen counter, thumb tapping impatiently against the side of his phone. He muttered to himself, shaking his head.
You, meanwhile, had just finished throwing a load of towels into the dryer when your own phone buzzed across the kitchen island.
Hadn’t you blocked him? You distinctly remembered pressing the button. You’d even smiled a little afterward because you knew it’d drive him insane. You opened his profile. Sure enough. Following.
You scowled, blocked him again, tossed your phone back onto the counter, and went back to the towels.
This time you stopped folding altogether. “…Absolutely not.”
You opened your settings again. Your blocked list was empty.
You stared at the screen for a long second before another thought crossed your mind.
Slowly, you reached for your laptop instead.
Two minutes later you were staring at your account activity, and there it was. One active login. MacBook.
Your eyes narrowed. “Fucking asshole.”
You didn’t even hesitate this time, changing your password completely, logging out of all devices, adding two-factor authentication as a giant fuck you.
Your phone started ringing before you could even set it back down. ˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗 𝙳𝚒 𝙻𝚊𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚜
You watched it buzz until it stopped. Then it started again. And again. By the fifth call your curiosity finally got the better of you. You answered without saying a word, lifting the phone to your ear while you folded another towel.
“Baby? Holy shit. Hi—Hey,” his voice cracked nervously, fumbling over his words. You stayed silent, folding your laundry, listening to his heavy breathing on the other end of the phone. “Sweetheart?”
You let the washer lid fall with a clap, giving him the only sign of life he deserved for the moment.
“Uh… did you…” He cleared his throat. “Did you change your Instagram password or somethin’?” he asked casually, like that’s a normal thing.
You smoothed the towel across the counter, stacked it neatly with the others, and reached for another. Dean let out a long breath through his nose, his frustration building on the other end.
“Babydoll?”
Silence.
“Honey?”
Still nothing.
“Are you for real?” he asked, his voice tightening with frustration. “I know I pissed you off. I deserve some of this, alright? But all of it? Why are you shuttin’ me out?” He lets out another breath. “Please, baby.”
You stopped for half a second before reaching for another towel.
“Yell at me… Tell me to fuck off. At least tell me to stop calling. Just talk to me—” You heard a commotion on the other end of the phone—Garrett and Tucker walking through the kitchen, talking about something he couldn’t even make out, Logan yelling about his blue tie and where the fuck it was.
Dean clears his throat, forcing some of the softness out of his voice before Garrett or Tucker can hear it. Even though this weeklong silent treatment had lasted six days and twenty-three hours too long, he still knew you’d be at his game.
You always come.
So he keeps grabbing onto that instead.
You’ll yell at him after if you want. Hell, maybe you’ll wait until they’re back at the house and tear him apart in private. He can live with that.
Silence leaves too much room to think, and every time he lets himself, he ends up somewhere worse than before.
“I love you, baby. I’ll see you tonight, alright? Left you some tickets at will-call like always. Just—wish me luck. Something?” Click.
You hang up before you can give him what he wants, already picturing the look on his face.
The ride to the arena feels longer than usual because pretending he isn’t worried in front of the boys is harder than he thought it’d be.
The locker room is loud, music echoing off the concrete walls while sticks clatter against the lockers, equipment bags unzipping and dropping to the floor, the conversations he should be paying attention to like static.
He sits at his stall, staring at his phone one last time before dropping it into his bag. Nothing. No texts. No missed calls. No miracle message telling him to quit overthinking it. You’ll be there after the game.
His fingers fumble his helmet strap twice before it finally clicks into place. He mutters under his breath, frustrated by a task that should’ve been simple. Garrett finally nudges him. Dean ignores it, so the second one comes a little harder.
“You good?” Garrett asks through a weak laugh, searching for Dean’s eyes.
“Yeah,” he hums.
“Everything alright?”
“Great.”
Garrett snorts out a laugh, leaning into a locker, arms crossing over his chest. “…Everything good with your girl?” he asks. “Feels like I haven’t seen her around.”
The words hit harder than Dean expects, and for half a second, he nearly tells him—says he hasn’t heard your voice in almost a week. No texts. Nothing but one-sided voicemails and desperate pleas for anything. That you blocked him. That he got himself kicked out of your Instagram twice before you changed your password.
That he’s one missed hockey game away from driving to your place and refusing to leave until you look at him.
“‘Course it is. She’s just…” Dean shrugs without looking up. “She’s got a bunch of shit goin’ on with school. Just busy.”
“Yeah?” Garrett tears a fresh piece of hockey tape between his teeth, glancing over. “Doesn’t seem like her.”
No, it doesn’t.
Dean can’t even come up with something in reply.
“We’ll catch up with you guys after the game. We just got into it a little bit. Stupid shit. Nothin’ serious.”
Garrett nods, the answer believable enough to let it go for the moment.
The team skates onto the ice to the roar of the crowd, lights flashing around the arena while the student section pounds against the glass.
Dean skates his usual lap, eyes drifting toward the section where you always sit. The girls you usually come with are already there.
Your seat is empty.
His stomach sinks and by the time they line up for the national anthem, Dean catches himself looking over a third time before forcing his eyes back toward center ice.
The puck drops, and from the first shift he knows he’s in trouble.
Every decision feels a stride behind. His reads come just a little too late. By the second period he’s taken an interference penalty trying to recover from another mistake, left sitting in the box staring at the far end of the rink while the game carried on without him.
The scoreboard keeps getting uglier. Four goals against, then five. Every time he hops over the boards he tells himself to wake the fuck up, and every shift somehow ends worse than the one before it.
The final horn sounds sixty miserable minutes later, leaving Briar with a six-to-one loss. He barely remembers lining up to tap gloves with his teammates before they drift toward the tunnel. Barely remembers skating off the ice.
Dean drags both hands over his face, standing in front of his stall as the room empties around him like he’d forgotten what he was supposed to do next. He’s exhausted, pissed off, embarrassed as fuck, and somehow still thinking about you instead of the scoreboard.
He wants to be mad at you. He really does. It would be so much easier. Instead, all he can think about is the fact that if he’d acted right in the first place, none of this would’ve happened. Whatever the hell he did, it was bad enough to make you do things you normally wouldn’t. Hell, Graham said it best. “This isn’t like you.”
His phone is already in his hand before he’s even halfway down the hallway, thumb hitting your contact out of muscle memory more than anything else. The call doesn’t even get a chance to ring.
Straight to voicemail.
His jaw flexes, nostrils flaring as his grip tightens around the strap of his hockey bag. Water wicks off his hair, not even bothering to fully towel off before running out the door.
Another call. Another voicemail.
The doors slide open and cold night air hits his soaked skin as he steps into the parking lot. The other team filters toward their bus, still laughing about the game as Dean fishes his keys from his bag without slowing down.
“Rough one tonight, Di Laurentis,” an enforcer from the other team hollers lazily, tossing his bag into the side of the bus.
Dean ignores it—ignores the snickering that follows from the opposing team. Garrett yells something back in Dean’s defense, but he barely hears it over the pounding in his head.
“Guess somebody forgot how to play defense.”
“Fuck you,” Dean barks and Garrett grabs him by the shirt, holding him where he is with a heavy hand.
“Let it go, alright?” he says calmly. “You got shit you wanna do, yeah?”
The chuckles die down, but his blood is still simmering. Garrett nods Tucker and Logan toward his Jeep. Something ugly climbs up the back of his throat before he can swallow it down.
He presses your contact again as he sinks into his car. This time, he can’t hold it in. When the beep comes, the frustration that’s been building for a week finally boils over.
“So that’s it, huh? You’re seriously gonna keep doin’ this? Blocking me, changing your password, ignoring my texts—what, now you can’t even pick up the fucking phone?” His voice comes out sharper than he intends, the words practically tripping over each other.
He turns over the engine, letting out a humorless laugh. “Grow up. If you’re pissed, use your fucking words. Tell me you never wanna see me again. But quit pullin’ this silent treatment bullshit because it’s driving me fuckin’ insane.”
His foot slams on the gas, his car screaming toward the exit as he peels out of the lot, breathing so heavily he can hear it in the receiver of his phone.
“You don’t get to disappear when you’re angry. That’s not how this works.” Beep.
The silence afterward is deafening, weighing heavy on his shoulders. It barely has time to settle before his stomach turns and the guilt washes over him like a wave.
The second the adrenaline starts bleeding off, he knows none of that was what he wanted to say. Not a single fucking word.
You hadn’t screamed at him. You hadn’t called him names. You hadn’t done anything except refuse to answer him.
And he’d just repaid that by leaving the kind of voicemail he’d hate hearing from anyone he loved.
His eyes sting with unfallen tears, his chest aching as his speed creeps higher than it should while the phone rings and rings.
“…Hey,” he breathes, emotion clinging to his words. “So… That last voicemail…” He rubs the heel of his hand across his forehead, dragging away the sweat as he turns into the gas station a block away from your place.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, stepping out of the car. “I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.”
He drags the sleeve of his sweatshirt across his eyes, turning his hat to the front—lower than before, head down as he grabs a bouquet of flowers.
“And I know I said you disappear when you’re angry. That’s not fuckin’ true. You don’t do that. I know that—you know that. This—this isn’t like you, and I still talked to you like it was.”
He walks up to the register, pinning the phone between his shoulder and cheek as he fumbles for his wallet, hand trembling as he flips past the picture he has of you tucked inside, grabbing his card, jogging out as soon as “approved” flashes across the screen.
“That game, baby. That was the worst game I’ve played since I’ve been at Briar. Got yelled at by Coach for a half hour. Got chirped by those pricks from the other team on the way out,” he mutters as he pulls out onto your street. “I took it out on you. I’m pissed off. I’m embarrassed. None of that’s your fault and I made it your problem.”
The phone stays pressed against his ear, capturing the silence. The wordlessness was never the problem. The two of you had always been good at that. But now every time he glances toward the passenger seat, it’s dark and empty. That little smile that’s always waiting for him when he looks over is gone.
And he still doesn’t have an answer.
He’s gone looking for it more than once this week.
He knows where you study and where you stop for coffee between classes. He knows which parking lot you leave your car in during the afternoons.
And somehow all of that only makes it worse. It’s painfully obvious you’re avoiding him.
He’s driven past your house enough times this week to notice you finally fixed the little porch light that used to flicker above the front door.
Every time he gets close, he talks himself out of it. The texts and phone calls already feel like they’re pushing the line. Showing up uninvited means admitting this isn’t just another argument.
It means admitting he might actually be losing you.
If you wanted him there, you’d open the door.
His throat tightens and his hands curl around the steering wheel. “Don’t…” The words scrape past his lips into the phone, so soft and broken you probably won’t even catch them when you play the voicemail back—if you play it back. “Don’t fucking cry.”
His head falls back against the headrest, his arms going rigid as he stares through the windshield. His mind circles the last few weeks again, picking through every conversation, every plan, every promise he’s made.
And still, nothing.
What the fuck did I do, baby?
His thumbs tap nervously against the steering wheel as he pulls up to your house.
For the first time all week, your bedroom window is glowing in the dark.
“I’m here. I’m gonna figure out what’s wrong. I’m gonna apologize. And, I’m gonna make it right, alright? I’m a fucking mess without you.” Beep.
He kills the engine, grabs the flowers, and climbs out into the cool night air. Gravel crunches beneath his shoes as he makes his way up the sidewalk, every step giving him another opportunity to rehearse what he’s going to say.
By the time he reaches the porch, his heart is pounding hard enough to feel it in his throat. He shifts the bouquet into one hand and knocks twice against the front door, the sound echoing through the quiet neighborhood before everything falls still again.
Dean waits, listening hard—nothing. No footsteps. No doors. No muffled voice telling him to give you a second. Just silence.
His stomach twists as the realization settles in. You heard the knock. You heard the bell. And, even though you know exactly who’s standing on your front porch, and you’re choosing not to answer.
Maybe it was the voicemail sitting in your phone. Or, maybe that was just a new addition to the laundry list of bullshit that got him to this point.
He lets out a long breath through his nose before stepping off the porch, backing into the yard so he can see your window a little better.
“Baby!” His voice carries through the stillness of the neighborhood before fading away.
Nothing.
He bends down, picking up a rock, rolling it once between his fingers, before he tosses it. Pop. The little stone kisses the glass with a soft tap before bouncing harmlessly away, clicking against the siding and falling back to the pavement below.
His eyes stay fixed on the window.
The flowers hang forgotten at his side while he waits. “C’mon, baby. Please,” he mumbles under his breath.
What the hell happens after this? Sleep in his car? Sit on your porch until sunrise? One more try.
His fingers close around the smooth stone, drawing back, but something catches his eye. The window—cracked open just enough that he barely notices it.
You can ignore his calls. You can ignore the doorbell. You can ignore the knocks and rocks, but he isn’t going home knowing you’re twenty feet away with your bedroom window open. Absolutely not.
The thought of leaving after the week he’d had, the voicemail he wishes he could take back, and the worst game of his career makes his chest tighten all over again.
He looks up, your bedroom turning glassy behind the tears gathering in his eyes.
He pinches his tear ducts between his big fingers, blowing out a breath. His eyes drift toward the side of the house, to the old wooden lattice that climbs to the roof—thick vines and bright flowers—something he’s seen a hundred times over but never seriously considered climbing it.
Because he’d always assumed he’d be welcome through the front door—climbing to your bedroom was never supposed to be the easier option.
He walks toward the lattice, staring down at the flowers for a second, before he lifts the cellophane-wrapped stems to his lips, biting down before he starts to climb.
The wood protests, letting out a long creak that sounds like a warning. A sharp snap echoing through the breezeway when he doesn’t listen, then a sharp crack that has him looking down at just how far he made it.
By the time he finally hauls himself to the roof, he’s sweating and panting, letting the flowers tumble from his mouth into his limp hand. He lifts his hand, tugging his hat from the front to the back, mentally preparing for whatever happens next.
Dean steadies himself against the old shingles before carefully making his way across the shallow slope of the roof—shoes scraping against the weathered surface while his hand trails along the siding for balance.
His hand finds the window frame before his eyes do.
You’re curled up in bed, laptop glowing softly, lighting up the space around you. You’re facing away from the window entirely, watching some old movie on the network he knows airs right after his game.
You snuggle a little more into your blanket, Dean’s away jersey draped over your frame, just a pair of little black panties peeking out the bottom. He exhales through his nose, taking in the rest of your room, following the little trail that got you there—your discarded jeans, sneakers, your jacket, and at the very end of the line your keys.
You were supposed to be at the game.
You made it right to the point of cracking before talking yourself out of it because you were still too angry to watch him play.
His stomach twists. He’d spent the last seven days missing you, but somehow knowing you almost came hurts even worse than if you’d never considered it at all.
Dean doesn’t think. He reaches forward and wraps both hands around the edge of the window, the old frame sliding upward with a rough scrape.
“…Don’t you fucking dare, Dean.” Your voice cuts through the silence, making him flinch, his feet stumbling a little on the roof.
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head once as though maybe he’d misheard you.
“Just leave.”
“Well…” He gestures helplessly toward the open window, still trying to smile through the knot twisting tighter in his stomach. “You’re talking to me now… so?” His shoulders lift in a helpless shrug. “Why would I leave?”
Your eyes don’t leave his as you slam your laptop shut and step off the bed. “Yeah?” you ask quietly, the softness in your voice somehow making him more uneasy than if you’d screamed. “And why the hell would you listen to me?”
Dean’s eyebrows pinch together, his heart ramping up at your words. Without another word, Dean lets go of the window frame completely.
Even though he doesn’t fully understand what he did, he knows whatever it was, he’s still doing it.
He lowers himself until he’s sitting on the roof beneath your window, his back settling against the old siding with a dull thud.
He stretches his long legs out in front of him, setting the bouquet beside him, dragging his clammy hands down his thighs.
Dean finally clears his throat, his voice coming out rough enough that it barely carries through the open window. “Please.” He swallows hard, fingers knotting together between his knees. “Please just talk to me, baby.”
The silence stretches in the space he’d hoped you’d fill.
“I miss you,” he whispers. “I need you. I...” He rubs a hand over the back of his neck before tipping his head against the siding, finally finding the nerve to look back through the window. “I don’t know what else to do to make it better, but I will.”
He watches your face for any sign at all that you’re softening, finding none. The uncertainty in his chest only grows heavier before he speaks.
“You’re killin’ me.”
Dean blinks at you through the window as you look back at him like you’re trying to decide whether this conversation is even worth having.
“Baby—”
“Don’t ‘baby’ me,” you mumble, grabbing the frame to shut it, but he rests his fist down, not letting it fall.
“Can’t,” the word breaks past his lips. “I know I fucked up. I know I don’t get to tell you when to forgive me. But I can’t do another night of this. I’m not gonna climb through your window. It’s clear you don’t want me in there. I’m not forcing anything. I’m just sitting here begging you to talk to me.”
“Fucking finally, Dean.”
“What am I missing, baby? Holy shit,” his voice breaks.
“Stop calling me baby right now. I’m not—I’m your baby when it’s convenient for you.”
“What?” he asks, the crease between his brows deepening. “What does that even mean?”
“Why do you suddenly care?”
“I've always cared about you—”
“Always?” you ask with a breathless laugh.
“Yes, always. When haven’t I?”
“Making reservations because my boyfriend couldn’t be bothered to call the restaurant when you told me you’d handle it—”
“I—”
“You forgot. So I made them.”
“Okay,” he answers, shifting on his forearms, desperate to get closer, but the glass stays between you. “I just… I didn’t. I don’t know. I'm sorry—”
“I'm not done.”
His eyes widen on yours, taken aback, his big frame seeming to shrink a little. “Of course,” he assures you quickly.
“I waited all week for you to do it yourself. When I finally called, they told me you never did. So I did. I did my hair. I put on that dress you said you liked. I sat there waiting for your text after the game.”
Dean’s stomach twists because he already knows where this is going. Before he’d texted you, he’d already assured the boys you wouldn’t mind—speaking for you. Without you.
“You texted me let’s do Malone’s.”
“Okay,” he whispers, careful not to cut you short this time.
“And then you said we'd swing through there on our way out.”
“I remember,” he breathes.
“Do you think an Italian restaurant is open after bar close?”
He looks down at your hands braced on the window, his heart breaking even more seeing how much you don’t want him inside.
“No. I think they’d be closed, honey. I’m sorry.”
“Of course they would be. You know what I ate for dinner that night?” you ask, and he purses his lips because honestly he doesn’t know.
“What did you eat?” he asks softly.
“Dry cereal after you passed out when you were done fucking me. Alone in your fucking kitchen after I was done playing captain’s girlfriend all damn night.”
His stomach sinks and the blood drains from his face. “Woah—hey, sweetheart. C'mon," he panics. “That’s not what this is—”
“I kept telling myself it wasn’t a big deal. Hockey season. Captain stuff. Team bonding.”
“You know I wasn’t trying to—”
“I’ve done every single thing you’ve wanted to do because I wanted to spend time with you. I asked for one dinner. One.”
He swallows hard, lashes fluttering as he nods, because for the moment that’s all he can manage without breaking completely before he speaks.
“I want to spend time with you too. That’s why I ask you to come with me. I didn’t know that’s how you were feeling.”
“I keep telling you what I want, and you keep telling me how it’s going to work. You don’t listen to what I want.”
“I’m sorry, sweetheart.”
“So I stopped…” you whisper, voice tight as you see his eyes shimmer with tears. “I stopped asking. I stopped texting. I stopped calling.”
Dean lifts the sleeve of his sweatshirt, wiping the wet away after it tumbles down his cheeks.
“It took me disappearing for you to finally care.”
He can’t even defend himself anymore because every single thing you’ve said is true—cancelled plans, “let’s do this instead,” “after practice,” “just one beer.”
Every promise turned into another night surrounded by hockey while you quietly lowered your expectations.
“And look,” you sigh, your voice fraying at the edges. “Look how much time you have when you think you’re gonna lose something you love.”
“I didn’t know what to do. I just wanted to get your attention. I didn’t know how to handle this, okay? I didn’t know what I did. I was just—”
“How’s it feel?” you ask, cutting off his rambling, nodding at the bouquet.
“What?” he asks.
“Desperately fighting for someone’s attention?” you whisper, your eyes lingering on the little white tag still hanging from the plastic wrap before you look back at him. “I wouldn’t even say you’re there yet. Tag’s still on them, Dean. $2.99? Really?”
He opens his mouth to apologize again, but you don’t let him.
“This probably wasn’t even a part of your gameplan. You didn’t plan anything because you didn’t think you had to.”
Your voice stays level, but every word lands with more weight than the last.
“You thought I’d be in my seat like I always am. You thought I’d meet you after the game like I always do. You thought you’d say you’re sorry, I’d forgive you because I always have, and we’d move on.” You give a small shake of your head. “You didn’t plan for me not to show up.”
He looks away, unable to face you for the moment, gathering the courage to look back at you, drawing in a shaky breath.
“That’s why you’re here, Dean,” you say softly. “Not because you had some grand gesture planned. Because the bare minimum stopped working.”
“Sweetheart…” he starts carefully, his voice softer than it’s been all night. “We’re halfway through the season. It’s been a lot. I know that.” He nods to himself like he’s finally found the answer. “But it’s not forever. Think about this summer.”
A tired smile tries to find its way onto his face. “We practically lived together. We stayed up ’til three in the morning watching shitty movies. We took road trips because we could. Dates all the time. We were good.” His eyes lock onto yours. “We get through this season and everything goes right back to normal.”
A laugh escapes you before you can stop it, and Dean knows it’s the wrong answer.
You shake your head slowly, looking down at your hands before meeting his eyes again. “I’m not waiting for an entire hockey season to get my boyfriend back. I’m not gonna do this—”
“No. No, hey. I thought you were just giving me the silent treatment,” he blurts, voice shattering around the admission. “Please don’t…” He shakes his head, whatever composure he’d been clinging to finally slipping away. “Don’t break up with me. Please.”
“We’re still together.”
He swallows hard, nodding as his head hangs between his shoulders, tears slipping off his cheeks onto the shingles. “Thank you.”
“You asked me to put our relationship on hold until hockey’s over, and you don’t even realize that’s what you said.”
“I know,” he whispers.
“I don’t want the version of you that’s available when the season ends. I want the one who’s supposed to be my boyfriend while it’s happening—and before you even get it into your head that I’m asking for too much… I’m not. And, it wasn’t just this. It was a bunch of little moments exactly like this.”
He nods in agreement, waiting for more.
“I’m asking for a date once in a while, Dean.”
“Of course, honey.”
“I’m asking for a night where I don’t have to split my boyfriend with twenty hockey players. And, I’m asking that you stick to that plan. Three things. That’s it. If you can’t manage that…” you say quietly, “…then that’s okay.”
“What?” he asks, moving closer like he heard you wrong because nothing about this situation is okay.
“Really. It is. Just means you can’t handle being in a relationship right now. Maybe that’s where you’re at, and I’d respect you a hell of a lot more if you just admitted it.” The words land squarely between the two of you. “Because I’m not spending the few months letting you decide everything we do before summer starts.”
“Of course.”
“And if you can’t give me that, then you can’t handle me.”
Dean bites his cheek, nodding as he takes in every word.
“This summer was amazing… you’re right. Why do you think I’m still here?”
“‘Cause you love me?” he asks pathetically.
“Obviously.”
“I know. I love you too,” he mumbles.
“I know who you are, Dean. That’s why this hurts so much.” You gesture between the two of you. “Because I know you’re capable of loving me better than this.”
His eyes fall to the shitty bouquet by his side, the ones he bought in a panic, his brain on autopilot. The sale sticker covering the barcode only adding insult to injury—the fact that it’s your least favorite color landing like the final nail in his coffin. He pulls the little price tag off the plastic wrap, crumples it into his fist.
“I hate that these still got the fuckin’ tag on ’em,” he says weakly. “Not… Not because you called me out for it. I need that… Just proves exactly what you’ve been trying to tell me all night.”
He nods, rolling everything over just like he has all week, finally seeing what he’d been missing.
His eyes shut softly, thinking about the last weekend, the sound of your voice when you called him between classes, letting him know you made the reservation and the—subtle sound of your disappointment when he yelled over the locker room noise that you should go to Malone’s instead.
His mind lingers on the look on your face at the bar as you smiled for the boys, picking through the bar peanuts as they broke down the game to exhaustion. The way you fucked him just like he liked and then kissed him goodnight. How you were gone when he woke up to piss and he didn’t think twice about it. Just thought maybe you had gone downstairs to get water.
And now, he knows you were all alone.
And this was just a moment, in a collection of moments just like this for you.
His lips tremble, wishing he could rewrite what’s happened but he can’t. And even though you’d said you’re not breaking up, he feels like you have every right to end it—and he can’t risk not telling you everything he wants to say.
“I stopped on the way here because I panicked. I didn’t stop because I planned something. I didn’t stop because I thought about what would actually make you happy.” He pinches his eyes shut—letting the tears fall freely—his pride long gone by now. “I stopped because I realized I was about to lose you.”
He lifts a finger, tapping it against the glass like he’s trying to close a little of the distance between you.
“You’re right about everything… I was counting on you coming.”
He shakes his head, hating what’s going to leave his lips next. “You asked me earlier how it feels. It feels fucking awful.” He laughs but there’s nothing funny about it, he’s just hysterical at this point, leaving it coming out hollow. “I’ve been losing my goddamn mind.”
Your lips draw to the side as you fold your arms across your chest. He doesn’t take this time. His fist slips away from the glass, leaving the space between you completely open—and the next move entirely up to you.
“I got too fucking comfortable.” The words come out, without hesitation. “Not because I loved you less. You just—you’re the one thing I never worried about losing. I treated you like you’d always be there.” His eyes fall for a second, picking at a wilted petal nervously. “That wasn’t me loving you the way I should’ve.” He shakes his head. “That was me taking you for granted.”
You take a step forward, fingers wrapping around the window’s edge, lifting it higher, dropping down to the windowsill yourself.
He takes a breath, blowing it out through his nose. Every instinct tells him to reach for you, but he holds himself back, settling for leaning a little closer instead.
“You asked me if I can handle you.” His eyebrows pull together. “And, baby—Sorry…” He stops himself after the name leaves his lips, shaking his head with a weak laugh. “Just… habit. I’m sorry.”
“Dean—”
“Please,” he stops you cautiously. “Can I… I’m—I’ve got a little more to say. Just…” the word cracks and he lets out a breath, watching as you rest your hand on the roof, so close he can feel his hand tingle.
“Go ahead,” you whisper.
“I don’t want someone easier. I don’t want somebody who expects less from me. I don’t want any girl. I want you. I can handle you.” He nods with absolute certainty. “I should’ve been handling this relationship with the same care I’ve been giving everything else.”
His voice trembles. “I can’t undo this hockey season with one apology.” He reaches a little, palm open, asking for yours. “But I swear…” His eyes shine under the street lights. “If you give me the chance to prove that I heard every single word you said tonight… we’ll never have to have this conversation again. I promise.”
You rest your hand in his and he closes his around you quick like you might change your mind. His eyes cut away for a moment, the contact alone threatening another wave of tears. He takes a deep breath, his shoulders falling.
“You fucking hate this color. I’m sorry,” he mutters, tossing them out toward the driveway, the discount bouquet hitting the hood of his car with a thump. “Shit’s so fucking embarrassing, dear god.”
He hangs his head for a moment, his thumb rubbing absently against your knuckles.
“Tonight is shot,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, right? Just… Please go out with me tomorrow. Let me make up for a little bit of anything you deserve.” He looks back at you, head resting heavy against the side of your house. “Good flowers, pretty dress, dinner, dessert—I know exactly where you wanna go. Just, please. I’m begging you. And, I know I’m telling you what to do. I’m sorry if you already have plans—”
“I don’t,” you answer with a soft smile. “Seven?”
“I’m tailgating in your front yard. I’m so serious. I’m fucking miserable,” he answers breathlessly, leaning in as you lean in too, your lips meeting with a desperate kiss.
He grabs you, hauling you closer, pulling you into his lap as your fingers slip into the hair at the nape of his neck.
“Tell me you still want me here,” he mumbles between kisses, his voice rough enough that you almost don’t hear it, your thumbs brushing the tears off his cheeks.
“I want you here.”
“Let me in? Please,” he whispers against the corner of your mouth.
“You can ask me sweeter than that, Dean Di Laurentis.”
“Please, baby… Let me come in,” he mumbles, his lips brushing softly against yours. “I’ll be so fuckin’ good for you. I missed you so much.”
“Yes,” you whisper.
Dean’s feet hit the floor a heartbeat later, every bit of tension he’d been carrying for the last seven days finally unraveling. He buries his face against your neck, breathing you in like he’d almost forgotten what it felt like before finally looking back at you.
“Promise me something,” he says as he carries you toward the bed.
You pull his hat free, tossing it somewhere behind you before your fingers disappear into his hair. His eyes close for a second, a tired smile finding its way across his face the moment you scratch lightly at the back of his head.
“Okay,” you breathe.
“Tell me next time. Anything. Right away. Don’t let me keep getting it wrong again.”
“Promise,” you whisper.
“One more promise,” he asks, his voice softer than before.
“Depends,” you whisper teasingly, feeling his trembling lips curl into a little smile.
“Unblock me.”
“Right now?” you whisper through a breathy laugh.
“No—We’re busy. So, so fucking busy,” he hums, holding you a little closer. “Just whenever you get a chance.”
“I promise,” you whisper.
“Thank you, baby.”
“I’m glad you came.”
“Should’ve come earlier,” he says before you can answer. “But I want you to know. I hear you,” he says quietly. “I heard every word you said out there.”
He shakes his head once before speaking again.
“I don’t wanna be the guy that only listens after he fucks up.” His thumb brushes across your cheek. “I don’t want you to play captain’s girlfriend. I want you to feel like you’re mine. You deserve to know how important you are to me. I can tell you—words don’t mean shit. I don’t want you to have to worry about making plans for us ‘cause you’re afraid I won’t.”
“Thank you,” you whisper.
“I’m gonna listen when it’s inconvenient. When hockey’s good. When hockey sucks. When I’m tired. When I’m stressed. When I’m bein’ an idiot…” A weak smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Which apparently is more often than I thought.”
“I love you,” you murmur.
His eyes close as he sits with those words for a second. “Jesus…” he breathes, shaking his head. “Love you so much.”
He sets you on the bed, one hand gripping the jersey on your body as the other cradles the back of your neck.
“Stay?” you ask as he tilts closer, your fingers popping open the button of his pants. “Sleep here.”
He chuckles deeply against your lips before stripping off his hoodie and tugging off his shirt. Your hands rest on his strong chest, feeling his heart bang beneath your palms.
“Yeah?” he asks, his hands finding you again, moving up your arms, over your shoulders, to the sides of your neck, cradling your face like he can’t get close enough. “If that’s what you want.”
“Is that what you want?” you chuckle.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he mumbles as his breath mingles with yours. “Thought I lost you.”
“You didn’t lose me,” you whisper, tracing along the top of his jeans lightly with your nails, feeling him shiver.
You lower his zipper slowly and he tugs down his pants, the buckle landing with a thump to the floor, waiting for you to decide what you want from him.
He sucks in a breath as you cup his thick cock through his boxers, a smile spreading a moment later when you squeeze just enough to make him groan for you.
You pinch the cotton between your fingers, tugging his boxers down, teasing inch by stiff inch until you catch his tip on the waistband. His cock springs out—long and hard, blood pumping through him as you hold his length in your hand.
You stroke slowly, watching precum bead at the tip as your thumb drags through it, teasing both of you.
“Fuck me,” he breathes, his head tipping back to the ceiling, his big hands rubbing over his eyes as he laughs breathlessly.
He lifts you easily, your legs curling around his waist. He smiles against your mouth as he eases you back onto the sheets.
You reach for him, drawing him back down, kissing him harder, fingers twisting into his hair. His chest rises and falls against yours, breath ragged.
“Keep this on for me,” he whispers as he lifts the front of the jersey over your chest, dipping down to kiss higher and higher. “Please,” he mutters, voice rough against your skin when you whimper.
Your breath catches and a moan spills from your lips when his weight presses you into the mattress, voice husky as he mumbles praise into your skin, gripping your thighs, making your pussy throb.
“Been so lonely,” he whispers, mouth moving across your chest, catching your nipple between his lips. “Dreaming about this—I swear to god.”
“Yeah,” you whisper as his big hand slides up your side, squeezing your breast as he sucks your bottom lip slow enough to make you tremble.
“Yes,” he hums. You gasp as his hand slides down between you, cupping your pussy, making you moan for him. He chuckles deeply, fingers dragging up the wet fabric between your thighs.
“I need you,” you whisper, lips grazing his.
“I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.” He circles his fingers over your clit—your hands squeezing around his big biceps, feeling them swell and soften with each movement. “I’d eat it through your panties if that’s all you’d give me… gladly.”
“Don’t tease me,” you whisper.
“I hear you, baby,” he sighs, tugging your panties to the side, rough fingers tracing around your entrance.
Dean’s breath catches as you reach between you, your hand wrapping around the base of his cock, drawing a low groan from deep in his chest.
You stroke your hand up, gliding to his fat tip, watching precum glisten and leak out of his slit onto your body.
You grab his neck, pulling him down to your lips, bringing him in closer as he plunges two fingers into your soaked core, making you throw your head deep into the pillow.
Dean kisses your chest as he starts to fuck his fingers into you, wrapping his lips around your nipple, sucking harshly, making your back arch off the mattress.
His long fingers curl deep inside you, coaxing out breathless moans with nothing but the movement of his hand. He watches you for a moment—your chest rising, lips parted, his name half-caught in your throat—and then he lowers himself between your thighs.
Dean trails slow kisses down your body, your heart racing wildly the lower he goes. When your thighs start to tense, he looks up at you, his cool chain dragging unintentionally up your slit, making your breath hitch.
He presses your thighs down, spreading you open with a firm grip as his eyes fall to your soaked pussy, lowering himself between your legs without taking his eyes off you. His tongue flicks against you with a soft, deliberate taste.
“Yes, baby,” you gasp, with a half-laugh, half-moan—right before he wraps his biceps around your legs, forcing you to his mouth with purpose.
He kisses your clit, then seals his lips around it, sucking gently as you thread your fingers through his hair, yanking him closer. One hand drops from your thigh, sliding between your legs again, and you gasp as his fingers push back into you—working in perfect rhythm with his mouth.
Your body arches off the mattress. Everything blurs except the heat of his tongue, the stretch of his fingers, and the relentless pace of it all.
“I’m gonna cum,” you whisper, already trembling.
He groans into your pussy, the vibration pushing you over the edge instantly. You come hard, clenching around his fingers, stars bursting behind your eyes.
He doesn’t let up—his mouth seals tighter, his fingers working you faster, deeper, until your whole body twitches with overstimulation and your eyes sting with tears.
“That was so fuckin’ pretty,” he murmurs against your dripping center, planting lazy kisses on your clit that make you jolt with every touch.
“Dean…” you breathe out, glancing down at him, reaching for him as your breath shakes. “I need you inside me.”
Dean’s eyes roll back at your words, your taste lingering on his tongue. His hands settle on your hips, turning you to your hands and knees, lifting your ass into the air.
He spanks you, the loud crack of his palm against your supple flesh filling the room. You arch your back, making him release a desperate groan as his eyes drop to your slick, watching your wetness leak down your inner thighs.
Dean wraps a hand around himself, slapping his dick against you, running his velvety head up your thighs, sopping up the mess.
Your breath catches as he presses his tip in, feeling him stretch you out already.
Dean pushes in, inch by inch, making your mouth fall open as your body stretches around him.
“You feel so perfect around me, baby,” he mumbles as he presses his body flush with your ass when you’ve finally taken all of him.
You circle your hips, adjusting to his size, feeling his thick dick hit all the right spots. “Feels so damn good—”
“Yeah? Takin’ me so good, babydoll?” he groans. “This body’s mine.” He pulls his hips back, drawing out nice and slow, letting you feel every ridge and vein as his hands work up your back, pushing the jersey all the way up until Di Laurentis is all that’s left, stitched between your shoulders. “All of it.”
“Yes.”
“Made for me, weren’t you?”
“Yes, fuck!” you whine as he snaps his hips forward, the two of you moaning in unison as your pussy sucks him in.
Dean moves inside you, listening to every sound that falls from your lips. He works you just like you like, until your body melts into the mattress.
“Right there, baby,” you whisper and Dean picks up the pace, hitting your sweet spot again and again.
“Yeah, sweetheart? Right there?” he asks through a smirk. “What else does my girl want, huh?”
“Harder,” you whimper.
“Shit, baby,” he laughs breathlessly as he rolls his hips.
Your fingers claw at the sheets as you feel yourself just seconds away from your climax.
“Play with your pussy for me,” he whispers, the way you squeezed around him feeling like he might fall apart himself if he doesn’t get you there fast.
Your fingers press against your clit and your thighs quake, his cock stretching you and filling you as your fingers work in tight little circles.
“Dean—” you gasp, fluttering around his dick as you fall apart.
“Fucking hell,” he moans, dragging out the words as his cock shines creamy white with your release, each push of his hips making it gather in a ring around the base of his hard skin.
Dean pulls out fast, making you gasp as he tosses you to your back, thrusting himself back in before you can even come down from your high.
“I fucking missed you,” he whispers against your lips and you gasp as his fingers press against your clit, too, rubbing messily as he strokes, your nails digging into his muscular back as he pounds your wet cunt.
“Shit,” you squeal, letting out a choked sound as he grabs your knees, pulling and pressing them up to your chest, making him stroke impossibly deep.
“One more time,” he whispers. “Want you to cum with your lips on mine.”
Your eyes roll back as you climax, Dean moaning your name, his muscles strained when he cums deep inside, swallowing each sound that leaves your lips.
Dean moves inside you slow, covering you with the warmth of his big body, his hot skin pressed flush to yours as he lowers your thighs slowly.
You trace the edge of his jaw, feeling him smile under your touch, his nose brushing against yours, and you know there’s no way he’s going to give you an ounce of room tonight—but after a week without this man, that’s the last thing you want.
For the first time in a long time, it feels like you got your Dean back. Relief settles over you, heat building behind your eyes as you hold back happy tears. He sees it.
“Yeah?” he asks, seeing how much you needed this too.
You bite your cheek and nod. He can’t help but bury his face into your neck, pressing a kiss against your skin before whispering, soft and sure, “I love you, baby.”
summary: when beau tells you not to date someone else, he almost lost you as his best friend.
request: yes/no
warnings: swearing?
word count: 3.62k
authors note: oh my god this was cute, like genuinely the emotions I went through writing this had me wanting to wrap them both in a thick cozy blanket. I’ve got nothing else to say cause I loved this.
The first time you met Beau Maxwell, he stole your juice box.
You were both seven.
He'd walked into your classroom halfway through the year with a missing front tooth and grass stains on his knees, spotted the apple juice sitting beside your lunchbox “that is mine,” he announced as he snatched the drink off of your table.
You sent him a glare “it definitely isn't,” even with your cute little pigtails, if looks could kill he would have been dead.
Beau stuck his tongue out at you “you sure?” He cocked his head as you stood up.
"Positive."
He'd grinned as he now looked up at you "guess you'll have to fight me for it." You'd shoved him off the bench.
Twenty minutes later you'd both been sitting outside the principal's office sharing the juice box anyway.
From that day on, it was impossible to have one of you without the other.
Through elementary school you two were the reason why teachers needed seating charts.
By middle school you had become the reason why students could no longer edit their schedules.
From ninth grade the two of you were no longer allowed to be in the same classes even.
By sophomore year at Briar, people assumed you came as a package.
Beau and you, the duo where one was never seen without the other.
Football games.
Late-night sessions at Malones.
Study sessions that somehow ended in watching terrible horror movies.
And then Beau having to hold you as you slept because you swore you were going to have nightmares until you were ninety.
Every birthday.
Every Thanksgiving break.
Every ten-minute voice note, recounting the good and bad moments of the days. As if you weren’t going to see him that night.
Neither of you questioned it.
Not out loud, anyway.
Beau had questioned it a thousand times in his head.
Usually at two in the morning.
Usually after you'd hugged him goodbye.
Usually after you'd fallen asleep on his shoulder during the nights you were at home.
And even those nights you found a way to fit onto your twin king single as he protected you from the potential of bad dreams.
He'd liked you since he was fifteen.
Loved you since seventeen.
Never said a word.
Because friendship was better than nothing.
Because the value you gave him by being in his life, was far more than he could replicate with anyone else.
Your dorm looked like proper chaos, which for you was rather quite normal "so?" Beau leaned against your dorm door while you searched for your keys.
You had sworn that they were in the same place as always on your table "why've you got that stupid smile?" He asked as your head leaned out from your closet.
"I don't have a stupid smile."
You scoffed as you shook your head "you've got the smile." Beau pointed at you as he opted to sit on your bed.
You had refused to let him go back to his to get his keys, so now he was forced to wait "what smile?" You forced your face flat as you tried to get a read on your expression.
Beau raked his fingers through his hair "the one that says you've done something that's going to annoy me." You laughed as you stood up finally with your keys in your hand.
They were in your hoodie, well one that you had stolen from the very boy in your room "Garrett asked me out." Your announcement made him freeze.
Silence followed
You motioned to your door as you felt like the two of you should get a move on "and I said yes," you rubbed your palms on thighs of your jeans.
Beau didn't answer.
You looked over your shoulder "Beau?" You snapped your fingers in front of his face as you wondered if you had broken him.
If you could have gotten a better read on the room you would have made a joke "don’t go." His announcement made you glad that you had kept your joke to yourself.
You blinked as you clicked your tongue why?" You knew the boys had been friends since Dean introduced them, so it was suffice to say that you were a little shocked at the outburst.
Beau stood up "I don't think you should go." He reiterated his words as he nodded.
Your hands landed on your hips "and why is that?" In that moment you swore you were right back on that bench when you were a kid and he stole that juice box.
He shrugged as he didn’t have a good answer "I just don’t." There wasn’t more that he wanted to say either.
You frowned as you were almost hurt "that’s not an answer." Your chest felt sore as you avoided his gaze.
Beau rubbed his hands together "I don’t think he’d be good for you." His confession lingered in the air.
You laughed awkwardly a little taken aback by his reaction "I thought you'd be happy for me." You felt almost embarrassed that you cared.
The boy shook his head "I'm trying to stop you making a mistake.” He reached for your hand as you pulled away.
"A mistake?"
The blow hurt like he had personally hit you when he nodded "so because you don’t think he’s good for me, I'm just supposed to say no?" Your eyebrows lifted as you crossed your arms.
Beau argued back "he hooks up with girls all the time." Now that actually felt rich coming from your best friend.
"And?"
He licked his lips a little disgruntled at the idea of sleeping with you "and I don't want you being another one." Something about the way he said it rubbed you the wrong way.
Beau never cared who you dated or how they came into your life, at least he never decided to comment on it "you don't get to decide that." You sighed as you shook your head.
The boy pinched the bridge of his nose "I'm trying to look out for you." His words were meant to be sweet.
But instead it made you fold your arms "you're trying to control me." You corrected him as you sucked at your teeth.
"I am not."
An exasperated sigh escaped from your lips "you literally just told me not to go." You pressed your fingers against your temples.
The boy argued back "because I know guys like him!” He raised his voice making you do the same
You scoffed "and I don't?" You sent the boy a harsh glare as you scowled.
Beau shook his head "you’ve never dated one." He made Garrett sound like he was a walking disease.
You rolled your eyes "I can make my own decisions." You reminded him that you were a big girl, and you knew how to take care of yourself.
"I know."
Part of you wanted to reach out and throttle him "clearly you don't." You actually laughed now growing annoyed.
Beau sighed as he rolled his eyes, a little surprised that you were arguing with him on this "I'm just saying-” he raised his hands in surrender.
You cut him off as you stopped him in his speech "no, Beau. You don't get to act like my dad because some guy finally asked me out."
"I'm your best friend."
You swore you felt sick "exactly." Venom laced your tone "so start acting like one." The words hit harder than either of you expected.
He stared at you like he didn’t know what to say. A trait that seemed to plague him for the second time tonight "I think you should go." You opened your door motioning to him to leave.
He almost asked if you were being genuine but you saved him to the chase "I'm serious." The look that you gave Beau struck his heart in more ways than one as he nodded "fine."
He left and as the door closed behind him you couldn’t help it as the tears began to flow "fuck." Your eyes were blurry as your knees buckled beneath you causing you to slide down your door to the floor.
The first day wasn't difficult.
You both assumed someone would cave.
He nearly texted you that night.
Didn't.
But he did sit there and let his thumb hover over your contact information.
You almost walked to his frat house.
Didn't.
But you did turn off right before you got into his street.
The third day hurt.
You got an internship opportunity for the winter semester and wanted to celebrate.
The fifth day hurt worse.
It was the first football game that you missed since you met Beau.
By the end of the first week, everyone noticed.
Dean frowned every time Beau sat alone in the cafeteria "you two good?" He asked as he motioned to Beau’s lock screen.
It was an image of the two of you after his freshman debut. You were in a Briar U cap as you had your arms wrapped around him.
The grins on your faces matched the ones your moms captured each year on Christmas morning "we're fine." Beau sighed as he shook his head.
The blonde couldn’t help it when he smirked "you haven't looked up from your phone in twenty minutes." He pointed out as he raised his eyebrows.
Beau was quick to turn his phone screen side down "I'm fine." But Dean wasn't convinced.
Garrett noticed too.
Halfway through your second date he tilted his head "you okay?" He asked as he reached for your hand.
You forced a smile onto your lips as you furrowed your eyebrows "what?" You thought you were hiding it well.
Garrett took you to his favourite pizza place which was like a fifteen-minute drive from campus "you've checked the entrance like five times." You felt bad that he catch on.
He had been a great date both times, he picked you up from your place and walked you back to the front of your building both times "I have not." You shook your head.
It made the boy sigh "you have." He decided that he wasn’t going to argue with you on this one.
You looked toward the door again.
Beau wasn't there.
Your chest ached anyway.
The football guys stopped asking when you were coming over after practice.
The girls stopped asking where Beau was.
Everyone danced around it.
Because nobody had ever seen you apart this long.
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Fourteen days without your morning texts.
Without random memes.
Without coffee deliveries.
Without hearing someone yell your name across campus.
It felt wrong.
Like you'd forgotten something important every time you left your dorm.
Beau finally cracked on day fifteen.
Dean found him sitting outside the fraternity house "you look awful." He handed the brunette a coffee as if it was his peace offering.
Because in his efforts to avoid you, Beau seemed to avoid just about everyone "I feel awful." He took the coffee with a grateful smile.
Dean sat beside him "so go talk to her," he placed his hand on the boys back.
It was the first time that Beau actually admitted aloud that something was wrong "I screwed it up." Beau looked up at the sky sensing how the weather was turning.
It almost symbolic, perfectly representing how he had been feeling over the last two weeks "and I can't fix it." His voice broke as Beau really did wonder if he was going to have to learn how to survive without you in his life.
Dean shook his head "you won't know until you try." The look that Dean gave Beau was enough for him to believe that he had at least a chance in this.
You were leaving the library just after sunset when someone called your name.
"Wait up!" You froze slowly turning around.
Beau looked exhausted.
Dark circles under his eyes.
Hair a mess, and a stubble clear on his jaw as he hadn’t shaved.
Hands shoved in his hoodie pocket like he didn't know what else to do with them.
Neither of you spoke.
Finally you sighed "what?" You pinched the bridge of your nose as you slotted your phone into your jeans pocket.
His voice cracked as thunder rumbled from above "I-" he laughed bitterly as he cleared his throat.
"I had this whole speech."
You crossed your arms "congratulations." You shrugged as you waited for him to continue.
"I forgot it."
You remembered in eighth grade how he had forgotten his science presentation so of course, as you worked through it with him, you mouthed his entire presentation to him "okay." Another silence followed.
People walked around the two of you.
Neither moved.
Finally Beau stepped closer "I was wrong." You looked away a little relieved that he had said it.
He let out a huff "I shouldn't have told you what to do." His hands raised, owning the fact that he was wrong.
Nothing.
"I shouldn't have acted like I knew what was best."
Still nothing.
"And I definitely shouldn't have judged Garrett."
He swallowed as he rolled his eyes, deciding to just go with it "because that wasn't actually why I was upset."
You looked back at him "what do you mean?" He was glad he got more than a few words out of you again.
His laugh was humourless "I've been in love with you for years." Everything stopped as your eyebrows raised in surprise.
Beau pursed his lips together "I've loved you since high school." You stared waiting for him to continue.
He got nervous as he fiddled with his hands "I thought I'd gotten good at hiding it." Beau let his eyes land on yours as his voice grew softer "I never wanted to ruin what we had."
His eyes were already glossy, "so I stayed quiet." He pushed his hair out of his face as he knew he needed a haircut.
You couldn't find your voice "and then you told me Garrett asked you out." He rubbed both hands over his face.
"And all I could think was."
His voice broke completely, "that I'd waited too long." What Beau didn’t know was that you were ready to wait for him for an eternity truthfully.
Your heart twisted "you idiot." You softly shoved his shoulder.
"I know."
Beau let his fingers wrap around the rope bracelet you gave him before you both graduated high school "I figured if I told you not to go..." He laughed weakly. "Maybe somehow it'd change something."
Beau shrugged as he wondered if he had just screwed all of this up even more "like you’d wake up and magically see the way that you consume my every thought." His words made your heart throb.
You sighed as you were scared to find out what was going to happen next "it didn't." You looked down.
He took one careful step closer "please just shout at me, call me an ass or an idiot." Beau wasn’t above begging but boy was he ready to get on his hands and knees.
His words made you crack a smile "but just come home and be my best friend again because I can't lose you from my life." His eyes were shining now.
But still he didn’t stop there "the last two weeks have been a kind of torture that I don't think I can go through any longer because in every room I look for you." The next time you’d see Dean he was intending on corroborating that story as Beau looked like a lost puppy looking for you.
He cleared his throat as he choked up "at every table I kept an empty seat because I know that you will be in it." And it was the truth, if there was a table that you weren’t welcome at then Beau didn’t want anything to do with it.
A tear slipped down his cheek "I need you in my life, even if I know I don't deserve it." Silence followed.
The kind that stretched forever.
You looked at him.
Really looked at him.
At the tired eyes.
At the shaking hands.
At the boy who'd stolen your juice box.
Who'd carried your backpack after you sprained your ankle senior year.
Who'd driven home to pick up your favourite bagels after you called him in tears telling him how you failed an exam once.
Who knew exactly how you took your coffee.
Who always walked on the outside of the sidewalk.
Who never forgot your birthday.
Who loved you enough to let you date someone else if it meant keeping you "you are an idiot." A watery laugh escaped him as he agreed.
You pressed your finger into his chest "you absolute ass." You furrowed your eyebrows making him laugh once more.
"I know."
Your head shook "you hurt me." Your words were genuine
"I’m sorry."
You looked up at the sky as it seemed that the heavens opened and rain began to pour "I missed you." Your words cleansed the two of you as they rolled off of your tongue like the rain on the sidewalk.
His eyes squeezed shut "I missed you too." He was close to getting one of those cardboard cutouts of you.
Hell, he already would have had one if it wasn’t weird.
Your own tears started falling "I mean I missed you." You used your palms to wipe your tears away.
"I know."
You shook your head "no, you don't." He had consumed almost all of your thoughts since the moment you kicked him out of your room.
You stepped closer until only inches separated you "I kept reaching for my phone." His breathing caught.
"I kept saving you a seat in lectures."
Since the two of you were now allowed to have classes again, any time you had a chance you used it.
His eyes opened "I nearly texted you every single night." He looked like he might cry all over again.
"I thought-"
You laughed through your own tears as you recomposed yourself "I thought my best friend didn't want me anymore." His face crumpled as he hated that he made you feel that way.
"I always want you."
"I know that now." You stared at each other, almost waiting for what was going to come next.
The boy rocked his feet back and forth as a way to somewhat self-soothe "so," he whispered forcing the question that almost started all of this to come out “you're still going out with Garrett?"
You smiled sadly "I've been on two dates." You raised your fingers in a 2 symbol.
"Oh."
You were quick to carry on “they were nice." You nodded as they hadn’t been bad at all.
His face fell but he quickly forced himself to look happy for you "but every time something funny happened." You reached for his hand "I wanted to tell you first." His fingers curled instinctively around yours.
Part of you felt sick announcing this to the world "I kept comparing him to you." His breath caught.
A newfound friendship has actually formed between you and Garrett since you started seeing him on those dates "but that wasn't fair to him." Hope flickered across his face as you shut your eyes "so after he took me home the second night I called things off with him."
Beau would have been lying if he said that internally he was jumping for joy "I think," you whispered as you shook your head.
You licked your lips as you blinked, "that I've been in love with you for a really long time too." Beau blinked like he had forgotten how to understand the English language for a moment.
"What?"
You almost laughed as you sighed "I just never let myself think about it." His silence made you carry on rambling, "I thought we'd ruin everything."
Beau reached for your hands which made you go quiet "we kind of did." He nodded in agreement, "we definitely did."
He laughed through his tears as you corrected him.
"So."
Beau used the pad of his thumb to wipe a tear from your eye as it rolled down your cheek "so." He began as he forced a smile onto his lips.
He looked adorably terrified as he took a deep breath "can I kiss you?" The question came out so quietly you almost weren’t sure if you heard it.
You rolled your eyes "you've loved me for years and you're asking permission now?" You placed your hands on your hips, a little amused by this.
"I'm trying to be respectful." You mimicked his annoyed tone "you are such an idiot." A giggle escaped from your lips.
He smiled at your words "I know." Beau nodded as he shook his head.
You cupped his face "but you're my idiot." Then you kissed him.
It wasn't dramatic.
It wasn't perfect.
It was soft.
Familiar.
Like finally coming home after being away too long.
When you pulled away, Beau rested his forehead against yours "can I take you on a date?" The innocence in his words made you laugh.
You pretended to think about it for a moment "I don’t know if you can top Garrett." You teased making Beau’s face drop.
Beau ran his fingers along the bottom of your jaw "c’mon I’ll pay," his words made you snort "oh please like I’m gonna."
He laughed, and this time it was sweet "so is that a yes?" Beau wriggled his eyebrows "a thousand times over." You nodded as the boy finally led you away from the library.
And for the first time in two weeks, neither of you had to wonder where the other was.
You were exactly where you'd always belonged, together.
Summary: Eight years ago, John Tucker and Y/N L/N fell in love. Unfortunately, they realized it three weeks before graduation. With Y/N leaving Briar for a journalism internship and John staying behind to figure out his future, they did what seemed easiest at the time—they walked away. Now, eight years later, a reunion weekend brings the old Briar crew back together. John is expecting nothing more than beer, hockey stories, and a trip down memory lane. What he isn't expecting is Y/N. The girl he never forgot. The woman he can't stop staring at. And the second chance he never thought he'd get. Sometimes timing is everything. Sometimes it's worth waiting eight years for.
Warnings: hospital, crying, emotional chats
The silence did not last long.
Of course it didn't.
Not with Dean in the room.
Not with Logan standing at the foot of the bed looking like he'd swallowed every emotion he'd ever had.
Not with Garrett staring at John like he was trying to decide whether to hug him or lecture him.
Not with Hannah quietly crying into Allie's shoulder.
But for a few precious seconds, nobody said anything.
John's words hung in the air.
Love you too.
Simple.
Rough.
Barely above a whisper.
But somehow louder than everything else.
Y/N stayed close to him, her hand wrapped carefully around his, her lips still pressed against his knuckles like she needed the contact to convince herself this was real.
He was awake.
He was alive.
He loved her.
And she'd said it back.
It should have felt romantic.
It should have felt like one of those perfect moments people remembered forever.
Instead, it happened beneath fluorescent hospital lights, with machines beeping beside them, John covered in bruises, and their entire friend group crowded into a room that was far too small for all of their feelings.
Which, honestly, made sense.
Nothing about them had ever happened the normal way.
John blinked slowly, his gaze drifting over the room again.
His expression tightened slightly.
"Why are you all staring at me?"
Dean made a wounded sound.
"Because you nearly died, asshole."
Allie smacked his arm immediately.
"Dean."
"What? He did."
John's mouth twitched.
"Barely."
Garrett's eyebrows lifted.
"Barely?"
John's eyes moved toward him.
"What?"
"Don't 'what' me."
Garrett stepped closer to the bed, his voice low and controlled in a way that made Y/N understand exactly how scared he had been.
"You had surgery, you idiot."
John looked mildly offended.
"I know."
"You just asked if you died."
"I was checking."
Dean pointed at him.
"See? That's funny."
"No," Garrett said sharply. "That's concerning."
John's eyes slid toward Y/N.
"Is he mad?"
Y/N brushed her thumb over his hand.
"He's scared."
Garrett looked away instantly.
John's expression softened.
Even half-awake, even drugged and in pain, he seemed to understand.
"Sorry, G."
The nickname hit the room quietly.
Garrett's jaw flexed.
For a second, he looked almost angry.
Then he leaned down and squeezed John's uninjured shoulder with careful strength.
"Don't do that again."
John blinked slowly.
"Get hit by a truck?"
"Yes."
"I'll try."
Dean made a strangled noise.
"Okay, I hate to say this, but hospital Tucker is kind of hilarious."
Logan nodded once.
"Agreed."
"Nobody encourage him," Hannah said through her tears.
John looked toward Hannah.
"You're crying."
Hannah laughed wetly.
"You said 'I love you' in front of all of us after nearly giving everyone heart failure. Of course I'm crying."
John's eyes moved back to Y/N.
A faint crease appeared between his brows.
"I said that out loud?"
Y/N's heart softened painfully.
"Yeah."
"Oh."
His thumb shifted weakly against hers.
"Good."
The single word almost broke her.
Because there was no embarrassment in his voice.
No panic.
No regret.
Just relief.
Like even through the fog of medication and pain, he was glad she'd heard it.
Y/N leaned closer.
"Good?"
John's tired eyes stayed on hers.
"Been meaning to."
Her breath caught.
Around them, everyone very suddenly became fascinated by the floor.
Even Dean.
Especially Dean.
Y/N swallowed hard.
"Yeah?"
John nodded faintly.
Then immediately grimaced.
"Don't let me nod."
A laugh escaped her.
Small.
Shaky.
Full of tears.
"Okay."
"Bad idea."
"I'll remember that."
His eyes fluttered, exhaustion already pulling at him again.
"You're staying?"
Y/N squeezed his hand.
"I'm staying."
His gaze moved toward Gail.
"Mom?"
Gail stood at his other side, one hand pressed to her chest, her face pale but softened by relief.
"I'm not going anywhere either, baby."
John seemed satisfied by that.
"Good."
Then his eyes drifted toward Dean.
Dean straightened immediately.
"What? You want me to stay too?"
John stared at him for a long moment.
Then whispered, "No."
The room burst into quiet laughter.
Dean clutched his chest.
"I am wounded."
"He's already wounded," Logan muttered. "Don't make this about you."
"Everything is about me if I stand close enough to it."
Garrett rubbed a hand over his face.
"There it is."
For the first time since the accident, the room felt almost normal.
Not completely.
There was too much fear lingering beneath the surface for that.
Too much pain.
Too much reality.
But the laughter helped.
It reminded Y/N that this was still them.
Still the same people who had crowded into a lodge and cheered when she and John kissed.
Still the same people who had interrupted family dinners and sent twenty-seven-page spreadsheets.
Still ridiculous.
Still impossible.
Still family.
A nurse came in shortly after, took one look at the crowded room, and gave them the expression of someone who had been a nurse long enough to frighten full-grown athletes without raising her voice.
"Everyone out."
Dean opened his mouth.
The nurse pointed at him.
"Especially you."
Dean closed his mouth.
Allie grabbed his hand.
"Come on."
"But she doesn't even know me."
"She knows enough."
One by one, they filed out.
Garrett squeezed Y/N's shoulder as he passed.
Hannah hugged her carefully.
Logan gave John one last look and muttered, "Don't be dramatic while we're gone."
John's eyes were closed again, but his mouth twitched.
Beau left the snacks behind, as if snacks were a medical necessity.
Eventually only Y/N and Gail remained.
The nurse checked John's vitals, adjusted something on his IV, and reminded them that he needed rest.
Then she left too.
The room settled into quiet again.
Different quiet this time.
Less panicked.
Still heavy, but no longer suffocating.
Y/N sank back into the chair beside John's bed, her body suddenly realizing how exhausted she was.
Every muscle hurt.
Her head throbbed.
Her throat felt raw from holding back tears.
But she kept her hand in his.
Gail watched her from the other side of the bed.
After a while, she spoke softly.
"You should sleep for a little while."
Y/N shook her head immediately.
"I'm fine."
Gail gave her a look that was so motherly, Y/N almost smiled.
"Sweetheart."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
Y/N looked down at John.
At the steady rise and fall of his chest.
"I'm scared if I close my eyes, something will happen."
The confession slipped out before she could stop it.
Raw.
Quiet.
Honest.
Gail's expression softened.
"Oh, honey."
Y/N swallowed hard.
"I know he's stable. I know the doctors said they're optimistic. I know all of that."
Her voice cracked.
"But every time I look at him, all I can think about is that he was on his way to me."
Gail's eyes filled again.
Y/N wiped quickly beneath her own.
"If he hadn't been coming to New York..."
"No."
Gail's voice was gentle but firm.
Y/N looked up.
"No, you don't do that."
The words landed with enough certainty to stop her thoughts for a moment.
Gail leaned forward slightly.
"John was in that car because he wanted to be with you. But the accident was not because of you."
Y/N's lips trembled.
"It feels like it."
"I know."
Gail reached across the bed with her free hand.
Y/N took it.
"He would hate that," Gail said softly. "He would hate you blaming yourself for someone else's recklessness."
Y/N looked back at John.
His face was bruised.
His lips were pale.
But he was breathing.
There.
Still there.
"I just got him back," she whispered.
Gail's hand tightened around hers.
"I know."
"I can't lose him now."
"You won't."
The answer came quickly.
Not because Gail could promise that.
Not really.
No one could.
But because she needed to say it.
Because Y/N needed to hear it.
Because in that moment, hope mattered more than certainty.
For a long time, they sat like that.
Both holding onto John.
Both holding onto each other.
Two women who loved the same man in very different ways.
Eventually, Y/N's eyes grew heavy despite herself.
She fought it.
Then fought it again.
Then felt Gail gently shift a blanket over her lap.
"Rest," Gail whispered.
Y/N wanted to argue.
She truly did.
But John's hand was warm in hers.
His breathing was steady.
The room was quiet.
And for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, the terror loosened enough for exhaustion to pull her under.
When Y/N woke, it was still dark outside.
For one disorienting second, she didn't know where she was.
Then the beeping brought everything back.
The hospital.
The accident.
John.
She sat up too quickly.
A hand squeezed hers.
Weakly.
But there.
Her head snapped toward the bed.
John was awake.
Barely.
His eyes were open just enough to look at her.
"You stayed."
His voice was rough with sleep and pain.
Y/N leaned forward immediately.
"Of course I stayed."
He looked at her for a long moment.
Then his mouth curved faintly.
"Good."
She brushed his hair back carefully, avoiding the bandage.
"How do you feel?"
"Like I got hit by a truck."
Y/N stared at him.
John blinked.
Then, very slowly, looked pleased with himself.
"Too soon?"
A laugh burst out of her before she could stop it.
A real laugh this time.
Exhausted.
Tearful.
But real.
"You're impossible."
His eyes softened.
"Made you laugh."
"You scared me."
"I know."
The humor faded.
His gaze held hers as clearly as it could through the medication.
"I'm sorry."
Y/N shook her head.
"No."
"I am."
"You didn't do anything wrong."
"I know."
His thumb moved lightly across her fingers.
"But you were waiting."
That hurt.
Because he remembered.
Maybe not everything.
Maybe not clearly.
But that.
Her apartment.
The dinner.
The waiting.
"I was."
John's face tightened.
"I wanted to be there."
"I know."
"I was coming."
"I know, baby."
The word slipped out without thought.
Both of them noticed.
Something soft passed through his expression.
Despite everything, despite the bruises and the pain and the awful hospital room, he looked almost happy.
"Baby?"
Y/N's cheeks warmed.
"You're concussed. Don't get smug."
"Too late."
She laughed again, wiping quickly under one eye.
John watched her carefully.
His smile faded.
"I love you."
This time, nobody else was in the room to hear it.
No friends.
No chaos.
No Dean standing there ready to ruin the moment.
Just the two of them.
The words were quiet.
Clearer than before.
More deliberate.
Y/N felt them settle deep in her chest.
"I love you too."
John exhaled slowly.
Like hearing it eased something in him.
Like he'd been waiting for it.
Like maybe he'd waited eight years.
Y/N leaned forward and pressed the gentlest kiss to his forehead.
His eyes fluttered closed.
But his fingers stayed around hers.
"Don't leave," he whispered.
Her heart cracked.
Then healed around the words.
"I won't."
And this time, unlike eight years ago, there was no hesitation.
No fear.
No silence where honesty should have been.
Y/N held his hand tighter and settled back into the chair beside him.
"I'm right here."
John's breathing evened out again.
His hand relaxed in hers.
But this time, Y/N didn't feel quite as afraid when his eyes closed.
Because he knew.
She knew.
They both did.
Whatever happened next, they were done losing each other.
synopsis – as Hannah’s maid of honor, your duties are simple: keep Hannah relaxed, make sure the wedding runs smooth, and do not, by any means whatsoever, fall for the best man
warnings – language, SO MUCH FLUFF, love is in the air, sexual tension like a mf
note – OOOOH this concept is TOO good. I may do a smutty part 2 if requested. Enjoy ♡
✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧
Dress. Veil. Shoes. Bouquet. Food. Bar. Decor.
The words cycle through your head, you faintly say them out loud to yourself to ensure you don’t forget anything. Your best friend was getting married for crying out loud, this day needed to be perfect, no matter what.
Arriving extra early to the venue, you set down all the bags you could fit on one hand before heading back to your car, making trip number three of the morning.
You were taking the position of Maid of Honor very seriously. From the moment Hannah asked you, you went into full planner mode, planning every aspect of her wedding, down to the number of mini cheeseburgers they wanted on the buffet.
Oh yeah, it was that serious.
Your childhood best friend is marrying the love of her life. You couldn’t lie, at first, you didn’t see her and Garrett together, living the 'happily ever after' fairytale. Hannah clued you in on the fake dating ordeal over a FaceTime call when you both were in college, across the country from each other and in that moment, you tried reasoning with her, but she just kept saying, ‘trust me, it’s gonna be fine’.
Here we are 4 years later, and oh yeah, it's fine.
Seeing your best friend beam at any mention of her fiancé warms your heart. She deserves this. She deserves true love and you will be damned if this day gets ruined by so much as a wrong shade of white in the roses she requested.
Once you arrive back at the venue, having brought the last of the hero items, the catering and décor teams have also arrived, setting up their respective areas. You exhale, heading into the back room, prepping Hannah’s dress, shoes and putting all her favorite snacks in the room for her.
Hannah, her parents, Allie and Sabrina all arrive about 10 minutes later, and the pre wedding plans commence.
Music is blaring through the speaker as you continue to help Hannah with her makeup, as her mom is doing her hair. Allie, Sabrina and you are already ready, you all dressed in matching colors, per Hannah’s request.
You wrap up Hannah’s makeup around the same time her hair is done. She walks into the changing room with her mom. As you walk closer to the door, you hear male voices approaching.
Oh hell no.
Before you can even think, you shout, “Nuh uh Graham, no seeing the bride until she’s walking down that aisle, you know it’s bad lu-“
You’re cut off when you swing the door open, your eyes meeting a very tall, very handsome man, holding a white rose pin in his hand.
“Garrett said Hannah requested something borrowed from his mom, he told me to come find you..” he drops your name with a questioning tone at the end, as you nod. You watch his eyes trail up and down your body, taking in your beauty before holding the pin up to you.
“Oh,” you sigh, taking the pin, “Thanks, sorry I thought Garrett was about to barge in here,” you chuckled. “I’m sorry, and you are..?” you ask politely.
He chuckles as he holds his hand out again, waiting to shake yours. “I’m John, Garrett’s best man”, he says, smiling charmingly at you.
Fuck.
You shake his hand lightly. “I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other today then,” you reply, a cheeky grin on your lips now.
“I guess so,” he replies. He looks you over once more before taking a step back, “Well, I’m gonna go find the guys and get ready. It was nice meeting you,” he says, and with one more smile, he turns around and walks away.
‘Remember your duties,’ you think to yourself. You cannot afford a distraction. This was Hannah’s special day and nothing was going to ruin that. Not even a handsome, tall, charming, flirtatious man.
Fuck. Again.
You head back inside to see Hannah in her full wedding get up and your eyes immediately tear up as you bring your hands to your face.
“You look absolutely beautiful Han,” you say genuinely. She looks at you through the mirror, tears welling up in her eyes too.
“Don’t you start,” she jokingly threatens, “You just did my makeup, damnit,” she says as you join her in laughter.
She truly looked like a princess. The strapless top supporting her chest, the corset waist accentuating her natural curves, into the flowy bottom of the dress, she looked absolutely unreal. Garrett was so lucky.
You check the time on your phone before walking closer to Hannah.
“Okay, seating chart is put up, the food and the bars are almost done setting up, DJ is good to go, decor team has placed all the flowers on the tables, I have your bouquet and-“
Hannah cuts you off, putting her hands on your shoulders.
“Girl, please take a deep breath,” she says and you do, probably for the first time today. You inhale, hold and exhale with her before she continues, dropping her hands from your shoulders to your hands.
“This day is going to be perfect, please do not stress yourself out. You should enjoy yourself today too,” she says sincerely and you nod in agreement.
“I know, I just want today to be amazing for you,” you admit, horrified that something will go wrong and the blame will get placed on you and Hannah will never talk to you again.
Maybe you were being a bit dramatic.
“I’m here, with all my closest friends and family and I’m marrying the love of my life, today is already amazing,” she says, grabbing your hands. Your eyes well up again, seeing the little version of Hannah standing there inside adult Hannah.
You squeeze her hands, not wanting to risk hugging her and ruining her dress or veil, “I love you so much Han,” you say, full of so many happy emotions.
“I love you too,” she says. Before you can pull away, she grabs your hands again, her eyes wide with excitement, “Oh! Have you met Logan? You’ll be walking down the aisle with him,”
You shake your head, not recognizing the name.
“Don’t worry, he knows what time to be in place, just meet him by the doors,” Hannah states. You nod and look down at your phone, 10 minutes before showtime.
You make sure everyone is sat in the garden before cueing the DJ to start up the music. Soft music echoes through the garden as Garrett walks down the aisle first, taking his place up front. Tucker and Sabrina walk out next, followed by Allie and Dean.
You stand behind the doors, awaiting your cue in the music, when John approaches you, in a stunning all black suit, a white rose pinned to his suit pocket.
As if this man couldn’t get any handsomer.
You turn to him, asking frantically, “Hey, do you know where Logan is? Hannah told me he’d be walking down the aisle with me and it’s almost time and I’m kinda freaking out about it,” you say bluntly.
He finds your urgency absolutely adorable as he chuckles softly before looking back at you.
“That was probably my bad,” he starts, “My last name is Logan, everyone usually calls me that,” he says, holding his arm up, waiting for you to link yours.
You look at him and sigh a huge sigh of relief, “Oh, duh, that actually makes sense,” you say, still flustered from all the wedding prep. It didn’t even cross your mind that he was the only guy left to walk down the aisle, you the only girl left to do so too.
You smile slightly, linking your arm with his. The doors open right on cue and you both walk down the aisle, smiling for the photographer as you make you way to the front, going your separate ways.
Lastly, Hannah comes walking out with both her parents. Garrett immediately begins tearing up, as do you. You glance over at Garrett, seeing Logan pull out a perfectly timed tissue from his jacket pocket, handing it to Garrett. You smile as you redirect your attention back to Hannah, who has now made it to the front. She hands you her bouquet, as you adjust the train of her dress and veil.
The ceremony could not have been more beautiful, their exchanged vows only showing a fraction of the love they have for one another.
“You may now kiss the bride,” you hear and you usher the officiant to move out of the way to not be in the shot. He stares at you weird before realizing what you were trying to do.
‘We went over this in the rehearsal’ you thought, rolling your eyes at the slight inconvenience. Logan catches the entire interaction out of the corner of his eye, smiling to himself seeing you so passionate about today.
He already gets the impression that you’re an amazing friend.
And you're fucking beautiful. But with that, he’s just stating the obvious.
As Hannah and Garrett walk back down the aisle, he can’t help but glance at you once more. He sees the beaming smile on your face as you watch your best friend so happy. His eyes trail down your body, noticing how your hair is perfectly done, how your dress hugs you perfectly, how you are just purely stunning.
You and Logan meet in the middle once again, him holding his arm out as you take it, smiling at him before you both walk down the aisle, Allie and Dean trailing behind you, Tucker and Sabrina behind them.
✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧
The transition to the reception was smooth as ever, everyone being greeted with a welcome glass of champagne or sparkling juice. Everyone gets settled in their seats and await the arrival of the bride and groom.
The DJ hypes everyone up, welcoming Hannah and Garrett in with a loud,
“EVERYONE, LET’S HEAR IT FOR YOUR BRIDE AND GROOM, MR. AND MRS. GRAHAM”
Everyone cheers and claps as the happy couple walk in, huge smiles gracing both their faces as they walk up to the front of the room, sitting at their designated table.
The welcome speeches start, family and friends giving their congratulations, tears flowing, laughs are had and before you know it, it’s Logan’s turn. He takes the mic and stands up, adjusting his suit before speaking.
“Garrett Graham is one crazy motherfucker,” he starts out, gathering a laugh from the crowd. “Garrett has been my best friend since college and I can say nothing but congratulations. I am so happy you and Hannah have found each other. I think we can all say that the love you share for each other is something we all should aspire to have someday. Cheers,” he says, raising his glass as everyone follows suit.
His eyes find yours, knowing your speech is up next. You stand up and take the mic from him. He notices the tears already starting to well up in your eyes, whispering a, 'you got this,' to you before he finishes his walk to his seat.
You sniff lightly before bringing the mic up to speak.
“Please excuse the tear streaks that’ll be imprinted on my face for probably the entire evening,” you chuckle, the crowd laughing as well.
“Hannah and I have known each other for a very long time. We have been there for each other through so many phases in our lives and now we get to check the ‘wedding’ box off of that list. I genuinely could not be happier for you. You deserve to be at peace and in love and I am so happy you have found that with Garrett. I love you both so much and if I keep talking, I’m gonna cry again so I’m just gonna cheers to you both,” you finish, holding your glass up as everyone cheers the bride and groom.
Hannah and you exchange glances as she blows you air kisses. You blow them back, handing the mic to the DJ and sitting down, conveniently, next to Logan. The DJ then asks Hannah and Garrett to hit the dance floor, as their first dance commenced.
That dance alone got the tears flowing again. Logan noticed a tear fall from your cheek onto your dress. He pulls out another conveniently timed tissue from his pocket, nudging your arm subtly. You look at him, then down. You laugh quietly, taking the tissue and blotting your cheeks.
“Thanks,” you whisper. He nods, smiling at you as you turn away, focusing back on the happy couple.
✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧
The party kicks off and you can feel yourself relax. Your duties are officially done for the night and you can finally let loose. You feel yourself relax as you approach the bar, asking for your preferred drink.
“Didn’t know you could drink on the job,” you hear from behind you. You thank the bartender as he hands you your drink. You turn around, a grin already on your face and make eye contact with Logan.
“I’ll have you know, I’m off the clock now,” you sassily say as you walk towards him, maintaining eye contact as you take a sip of your drink.
He doesn’t break eye contact, only when his eyes drop to your lips as you swipe the bit of drink off your lips with your tongue. His eyes come back up to yours, the tension between the two of you growing stronger by the second.
“So… does that mean I can steal you for a dance later?” he asks, the boldness surprising you. You cock your head to the side, the grin not leaving your face as you step even closer.
“Whenever you wanna dance, you know where to find me,” you say, the sultry tone of your voice not going unnoticed by either of you. You back up, your eyes not leaving each other, his pupils dilating the longer he looks at you. You smile at him once more, glancing down to his lips and back up before walking past him, heading to the dance floor.
He turns around, watching you as you place your drink on your table, asking Allie and Sabrina to dance. They excitedly agree, as you make your way to the dance floor. He can’t help but watch you as your hips sway to the music, a smile never leaving your face as you dance to the music.
He is completely enamored by you.
Unbeknownst to either of you, Hannah and Garrett had seen that entire interaction at the bar, fist bumping each other under the table, their very subtle plan coming to life.
Hannah knew the second she met Logan that you guys would be a perfect match. And by pure luck, all these years later, you were both single and open to the idea of dating. She knew it was fate and the plan was hatched. All they needed to do was wait and watch the connection between you two blossom.
✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧・゚*✧
The party slowly died down as the night continued, some family and friends making their exits. You finally take a break from all the dancing, heading to the dressing room to freshen up, when you spot Logan out of the corner of your eye. He’s standing outside by the portable firepit, motioning you to join him outside with a slight head movement.
You hold up one finger, giving him a ‘one minute’ hand motion and he nods before you enter the dressing room. You inhale and exhale, freshening up, touching up your hair and makeup, throwing on some extra deodorant and body spray (just in case, dancing is a workout after all) before heading outside.
The sun has now set, the cool air hitting your exposed skin as you step outside, folding your arms to keep yourself warm. Logan sees you and as if he couldn’t be more charming, he swiftly takes his jacket off and drapes it over your shoulders, smiling at you the entire time.
“Thank you,” you say, wrapping the jacket around you. It smells like his cologne and you curse at yourself internally for finding yet another thing about him attractive.
You both stand outside for a minute in a comfortable silence, staring at the fire before he checks his watch and perks up, remembering, “You owe me a dance, I think it’s time I take you up on that offer,” he says. You glance over at the dance floor, hearing the music playing, before turning back to him.
“Oh, you wanna slow dance to the cha cha slide, huh?” you joke with him.
It was almost as if the timing was magically perfect, you turn back to face the party as the song ends and the DJ gets back up on the mic,
“Alright y’all, last song of the night, I want everyone to grab that special person and let’s end the night out right,” he says, turning down the lights and putting on your favorite slow dance song. You look in shock, knowing that song wasn’t in the playlist Hannah and Garrett approved that you sent to the DJ.
“I may have learned a thing or two about you while you were out dancing,” you hear and you whip your head towards Logan, who’s looking at you with what one would describe as admiration.
“H-How did you...?” you ask, genuinely confused.
“I asked Hannah, she was more than happy to let me make the change. Something about wanting you to enjoy yourself tonight too,” Logan says. Your heart flutters at his and Hannah’s consideration. You take his jacket off and hand it back to him. After he puts it back on, he holds his hand out, asking, “May I have this dance?”.
You can’t help the grin that crosses your face as you grab his hand, your fingers intertwining as you make your way inside to the dance floor, finding an empty spot around all the other couples dancing.
His hands comfortably find their way to your waist, holding you close to him as you wrap your arms around his neck. You both sway to the music, the moment incredibly intimate as you both find yourselves looking at the other’s lips. Despite the urge for both of you to lean in, you move your head slightly backwards.
“Not here,” you state, “I don’t wanna take away from Hannah and Garrett’s day,” you say. Even though you were technically done ‘working’, the last thing you wanted to do was take any attention off the happy couple. Logan smiles and nods, respecting you even more for that.
He brings you in closer, tightening his grip on your waist ever so slightly, before saying, “Then I guess we better find somewhere more private,” that damn smile not leaving his face.
You can’t help but feel a mix of emotions, all good ones as you nod, smiling at him.
i absolutely love your dean fics!!! would you do a dean fic where dean and reader are rivals (she plays a sport at briar u) and they really don’t like each other 😌
foul play
dean di laurentis x reader
summary: forced into a joint media campaign, you must survive the arrogant charm and heavy friction of the hockey team's biggest playboy. (2.4k)
content: enemies to lovers?, dean is a prick (but what’s new), tall reader supremacy, parental expectations, language, rich reader, forced proximity, tension.
authors note: i love how i said no more off campus then you lot keep requesting them lmfao. also it hurt to say “soccer” instead of “football” bleh.
you sat on a metal folding chair, a green and white soccer ball trapped beneath the sole of your adidas cleat, rolling it back and forth.
tap. roll. tap. roll.
you had a match against penn state in about twenty-four hours.
you needed to be in the film room watching tape on their backline, not sitting under hot lights waiting for the hockey team's resident playboy to finish adjusting his hair for the fifth time.
the worst part? you weren't even supposed to be here.
layla garcia, your captain and best friend, was the one who was originally signed up for this pr nightmare.
but at exactly 10:43 a.m. this morning, she had texted you a string of coughing emojis claiming a "sudden, mysterious 24-hour stomach bug" had completely taken her out.
you knew for a fact layla had been perfectly fine at dinner last night, eating four slices of pepperoni pizza and talking about how excited she was to go to hawaii with her boyfriend dallas.
you were 100% confronting her about this fake illness the second you got back to your dorm room, but for now, you were stuck covering her shift.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
you hadn't even had time to go back to your room to change into your training kit (or to strangle layla).
so you were wearing your briar athletics gear—the official white and navy blue soccer jersey with your number 7 on the back, black spandex shorts that hit mid-thigh, and your high-top training socks pulled up over your shins.
but see you weren't usually this cynical.
in fact, you actually loved the rest of the hockey team.
john tucker was a total sweetheart who always let you borrow his notes, and garrett graham was the kind of supportive captain who always texted you good luck before big games.
you loved them all except dean. dean was the only one who rubbed you entirely the wrong way, pushing buttons you didn't even know you had.
but you knew exactly what he was. unfortunately.
unfortunately, you had had a front-row seat to the di laurentis effect when two of your own teammates fell victim to his devastating charm last semester.
you had spent subsequent weekends playing damage control, comforting crying girls on the locker room floor after dean inevitably moved on without a backward glance.
he was a certified player, a serial heartbreaker who treated romance like a non-contact sport, and you had zero intention of becoming casualty number three.
or casualty twenty nine if you counted his victims outside of your team.
"can you stop that?"
you looked up. dean was standing in front of a full-length mirror, casually smoothing down the front of his pristine, number 66 briar hockey jersey.
he didn't look at you directly, just caught your eyes in the reflection, a lazy, amused smirk playing on his lips. "the tapping. it's really distracting, sweetheart."
"then don't be distracted," you snapped, your voice clipped. "and don't call me sweetheart. if i miss film review because you wanted to perfect your blowout, i'm going to fucking pop all your tires."
dean turned around slowly.
he didn't look offended but if anything, your irritation seemed to act like a shot of espresso straight to his ego.
he walked over, his steps slow and deliberate, until he was standing directly over your chair.
he was broad—built for absorbing hits on the ice—and he used his size to completely crowd your space.
"so hostile," he murmured, leaning down slightly so his face was level with yours.
up close, you could see the very very small flecks of amber in his mostly blue eyes, and the faint, clean scent of him hit your senses, making your stomach do an annoying, treasonous flip. "we're supposed to be the faces of the briar athletic campaign. the pr director said we need chemistry."
"we do have chemistry," you said, staring right back, refusing to back down an inch. "the kind that causes a massive explosion and burns the lab down. move, di laurentis."
you weren't even remotely intimidated by him.
you grew up surrounded by wealthy, powerful men who thought they owned every room they walked into—your own father being the blueprint.
you knew the exact corporate, high-society language your parents used when they subtly implied your soccer career was just a cute little hobby instead of a real future.
you had an inheritance waiting for you, trust funds you hadn't touched, and parents who would rather see you at a charity gala than a sports complex.
you never had to worry about rent, or student loans, or what would happen if your body gave out on the pitch. you had it easy, financially speaking, and you weren't going to play the victim about it.
but that safety net felt a lot like a golden cage. you were desperate to prove to them—and maybe even to yourself—that you were someone on your own merit, not just a name on a tax return.
you wanted the sweat, the bruises, and the victories to be yours, earned entirely by your own lungs and legs, not paid for by a family checkbook.
so a spoiled, handsome hockey player with a silver spoon? please. you practically held a degree in dealing with guys like him.
in fact, you had briefly dated a carbon copy of dean during your freshman year—a lacrosse player named hayes who genuinely believed 'compromise' meant letting you choose which of his family’s lake houses you visited for the weekend.
you ended things when you realized his deepest personal struggle in life was deciding between a career in asset management or just playing golf for the rest of his twenties.
so you knew the exact playbook dean was using, and you were completely immune to it.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
now instead of moving, dean took a step closer, his thighs practically brushing against your knees.
the air between you instantly thickened, heavy with a sharp, combative heat.
he reached down, and for a second, you thought he was going to touch your face but his fingers bypassed your cheek to grab the soccer ball from under your foot.
"let's see what you've got then, co-captain," he challenged, spinning the ball on his finger with an arrogant wink.
"give it back," you said, standing up and because you were on your feet now, the distance between you vanished.
you were chest-to-chest with him. honestly, it wasn't hard to match his stare, considering you were teetering on 6ft when you were in your cleats.
you could feel the heat radiating off his body, see the way his eyes dropped to your lips for just a fraction of a second before snapping back to your eyes.
the tension was loud enough to drown out the hum of the studio lights.
you hated how much he affected you and you hated that he knew it.
"come and get it," he whispered.
before you could snatch it, the pr director clapped her hands, shattering the moment. "alright, we're shooting the 'rapid fire q&a' tiktok. sit together on the bench. i want cute, playful, competitive. got it?"
"we do competitive," you muttered, walking past dean, intentionally brushing your shoulder hard against his.
"i can do cute," dean called out after you, his voice dripping with smooth confidence. "you on the other hand might need to practice, though."
you took your seats on the locker-room prop bench.
the camera was set up right in front of you.
"and... action!"
dean instantly switched on the charm, leaning back against the bench with a casual arm conveniently resting just behind your shoulders, his fingers almost brushing your bare neck.
"hey guys, i'm dean from briar hockey," he said, flashing his million-dollar smile at the lens.
you forced out your name out, keeping your posture rigid and your focus laser-sharp.
the pr director held up a flashcard from behind the camera. "first question: who is the bigger trash-talker on the field?"
"oh, definitely her," dean answered without missing a beat, turning his head to look at you.
"she looks like an angel, but she told the dartmouth center-back that her ancestors were ashamed of her last week. it was brutal."
you cut him a glare. "you literally got a game misconduct last month for telling a referee he needed to invest in a pair of glasses with a high prescription."
dean's grin widened. he leaned in closer, his voice dropped, entirely forgetting the camera. "i was defending my teammate. i'm a protector. you would know that if you ever came to a game."
"i'm too busy actually winning my own games," you fired back, your heart hammering against your ribs. you could feel his breath on your cheek.
"next question!" the pr director called out, sounding thrilled by the raw friction radiating off the screen. "who has the better endgame?"
the question hung in the air, suddenly feeling entirely too loaded.
dean's eyes darkened, the playful smirk fading into something much hungrier, much more intense. he didn't look at the camera. he just stared at you, his gaze heavy and deliberate as it traced the line of your jaw down to your collarbone.
"i don't know," dean said softly, his voice a low, rough growl that sent a shiver straight down your spine. "she is all about focus. strategy. but me? i'm highly adaptable. i know exactly how to find the blind spots. i never lose."
your breath caught. the hate, the annoyance, the sheer, unadulterated attraction—it all tangled together in your chest until you could barely breathe.
you hated his arrogance, but god, the way he looked at you made you feel like you were the only person in the room.
you leaned an inch closer, your eyes locking onto his.
"you've never played against a defense like mine, di laurentis," you whispered, your voice fiercely competitive, laced with an unspoken challenge.
"you wouldn't even get past the perimeter."
dean's fingers finally slid down, brushing against the bare skin of your nape, sending a jolt of electricity through your entire body.
his thumb caught your jawline, tilting your face up just a fraction.
"is that a dare, sweetheart?" he murmured, his thumb pressing just firmly enough against your skin to make your pulse spike. "because i'm more than willing to go into overtime to prove you wrong."
"and... that’s a wrap! that was perfect, oh my god, the energy was insane!" the pr director yelled, completely oblivious to the fact that you were both about to combust.
the lights clicked off and the interns started quickly moving around, packing up cords.
dean didn't move. his hand stayed on your jaw, his thumb smoothing over your skin.
the playful, arrogant boy from ten minutes ago was gone, replaced by a man who looked entirely consumed by the fierce, unyielding girl sitting in front of him.
"you have film review," he stated, his voice thick, his eyes scanning your face.
"i do," you breathed, your focus completely shattered for the first time all season.
"and i also have a game tomorrow." he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his breath hot against your skin. "but after your match tomorrow night... i'm coming to break down your defense. be ready."
he pulled back, giving you one last, devastatingly hot smirk, before letting his hand drop.
he stood up, grabbed his hockey gloves, and strolled out of the media room without looking back.
you sat on the bench for a full minute, your heart racing, staring at the empty doorway.
you took a deep breath, trying to force your laser-focus back into place.
but as you picked up your soccer ball, you realized your hands were shaking.
gathering your gear, you finally walked out into the corridor. you didn't even make it past the vending machines before a familiar, broad-shouldered figure stepped into your path.
dean was leaning against the tiled wall, tossing his car keys lightly in one hand. he had a wicked, completely unbothered grin on his face.
"you know," dean said casually, his voice dropping into that smooth, intimate register now that the pr crew was out of earshot. "garcia texted me this morning apologizing for dropping out of the shoot. she swore she was dying of some plague."
you stopped in your tracks, clutching the soccer ball tight to your ribs. "layla is a terrible liar."
"oh, absolutely. but honestly?" dean took a single slow step forward, crowding you against the hallway wall just like he had in the studio. his amber eyes locked onto yours, a heavy, dangerous wave of heat washing over you. "i'm glad she flaked. i would much rather have you in my space."
your face heated up instantly at his sheer audacity.
"well, layla is dead to me, and i'm only here because i'm a good co-captain. get out of my way, di laurentis."
instead of stepping aside, dean leaned a fraction closer. his eyes dropped to the dip of your collarbone, tracking the thin, delicate gold chain resting against your skin.
resting at the center of it was a tiny, polished gold soccer ball pendant—a piece you rarely took off these days.
before you could register the shift in his movement, dean reached out. his index finger hooked casually right under the chain, his knuckle brushing the warm skin of your collarbone.
with a slow, deliberate tug, he used the necklace to pull you forward until you were practically pressed against his chest.
the sudden lack of space made your breath catch, but you refused to let him see you rattled.
"careful," you said, your voice dripping with sweet, dry sarcasm as you looked up at him. "you break that, and my trust fund might actually have to sue your trust fund. and i really don't think our lawyers want to spend their weekend comparing yachts."
dean's lips twitched, a low, genuine chuckle vibrating in his chest.
he loved it—loved that no matter how much he crowded you, you still had a sharp hook ready to swing back.
"i'll keep that in mind," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your lips for one intense, heavy second.
then, slowly, he unhooked his finger, letting the gold pendant snap gently back against your chest. he stepped aside with a lazy, mock salute that made your pulse skyrocket.
"see you tomorrow night, co-captain."
dean di laurentis was a menace.
and tomorrow night, you were going to make him work for every single inch.
and as for layla garcia she was absolutely dead the second you got back to the dorms.
//apparently i forgot how to write a one-shot bc it damn near went like a chapter to a full on series. anyways, enjoy. i got a lil too into the softball scenes// i had one positive response to this so here you go//
Pairing: John Logan x Softball!Reader // Word Count: 6,830
Summary: The break-up was not the cleanest but also not the worst. Asking for him and the rest of the guys to come to the game shouldn’t be too bad, right?
Walking up that familiar path, you blew out a rough sigh.
You regretted coming. It wasn’t even your idea… Okay, maybe it was your idea.
The softball team had a rivalry game the next day and your co-captain thought it would really boost attendance if the dearly beloved hockey team came. Ordinarily, you had no issues recruiting the other teams to come support or even rallying your own girls to support your fellow Briar U athletes. The problem was that your ex-boyfriend was on the hockey team.
You pulled your phone, hoping for an abort text from your co-captain. Maybe she had been able to catch Beau after class and ask him to take care of it. He was close friends with Dean, surely he could get him to say yes.
Instead, all she sent was a good luck text and fingers crossed emojis. You sent a middle finger emoji in return and walked up the short steps. The last time you were on the porch, you were leaving a box of John’s things. You hadn’t even knocked that day.
After learning the hard way, you picked up the habit of knocking before entering that house. You once walked in without and saw more of Dean Di Laurentis than you had ever wanted to.
You opened the door slowly with your head down as you knocked four times.
“Everyone decent?” You called out.
“Hey!” Dean answered. “You’re good!”
“Thank god.” You mumbled and fully walked in, pushing the door shut behind you. “Just you?”
“Nah, G’s upstairs and Logan’s out back I think. I can get him if you-“
“No!” You said. Dean’s eyebrows raised and he smiled at your reaction, making you realize you had given that answer too fast and too loud. “I don’t need John, I mean. I didn’t come to talk to him. I can just ask you.”
“No?” Dean laughed. “What’s wrong with Logan?”
“Nothing’s wrong with him.” You rolled your eyes slightly.
“You came all this way to not talk to him?”
“Can you stop being a dick for like five minutes? I would’ve called but I kinda figured it’d be better to ask multiple of you guys at once.”
“So we do need Logan!” He snapped his fingers and pointed at you.
“Ohmygod.” You ran a hand down your face. “Missa wanted me to-“
“What about Logan?” The familiar voice came into the room and a familiar heat flushed your body.
You hadn’t spoken much to John since you two broke up. You saw him on campus or when you went with Hannah to the hockey games or their parties, but that didn’t mean you two held a conversation. It was mainly just awkward nods or clipped sentences.
“Hey.” You breathed.
John hesitated slightly once he saw you.
—
“I have a real shot at captain this season.” You laughed nervously. “This is major!”
“Yeah, that’s great.” John smiled. “You’ve been working hard lately.”
“Johnnycake, this is huge. There’s hardly ever been a walk-on named captain.”
“I’m proud of you. You earned this.”
You smiled a little wider and John threw his arm around your shoulders.
–
“Are you seriously mad at me right now?” You laughed in disbelief.
“No, I’m not mad.” John answered, his voice tight.
“Really? Do you hear yourself or…?”
“Seriously, Y/N, it’s fine. Let’s just forget it.”
“No. That’s not fair.”
John laughed slightly and made a face to himself before meeting your eyes. “That’s what you think isn’t fair? Not that we hardly see each other anymore?”
“You’re the one who told me to go for captain!” You yelled, throwing your hands forward. “I don’t make the fucking schedule, John! Coach thinks we can make a serious play-off run with this squad so yes, we’re practicing a little more but it’s hardly any different than your schedule. Jesus, half the time you don’t even ask how anything with the team is going! And I never held that against you!”
“I never let it keep me from you!”
“It did. It fucking did and you know it.”
“I always made time for you.”
“Physically, sure, but mentally you were checked the fuck out on me more often than not.”
“But I was fucking there!”
“Because everything was planned around your schedule! Around your practice, your games, your parties even.”
“You never had an issue with my schedule before.”
“Cause I didn’t care!” You insisted.
“Apparently you did!”
“How is all of this my fault now?”
“I never said it’s your fault.”
“You didn’t have to! ‘I never let it keep me from you’ obviously means that I’m not doing enough for you.”
“That’s not what I fucking meant.”
“Please.” You threw your hands forward. “Tell me what you fucking meant then.”
He covered his face with both hands as he mumbled something you couldn’t understand. He looked at you again but you simply crossed your arms and stared expectantly.
“I’m allowed to want to spend time with my girlfriend, right?” He began and you nodded quietly. “That’s all this is, okay?”
“I’m trying, John. Really, I am, but I can’t rearrange every aspect of my schedule to match yours. I don’t set our lifting times or our field times or film days or any of it. Between that and classes, I’m running myself in circles and I would love it if I could get just a little bit of grace from my boyfriend.”
“If you weren’t happy, you should’ve said something sooner. We could’ve figured it out sooner.”
“I wasn’t gonna push on something you can’t quite control.”
“You’d rather just be miserable?” He scoffed. “Why?”
“Because I just wanted to make it work! I thought you wanted that, too…”
“I do.” He nodded. “Fuck. I do, I’m sorry. I’m just- I’m just tired, okay? Can we not fight about this?”
“We can’t just ignore it.” You countered. There was no anger in your voice, just the hurt realization that your relationship had come to a screeching halt. “Neither of us are gonna wake up tomorrow and suddenly not be busy and tired. John, if we can’t figure this out now, what does it mean for us later on?”
“Y/N…” He sighed. He knew you were right. He was probably thinking the same thing.
You took a guess as to what that tone meant.
“Right…” You nodded slowly. “I should go then.”
“Don’t do that.” He reached for your hand.
“No, it’s-“ You took a step back, just out of his reach. “You’re right. I’m never around and it’s not fair to you. We’ve both got a lot riding on this season so…”
“That’s it then?”
“I guess so… Makes sense why you guys don’t really do relationships.” You laughed sadly. The tears were burning your eyes but you looked up, trying to blink them away.
“Garrett and Hannah make it work.” John countered softly. “Kinda thought we could, too.”
You looked back at him and sniffled. He hadn’t moved any closer but you saw the way his fingers twitched, like he wanted to hold your hand or just reach for you. He thought better of it.
“I guess they just wanted it more.” You mumbled, more to yourself than for John to hear, but the house seemed to fall silent on the other side of his bedroom door.
“Don’t say that.” His voice broke.
“It’s too late for me to change my jersey number back, though.”
—
“Earth to Y/N.” Dean said, moments before a couch pillow hit your stomach.
You snapped from your thoughts and looked over at the blond. You snatched the pillow and whacked him over the head with it. As you pulled your arm back for a second shot, you heard John laugh.
“What part of-“ Another whack. “-stop being a dick-“ Another. “-did you not hear?” One final whack before you tossed it out of his reach. “Anyways. What are you guys doing tomorrow?”
“Like me and him specifically?” John pointed between himself and Dean.
“You, him, Garrett, Tucker, Beau. Everyone.” You shrugged.
You looked over at the previously weaponized pillow in contemplation.
“Okay, okay.” Dean laughed, his hands up in surrender. “Just usual practice stuff, why?”
“Will you guys be done by 3:10?”
“Game tomorrow?” John asked.
“Yeah… If we win, we take over first place. This could be huge for our playoff run.” You nodded slowly. “Missa thought having the hockey team there and if Jules posted on the Fifth Line account about you guys being there, we could rally some home field advantage.”
John flashed a smile that faded as soon as it came. You shoved your hands awkwardly in your back pockets. You didn’t want to say that you threw out the idea first, specifically thinking about getting John to the game. Something felt like you needed him there to get your season back on track.
“You don’t have to.” You offered. “I know softball isn’t really your guys’ scene but-“
“It’s not that.” John cut in. “We’ll be there.”
“We will?” Dean looked to John, but John didn’t seem to notice. He was still looking at you.
“Thanks.” You smiled. “The girls will be thrilled… Just try not to make them nervous.”
“How so?”
At that, you stared pointedly at Dean. “Last year, he came to a game and I distinctly remember Alysia, Chey, and Nicki tripping over third on their way to score. They were all thrown out at the plate and when I asked what happened, the answer was all the same. Dean Di Laurentis.”
“I didn’t even do anything!” Dean defended.
“He’ll behave.” John promised. “Where are you at for this year?”
“Infield.” You nodded. The awkward attempt at small talk left you feeling out of place. “Yeah, second base mostly.”
“Really?” John’s eyebrows raised as he nodded. “That’s great.”
“I still get some outfield reps but Missa’s got centerfield on lock. Most games are a no-fly zone if she’s out there.”
“You’re holding down your spot though. I’m proud of you.”
That simple sentence made your heart beat harder than it should’ve.
“Yeah, I mean… Some days I DH, just kinda depends on how the glove’s working that week.” You shrugged, rocking slightly on your feet. You watched John’s expression change to one of confusion but you didn’t want to stick around to find out why. “Uh, well, thanks again. We’ve gotta review some film before hitting so I better get going. See you guys tomorrow.”
Dean waved, shouting a goodbye as you left. You didn’t hear anything from John. Part of you wanted to believe Dean was just too loud, but you knew the more likely answer.
John didn’t say anything, just as he had said nothing when you walked out of his room that night.
You got into your car, locked the doors on habit, and pulled out your phone. You texted Missa with a relieved emoji and a thumbs up. As you went to start your car, your car had other ideas.
It stuttered, refusing to turn over and you sighed. You turned the key back off and dropped your head to the steering wheel. Everything was on inside the car, lights and stereo and dash display. You could hear the inner workings of the engine and had already talked to your dad about it. He had an idea and ordered the part for it. Before you could try your key again and use the trick your dad offered, a light tap came from your window. You jumped and shouted “ohmygod!” before turning and seeing John waiting and laughing.
You opened the door and he took it as an invitation to fill the space. He had one arm slung over the door as he leaned against your car.
“Need a ride?” He offered, a smile still on his face.
“No.” You answered plainly. “What makes you say that?”
“The defeated little head drop.” He nodded. “Does it always do that?”
“On warmer days, yeah… My dad already has a plan. We just need the part.”
“You know I can take a look at it for you.”
“I don’t need you to.”
“Yeah, I know but-“
“John.” You cut in. “We’re both too busy. Remember?”
“Definitely remember… That doesn’t mean I can’t give you a hand.”
“I don’t need your help.”
“I know, I know… Doesn’t mean I can’t offer, right?”
You looked away to watch your dashboard and focus on your car’s sound as you stepped on the brake and shifted your car to neutral. You turned the key with a silent plea that it would turn over. Thankfully, it did. You threw it back into park and turned back to John.
“See? Car’s fine. I have to go.” You spoke simply.
“Real quick, what did you mean in there when you said ‘if your glove works’?” He asked, those big brown eyes showing a familiar concern.
“I didn’t say that.” You shook your head. “I said it depends on how my glove works.”
“Okay, fine, but your glove always works.”
“Not lately.” You mumbled. “This season’s been rougher than usual. It’s not a big deal.”
“You sure?” His voice was low, a gentle prodding to try and get you to confess more. For a moment, it nearly worked and you almost told him that whenever you put your jersey on and saw your number - his number - your head and heart were yanked out of the game. Half of your plays were auto-pilot and the other half was your teammate saving your ass. “Talk to me, Gorgeous.”
The old nickname made your cheeks feel hot.
“I have to go.” Was all you said instead. You reached past him and tugged lightly on your door.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” He asked, clearly not wanting to leave.
“Look at my life.” You gestured vaguely around you. “I got what I wanted.”
Without another word, only a small tap to the roof of your car, he walked away.
—
The next day at the game, you had to stay focused. If Briar could win, they would take first and win the series. It would all but guarantee first place. You owed it to yourself and your teammates to keep your head.
You and Missa led the usual warm-up routine and were throwing together.
“Who’s all coming again?” She asked.
“He said everyone so…” You shrugged.
“There’s a few ‘he’s in that house, Twos.”
Twos. The nickname all your teammates used for you. It was new, only starting this past year when you and John got together and your number changed from 13 to 22.
“John.” You answered as your throw came up short. “Fuck.”
“Hey…” She jogged in to meet you halfway. “Are you gonna be good today?”
“I have to be.” You nodded once towards the other dugout. “I can’t afford to lose it today.”
“Okay, sure, but if you’re not in it, we can ask Coach to DH you today, narrow your focus to your at-bats.”
“I want to play the field.”
“You sure?”
“Trust me.”
“Alright.” She smiled. “Be a dog today, yeah?”
You patted her back and barked once, which got her to bark back, before you two returned to your throwing distance. As you picked up where you left off, one of your coaches was at your shoulder.
“How’s the arm, Twos?” Coach Kelsey asked.
“Feelin’ good.” You nodded.
“Great, cause we need you behind the dish today.”
You nearly dropped the throw coming back to you. “I haven’t caught since-”
“I know it’s been a while but Missa’s in the circle and Alysia’s elbow is done. She needs to be at second for the shortest throws and you work best with Missa. You know the infield plays.”
“Who’s in center? Without Missa, we need speed. Those girls are aggressive at the plate so I want to maintain a no-fly zone.”
“Are you gonna do it or not?” Kelsey asked firmly. “You wanted to be a leader. This, stepping up right now, is part of it.”
“Right.” You nodded once. “My gear’s in the clubhouse.”
“Go get it. Meet Missa in the pen.”
You nodded, waved Missa in, then jogged off the field. When you got to your locker, you pulled your phone first. Immediately, you texted John.
dont sit behind the plate today plz
You didn’t have time to wait for a response. You collected your catcher’s bag then headed back out.
Warm-ups in the pen went well and before you knew it, your team was taking the field. After your throwdown, you met your infield at the circle.
“They’re aggressive on the bases so always work ahead. Annie, you and me on a steal. Let’s talk today, alright? Know where we’re going with the ball.” You hyped everyone up.
“Hell yeah, big dogs. Big dogs.” Missa nodded, giving high fives around the group.
Your infielders each barked accordingly and you couldn’t help but laugh a little. Each girl patted your helmet before taking off to their spots.
“First place.” Missa held her glove towards you.
“Challenge ‘em.” You knocked her glove with your own. “Win or lose, make ‘em fucking earn it.”
The first three innings were a stalemate. No one scored, no one reached base. The crowd was loud, voices all blending together into a massive wave of sound. You were thankful you couldn’t hear any specific voice, even if part of you was listening for it.
The game’s momentum began shifting in the top of the fourth. Their lead-off batter struck out, the next batter grounded out to your third baseman, then a double. You moved in front of the plate to call the play and adjust your outfielders. Missa’s eyes met yours with a question of what to throw.
You nodded once towards the grass. Her brows furrowed and you flashed your glove once.
She tilted her head in protest. You wanted her to challenge this hitter to something to draw a play at the plate. The runner on two was fast and was going to try to score, but you knew your left fielder was leading the conference in assists. If anyone was getting that out at the plate for you, it was her.
You nodded once and she relented. As you retook your position, you found a familiar crew in the crowd. A crew that was far too close to home plate.
Jules waved and gestured to the phone that was now pointed at you. Dean and Beau were hollering in the row behind Jules, waving frantically. Garrett and Hannah were beside them, Garrett clapping while Hannah gave a thumbs up. Allie was standing and facing the crowd, trying to rally some sort of chant. Tucker was trying to get Beau off of his head and John was also standing, clapping and nodding towards you. You gave a single nod in his direction before facing the field again.
You called a fastball down and in, and the batter yanked it down the line, exactly where you shifted your outfield. Quickly, you jumped in front of the plate and a few feet up the line. Your mask was discarded into foul territory as you started yelling to align your third baseman for the cut.
“Left! Left!” You floated one step back. “Leave it!”
Your third baseman fell off as the throw came in on a perfect line. You caught it and dropped to a knee in a near perfect spot, leaving a path to the plate. The runner dove in but your knee was already down. Her shoulder hit your leg as the tag was made but her momentum swiped your leg out from under you. As you went down to your back, your other hand reached to secure the ball in your glove.
From the ground, you showed the umpire the ball and he called the out.
“Fucking bitch.” The runner muttered, kicking some dirt in your direction.
The entire crowd and your team erupted in cheers, Missa running over to haul you to your feet.
“What did she say to you?” Missa asked.
“She called me a fucking bitch.” You laughed.
Arguments came from both dugouts as you retrieved your mask. You heard ‘malicious contact’ and ‘unsportsmanlike conduct’ but you shrugged it off, not really sure which side the arguments were coming from.
“Fucking big dawg!” Dean yelled when you looked his way, then he started barking.
Beau and Garrett soon joined in on the barking, making Hannah laugh and whack her boyfriend. John was smiling as Tucker clapped him on the back.
You returned to your dugout, where your own team was waiting with celebrations of their own.
In the bottom of the fourth, you were leading off. You changed out of your gear quickly and were taking swings on deck when you heard the barking again. You closed your eyes and tried not to smile. They had no idea where it started but they were definitely quick to play along. Not long after, your dugout started joining in.
“WHO LET THE DAWG OUT!?” Missa shouted, prompting loud barks from your teammates and your friends in the crowd. “WHO LET THE DAWG OUT!?”
You walked backwards towards the batter’s box to face your dugout. They quieted in anticipation, waiting for your response. You smiled widely and barked twice before hurrying to the box.
The opposing catcher mumbled something but before you could register it, a fastball slammed your ribs. You managed to turn away so it caught the back of your ribcage but that didn’t make it hurt any less. You tossed your bat with a small curse before ditching your elbow guard.
“We eat those! We eat those!” Garrett shouted, nodding and clapping aggressively.
“Put her on the fucking hockey team, dude.” Beau laughed.
“Ow.” You mouthed to John, who offered an apologetic look in response.
“YOU KNOW WHY WE CALL HER TWOS?!” Annie yelled as you made your way down the line.
“WHY!?” Your dugout responded.
“CAUSE SHE LOVES TO BE ON TWO SO SAAAAAAVE YOOOOOUR AAAAAARM!!”
“SAVE YOUR ARM!!”
“SAAAAAAAVE YOUUUUUUUUR AAAAAAARM!!”
“SAVE YOUR ARM!!”
“You good?” Kelsey asked as you met her at first.
You twisted slightly, blinking back the tears in your eyes.
“She fucking got me good.” You laughed a little. “I’ll be alright.”
“22.” The base umpire asked. “Need time?”
“No, thanks. I’m good.” You smiled.
You looked across the field at your other coach in the third base box. He flashed you a quick series of signs that all amounted to one thing. Delayed steal on the second pitch.
You took a short lead on the first pitch, a ball outside and down.
You looked out into the crowd again as you stood back on the base. John was still standing, leaning forward on the back of Jules’ seat as they talked about something. He met your eyes and jerked his head slightly. You looked at second base then back at him. You smiled, adjusting your helmet by the face mask. That was your signal to each other, a way of telling the other ‘Watch this’ during your games. He flashed you that signal often and he always made good on his attempts. Now it was your turn.
On the second pitch, you took a slightly bigger lead. It was a strike, bottom half of the zone, and your teammate stayed in the box, kicking some of the clay around. As soon as the catcher’s arm pulled back to throw the ball to the pitcher, you ran. Ahead of you, you saw the shortstop hustling to beat you to the base but you knew you were going to be safe. You dropped into a slide around the base, twisting to avoid her sweeping glove and get your hand on the bag. As expected, you were called safe.
You faced your dugout first, doing that celebration together. You pointed over to first then circled your wrists to point at the base beneath you. Some of your teammates yelled to take third but you waved them off.
It was Missa up to bat, after all.
The next pitch was smacked into right center, a ringing double that brought you in to score and take the lead. You collected her bat as you yelled praise to her, now taking over your spot on second base, before spinning towards your friends in the crowd.
Jules was too busy recording the guys to add anything.
“Way to work, Twos!” John yelled.
You tucked Missa’s bat under your arm and held up two fingers on each hand. You flashed your twos then used both to point at John. He laughed slightly but returned the gesture, your guys’ small scoring celebration.
Your team managed to tack on another run in that inning and held the other team to zero. The fifth inning was scoreless, as was the sixth, but things shifted in the top of the seventh. Missa hit a batter, the one who had called you a bitch prior, and then a well placed bunt got a second runner on. Strikeout, strikeout, then a no doubt three run homerun to left field. Missa came right back with another strikeout, an embarrassing one if you were being honest.
“Everybody on me, come on.” You called your team together. “We have three outs to get at least one run. We can beat them, right now. You guys want that?”
A small chorus of yes came from around the circle.
“I said do you want that!” You urged.
“YES!”
“Let’s fucking do it, then. We have Alysia, Kam, Nicki, then me and Missa. Sounds like hits to me. Get it back and more, let’s go.”
Alysia did her job and got on base. Kam moved her over, but was the first out. Nicki hit a single to put a runner on first and second for when you came up to bat.
Various chants came from your personal cheering section.
The first pitch came up and in, making you spin away and nearly took you off your feet.
That caused a stir among your friends and dugout.
You simply laughed as you stepped back in the box. Next pitch was a ball, down and in. It nearly got your back foot but you stepped out of the way just in time.
“Starting to feel a little personal.” You mumbled, rolling your bat in your hands.
The third pitch you saw was your money pitch, middle height but the outside half of the plate. You connected with the sweet spot of your barrel, sending a rocket down the first base line. The crowd erupted as the ball was called fair.
Alysia scored, Nicki was rounding third, and you were in at second. You wanted to make it a triple but Nicki was too damn slow. The throw was cut off and Nick got back-picked at three. You called for time to remove your elbow guard as you stood on second again.
When it was granted you took off the guard and met Kelsey halfway to leave it with her. As you went back to two, you pulled your helmet off to fix your headband. You also took a second to do your celebration.
You pointed your helmet to the dugout and then drew the other arm back like an archer drawing a bow. Habitually, you looked over to John in the crowd as you replaced your helmet. When he caught your eyes, he did a smaller version of the same celebration.
His celly, you realized when you saw him do the familiar movement. Your double celly was his goal celly.
Well shit.
Two outs, tie game, bottom of the seventh. You could practically hear how Jules would be narrating it. They’d probably be zoomed in on you, talking about how physical the game was for you that day. Or they’d be locked on Missa and how big of a moment that was for her.
First pitch was in the dirt, but blocked well, keeping you in place. Next pitch was fouled straight back and judging by Missa’s reaction, it was one she didn’t want to miss. Third pitch was a called strike, top half of the zone that Missa didn’t agree with. The next pitch, however, was interesting.
It was ruled an illegal pitch, claiming her hands came together after her motion was started, and you advanced to third. When you reached Coach, you had to laugh.
“Y/L/N represents the winning run, just 60 feet away.” You mimicked a commentator’s voice. “What will Coach Tim do?”
He leaned in and turned towards the outfield grass as he spoke to you. “That ball gets by her, you score. Don’t hesitate. Don’t think. Just fucking score.”
You nodded once and focused on the next pitch.
Foul ball. Foul ball. Foul ball. Ball inside. Foul ball. Then it was your chance.
A ball in the dirt kicked away towards your dugout. You broke for the plate immediately, Missa jumping out of the way and yelling for you to slide. You listened and went head first for the plate. Why you went head first, you didn’t know. Usually, you hooked or slid straight into the bag. In truth, the dive knocked some of the wind out and the pitcher who came in to cover the plate stepped on your arm, but you were safe.
You had just won the game for Briar.
As you were celebrating with Missa, the other team asked to challenge. While the umpires reviewed the play, you and Missa leaned against the fencing. Coach came down the line to stand with you two, but you were listening to your friends.
Jules was giving the usual commentary, and you had to commend the knowledge of the game. You assumed Jules only knew hockey.
Garrett was explaining to Hannah and Allie what was going on. Dean was yelling that there was no review, just call it safe and move on. Beau was yelling to stick to the call. Tucker said nothing, but John’s voice sounded closer than it had before.
“Did she tag you?” He asked.
“Never touched me.” You answered without looking at him. “ Stepped on me but…”
You glanced down at your arm and saw the red marks from her cleats on your skin.
“After reviewing the play, the call is confirmed. The runner is safe and the run will score. Ball game.” The umpire announced.
After cleaning up and changing, you and Missa left the locker room together.
“So…” She trailed off. “You and John Logan are back together.”
“No, we’re not.” You laughed.
“That’s not what Fifth Line has to say.” She replied smugly, tilting her phone in your direction. She showed you a post on the account, a video of your double celebration with the caption ‘birds of a feather’.
“Okay.” You pushed her phone away. “That doesn’t mean anything.”
“Y/N, you did his celebration.” She insisted.
“It’s the same one I did when I threw that runner out.” You reasoned.
“No, the leg was different.”
“The leg?”
“Yes, the leg. Logan does it off one leg, just like you did for your double.”
“I was in stride!”
“When you throw someone out, you do it from your knees and swipe your glove in the dirt. Plus he was cheering for you the whole game.”
“They were cheering for all of us.”
“Fine.” She shrugged. “But they’re not waiting for all of us, are they?”
“No one’s waiting.” You rolled your eyes.
“Y/N!” Tucker yelled and you saw your friend group a few feet away. When they saw you looking, they waved you over.
“Case and point.” Missa sighed contently. “Go get your man, Twos.”
“It’s not gonna be any-“
“Before you get on your soap box.” She cut in. “I talked with Coach. He’s on you too much, more than he has been on any other captain, including me. I told him he had to treat us the same, that he’s only doing it to you cause you were a walk-on and he’s just mad he didn’t recruit you himself.”
“Missa!”
“It’s true.” She defended. “Anyways, he’s gonna pull back on the responsibilities he throws on you. Your schedule’s gonna lighten a little. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t need you to do that.”
“I know but you’re my co-captain. I’ve got your back, same as you’ve got mine. Now go, be happy. You’ve been shit since you guys broke up anyways.”
“Okay, rude.” You laughed. “Thank you.”
“Of course. Love you, ice those bruises. I’ll see you later.”
You two split and you made your way to your friends. On your approach, Dean and Garrett immediately began barking.
“Big dawg!” Beau announced.
“Why does your team bark at you?” Hannah asked with a laugh.
“Yeah, where did that come from?” John added.
“I got it from my dad. He calls the boys he coaches big dogs or tells them to be a dog. I brought it over here by accident and it just kinda stuck.” You explained.
“I like it.” Allie said.
“You do?” Your brows raised. “Out of all of them, you?”
“It’s fun!”
“You did good today, Y/L/N.” Tucker said, reaching around John to pat your shoulder.
“Thanks.” You smiled.
“Kinda got the shit kicked outta you though.” Garrett commented, which got him elbowed in the ribs by Hannah.
“Yeah.” You laughed, rubbing your ribs. “After that first play at the plate, I had a feeling I’d be a target.”
“Hey, it was a fair play!” Jules defended. “Y/N left a path to plate, even when she had the ball.”
“Respectfully, Jules, how do you know softball?” You laughed a little. You winced slightly, the pain from that fastball to the ribs now kicking in. “I figured with Johnnyboy, you only knew hockey.”
“It was surprisingly easy to pick up, actually. Mr. Lonely over there was obsessing over it when you two got together so he made me learn it, too.”
“Lonely.” Dean sang, throwing an arm over John’s shoulders. You took a step back and tried not to smile. “I’m Mr. Lonely. I have nobody…”
You couldn’t avoid it and laughed, ducking behind Hannah to try and regain your composure.
“Laugh all you want, Y/N.” Garrett added. “That song was all Logan played after you two split.”
“Alright, fuck you guys.” John defended. You managed to stop laughing but the smile still threatened. “It’s a good song.” He shrugged.
“Right, right.” You nodded. “Just weird timing.”
“Exactly! See? She gets it.”
“She always ‘gets it’ with you.” Allie teased.
“Hey, are we gonna stand around here giving Logan shit all night or are we going to celebrate a first place win the right way?” Beau asked.
“I definitely need to shower and change first.” You shook your head. “I’m covered in dirt and I’m fairly certain I swallowed some.”
“Yeah, that dive wasn’t your cleanest.” Tucker nodded, almost regretfully.
“Fuck off, like you could do better.” You defended.
“It’s just like a slip and slide.”
“If you go home, Y/L/N, you’re not coming back out.” Garrett countered before you could continue to argue with Tucker. “I know you. You’re gonna lay on your floor and not get back up.”
“That’s not…” You tried to argue but then realized he was right. You did nap on your floor after games often. “Okay, fair point… Can I least go get clothes to change? Hannah can come with me if you guys don’t trust me.”
“I’ve got an extra shirt in the truck if you want.” John offered. “Just to save you some time…”
You took a moment before answering, thinking about what Missa had said before leaving. Go get your man, Twos.
“Doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice.” You sighed. “I didn’t drive anyways so I was gonna have to bum a ride with someone regardless.”
“Don’t you just love it when things work out?” Jules smiled, guiding you forward with both hands on your shoulders.
“Yeah, funny how that happens, huh?” You gave a pointed look.
The next thing you knew, you and your friends were at Malone’s. Your warm-up shirt was left in John’s truck, leaving you in his t-shirt instead. It was plain, a bit too big for you, but it had the faint smell of his cologne still. It made your heart thump hard in your chest.
You started to think that if you didn’t at least ask about getting back together, your heart would break out of your ribs and wander off.
“Hey.” John nudged you out of your thoughts. You snapped your head up, having zoned out staring at the dirty Shirley Temple in your hands. When you looked over at him, he chuckled slightly. “You still with us? Or did you hit your head today, too?”
“The way today went, I very well could have.” You laughed. “No, I’m fine, just thinking.”
“Oh, yeah?”
You nodded, looking down at the table. Your free hand was tapping slightly against the surface as you considered what to say. Should you tell him the truth? Could you make it through the night if you didn’t? Could you take the rejection if you did? Before you could form a conclusive thought, John’s hand was under your chin to gently lift your attention back to him.
“What about?”
Dear God were you still in love with him.
“You.” You confessed.
“I’m gonna assume that’s a good thing.”
“Can we talk somewhere away from tweedle dee, tweedle dum, and TMZ?” You jerked your head towards Dean and Garrett’s conversation, along with Jules.
John offered you his hand as he scooted out of the booth. You accepted, quickly swallowing the last of your drink, and followed his lead. He took you to the other side of Malone’s, to a quieter booth near the corner. He didn’t sit, just stood in a way that blocked everyone else out. Like he could be some sort of shield and keep you safe.
“What’s going on?” He asked lowly, crossing his arms.
“Look at my life.” You gestured vaguely. “I bet you can’t tell but it’s actually a pretty bad time.”
“No, trust me. I could tell.” He nodded.
“I got what I wanted, softball captain, Starting lineup every game, great grades, great friends… But it doesn’t sit right. Something’s been off until today… Today, I realized something.” You began. “This season, I’ve been shit. My teammates have been picking up my slack and making up for my mistakes but I haven’t been playing like a captain should.”
“Everyone goes through slumps, Y/N. That doesn’t change who you are as a player.”
“Yeah, but this wasn’t just a slump. This has been routine balls being flubbed, embarrassing strikeouts, base running mistakes that kids in Little League don’t even make.”
“I didn’t see any of that today.”
“Exactly.” You nodded, reaching forward to put your hands on his arm. “You. John, I haven’t felt comfortable in my jersey all year, but then you show up today and it’s like… It’s like the game makes sense again.”
“Has nothing to do with me.” He shook his head slightly. “That’s you getting your confidence back. Y/N, that light in your eyes? I don’t remember the last time I saw it. You were alive out there.”
“Can’t I just say that I missed you and I missed seeing you in the stands without you trying to be all sweet and motivational?” You laughed a little and he smiled.
He smiled that stupid smile that made your knees weak, that made you want to kiss his stupid face.
“Everything felt right for the first time in a long time, Johnnyboy.” You said softly. “Even the stupid fucking cellys.”
“I did notice you stole mine.” He joked.
“I figured we share jersey numbers, we can share cellys.”
“I really thought you were gonna push Tim to let you get your old number back.”
“After the fit I threw to get him to change it in general, there was no way I was gonna be able to wear 13 even if I asked.”
“You didn’t?”
“No…”
He chuckled slightly in disbelief before cocking his head slightly. “Why?”
“Can we try again?” You asked suddenly. There were no other thoughts in your head than a blaring siren of “BOYFRIEND!!” as you looked at him. “One more chance.”
“I thought you were too busy.” He countered and it felt like your heart fell to your feet. Your expression must’ve done something similar because John’s hands were suddenly on your cheeks. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I am busy and so are you but… But I want to make it work if that’s still what you want.”
pairing: garrett graham x ex!curly!fem!reader
synopsis: garrett graham shouldn't be jealous right now. it's only his ex dancing with a random dude. with a very short, very red outfit. with her curly hair following her body as she dances. with a smile on her perfect red lips. yeah, garrett graham shouldn't be jealous, doesn't mean he isn't.
words: 7k+
disclaimer: english is not my first language!
warnings: jealous!garrett, angst, SMUT, p in v (unprotected), reader is a baddie if you ask me. no use of Y/N, no body descriptions, the reader is intended as a curly haired person (self-insert ehheehheeh). third person, garrett's pov. spitting, breeding kink, non-con phrases if you squint. slapping. oral (f! receiving), dirty dirty talk. this was not proofread!
chye's corner: this was a request from anon. hopefully, you liked this!!!!! it has been a while since i've written a bigger piece, i apologize. pls consider a reblog, a like, or a comment! thank you for choosing to read my words (((:
chye's grimoire (masterlist)
requests are open!
The party was in full swing inside the big house, music thumping hard enough to rattle the windows, colored lights cutting through the dark in flashes of blue and red. Logan had asked to do something low-key for his birthday, but the rush from winning 5 games back to back had made him gullible to Tucker’s persuasion and had accepted his fate. People crowded the living room and spilled out onto the back deck, the air thick with the smell of beer, perfume, and whatever someone was smoking in the corner. Garrett stood near the kitchen island, one hand wrapped around a cold bottle, the other resting low on the blonde’s back as he leaned in close to talk to her.
She was cute, with her short black dress, long legs, easy laugh, and she’d been glued to his side for the last twenty minutes. Garrett gave her the full charm offensive, smiling down at her like she was the only person in the room. “You keep looking at me like that and I’m gonna start thinking you’re trouble,” he said, voice low and teasing, his thumb tracing a slow line along her spine. She laughed, tilting her head so her hair brushed his shoulder, and pressed in a little closer. Garrett let his fingers spread wider on her back, keeping the contact light but obvious. “Seriously though, that story about your roommate? I’m still waiting for the part where you almost got caught.”
The blonde giggled again and launched into another story, her hand coming up to rest on his chest. Garrett nodded along, flashing her that easy grin he knew worked, letting his eyes dip to her mouth for a second before meeting her gaze again. He had done this a million times, leaning in when he talked, letting his hand drift just a little lower on her waist, making her feel like the center of his attention.
But then his eyes drifted across the crowded room, almost on instinct.
And there she was.
She stood near the far wall with Allie, both of them holding drinks. Allie was saying something, gesturing with her free hand, but his ex only half-listened, nodding as she took a slow sip from her glass, maybe her signature gin tonic or something dark and strong. The red velvet top she wore caught the light every time she moved, the asymmetrical cut leaving one shoulder bare, the fabric twisting across her torso and cutting away at the sides to show smooth skin and the dip of her waist. That little silver ring detail on the sleeve glinted when she lifted her drink. Below it, the skirt sat low on her hips, all ruffled layers and sheer panels that barely reached mid-thigh, showing off the curve of her legs and the way the fabric shifted when she shifted her weight. Her curls were big and wild around her face, and even from here Garrett could see the deep red on her lips. She looked good. Too good. The kind of good that made his chest feel tight for a second.
He forced his attention back to the blonde, giving her another smile and a soft laugh at whatever she’d just said. “No way. You actually did that?” His hand stayed on her back, thumb moving in small circles now, keeping the flirty rhythm going even as his eyes kept wanting to slide back across the room.
Then his ex turned her head, like she’d felt the weight of his stare.
Their eyes locked.
Garrett’s stomach dipped. She was looking right at him with her jaw tight, brows pulled in just slightly, lips pressed together in that flat line he knew too well. Angry. She looked angry. Probably because he had his hand on some other girl’s back, flirting like he didn’t have an ounce of shame. Or at least that’s what it looked like from here. The way her gaze flicked, just for a second, to the blonde beside him and then back to his face told him everything he needed to know.
Allie was still talking beside her, oblivious, but his ex didn’t look away. She just stood there with her drink in hand, staring across the party like she was daring him to keep going.
Garrett swallowed, the blonde’s voice turning into background noise again. His hand was still on the girl’s back, still flirting on autopilot with that easy smile, but every part of him was tuned to the girl across the room, the one looking at him like she wanted to set the whole place on fire.
Garrett dragged his eyes back to the blonde and gave her his best easy smile, the one that usually kept girls right where he wanted them. “Upstate, huh? I’ve got family near there. Small world.” His hand stayed on her lower back, thumb tracing slow circles through the thin fabric of her dress as he leaned in a little closer, letting her feel the warmth of him. She laughed and tilted her face up toward his, clearly enjoying the attention. Garrett kept the dance going, another low comment about how good she looked tonight, another brush of his fingers along her spine, but his gaze kept betraying him, sliding across the crowded room every few seconds like it had a mind of its own.
His ex had finished her drink and passed the empty glass to Allie. She was still smiling, softer now, as she turned and wove through the crowd toward a tall guy in a football hoodie. Garrett recognized him, defensive end, name started with a T or something. The guy’s face lit up when he saw her, it was as clear as a day. They hugged quick and easy, like they already knew each other, and then he said something that made her laugh. A minute later the beat dropped heavier, and he nodded toward the packed living room where people were dancing. She glanced once, fast, back in Garrett’s direction. Their eyes met again for half a second. Then she looked away and followed the football player onto the floor.
Garrett’s jaw flexed. He forced himself to stay locked on the blonde, asking her another question about her summer plans, chuckling when she answered, even letting his other hand come up to rest lightly on her hip so they were almost facing each other. She was warm and soft against him, still flirting back, still pressing in close. He could do this. He could keep his attention right here.
But on the dance floor, his ex was moving.
The skirt shifted with every sway of her hips, the ruffled layers catching the lights and flashing skin underneath. The velvet top twisted across her torso as she lifted her arms, the cutouts at her waist showing smooth skin every time she rolled her body to the beat. Her curls bounced around her shoulders, wild and free. She looked like she belonged there, confident, a little dangerous, completely at ease in that outfit that somehow made her look even better than he remembered.
Garrett’s grip on the blonde tightened without him meaning to.
The football player stepped in closer, hands settling on her hips as they moved together. Not low enough to be outright disrespectful, but low enough that Garrett’s stomach went tight. The guy’s fingers flexed against the skirt like he was enjoying the feel of her, and she didn’t pull away. She just kept dancing, hips still rolling in that slow, hypnotic rhythm, head tilted back a little as she laughed at whatever he said in her ear.
Garrett’s teeth ground together. He tried harder to focus on the blonde, asked her if she wanted another drink, smiled when she said yes, even brushed his knuckles along her arm like he was still fully in the moment. But every time he blinked he saw those hands on her hips, saw the way the lace moved when she danced, saw the curve of her body under that red velvet top.
The blonde was saying something about joining the dance floor themselves, but Garrett barely caught it. His stare kept drifting back across the room, locked on the way his ex’s hips kept moving, on the easy way she let that guy touch her, on the flash of red every time she turned.
He was supposed to be fine with this. That’s exactly what he had wanted.
Instead his chest burned hotter with every second he watched her dance in that outfit while another guy’s hands stayed right where Garrett’s used to be.
He watched for another thirty seconds, jaw locked so tight it ached. The football guy’s hands stayed on her hips like they belonged there, fingers flexing against the red lace every time she rolled her body to the beat. The skirt shifted with each movement, ruffles catching the lights and flashing smooth skin underneath. The velvet top clung tighter now from the heat of dancing, twisting across her torso and exposing more of her waist every time she lifted her arms. Her curls were starting to stick to the back of her neck, and even from across the floor Garrett could see the way her lips get too close to the guy’s ear. Something hot and ugly twisted low in his chest.
He wasn’t doing this anymore.
Garrett turned back to the blonde, gave her the quickest smile he could manage, and leaned in just enough to be heard over the music. “Hey, I’ll be right back, gotta handle something real quick.” He didn’t wait for an answer. His hand dropped from her waist and he was already moving, cutting through the crowd with single-minded focus, the bass vibrating up through the soles of his boots.
He reached her from behind while she was still dancing, close enough that he could smell the faint trace of her perfume mixed with the warm scent of her skin. The football guy’s hands were still resting on her hips. Garrett’s voice came out low, calm on the surface but edged with steel. “Appreciate it, man, but she’s good. You can take off.”
The guy blinked, looked between them, then lifted his hands and stepped back without argument. Smart. He disappeared into the crowd a second later.
His ex spun around fast, curls whipping across her shoulder, and the second her eyes landed on Garrett her whole face changed. Anger. Sharp and immediate. Her chest was still rising and falling from dancing, the red velvet top clinging to the curve of her breasts, a faint sheen of sweat along her collarbone catching the light. The asymmetrical cut of the top had shifted slightly, exposing more skin at her waist, and the lace skirt sat a little crooked on her hips from the movement, ruffles brushing the tops of her thighs.
“What the fuck, Garrett?” she snapped, voice low but furious, loud enough for only him to hear over the music. She took a half-step back like she needed space, but the crowd was too thick and she bumped into someone behind her. “You just walk over here and, what? Tell him to leave? Are you serious right now?”
Garrett didn’t move back. He stayed close, close enough that he could see the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat, close enough to watch the way the velvet fabric stretched across her stomach when she breathed hard. His own pulse was hammering, but he kept his voice even, eyes locked on hers. “Yeah, I did. Looked like he was getting a little too comfortable with his hands on you.”
She laughed once, short and bitter, and shook her head. The movement made her curls bounce and the lace skirt sway against her thighs. “Oh, that’s rich. You were the one all over that blonde two minutes ago and now you’re over here acting like you have any say in who touches me? Fuck off, Garrett.”
Her eyes were blazing, jaw tight, lips pressed together the same way they had been when she first caught him flirting. She was still breathing fast from dancing, and every inhale made the cutouts in the velvet top shift, showing flashes of warm skin. Garrett’s gaze dropped for half a second before he forced it back up to her face. He could feel the heat coming off her, could see the way her fingers had curled into fists at her sides like she was holding herself back from shoving him.
“I wasn’t the one letting some guy put his hands all over me on the dance floor,” he said, voice dropping lower. “You looked like you were enjoying it.”
She stepped in closer this time, anger making her bold, close enough that the front of her red lace skirt brushed his jeans. The party noise faded into a dull roar around them. “I was dancing. With a friend. You don’t get to show up after months of nothing and start acting like you own me just because you don’t like what you see. You lost that right when you walked away the first time.”
Garrett’s hand twitched at his side. He wanted to reach out, wanted to settle it on the bare skin at her waist where the velvet stopped and the lace began, but he didn’t. Not yet. His eyes flicked down again, catching on the way the skirt hugged the curve of her hips, on the way a single curl had stuck to the damp skin just above her collarbone. When he looked back up, her expression hadn’t softened. If anything, it had gotten sharper. She was pissed. And standing this close in that outfit, still flushed from dancing, still glaring at him like she wanted to set him on fire, she looked better than she had any right to.
Garrett didn’t back down. His voice stayed low, rough around the edges. “Maybe I don’t like watching some other guy’s hands on you while you’re wearing that.”
Her eyes narrowed. The music pulsed around them, bodies moving on all sides, but the space between them felt like it had shrunk to nothing. Garrett held her stare. Her chest was still rising and falling fast from the dancing and the anger, the red velvet top stretched tight across her breasts, the cutouts at her waist flashing warm skin every time she took a sharp breath. A single curl had stuck to the damp spot just below her collarbone, and Garrett’s eyes kept catching on it before he forced them back to her face.
“You don’t get to act like this,” she said, voice low and tight, stepping even closer so the ruffled edge of her lace skirt brushed his thigh. “You don’t own me.” Her eyes were blazing, lips parted around the words, the deep red lipstick slightly smudged from the heat of the room. The lace skirt shifted with every angry shift of her weight, the sheer panels catching the flashing lights and showing the curve of her hips underneath. Garrett’s jaw flexed. He could smell her perfume stronger now, mixed with the faint salt of her skin, and it was doing dangerous things to his focus.
His gaze dropped again, couldn’t help it, tracing the way the velvet twisted across her torso, the way the asymmetrical cut left one shoulder bare and the silver ring on the sleeve glinted when she gestured. “You knew exactly what you were doing wearing that outfit tonight.”
She let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh, curls bouncing as she shook her head. “Oh my god. You’re actually jealous. Grow up.”
Before Garrett could answer, a hand touched his arm from the side. The blonde had pushed through the crowd, her short black dress catching the lights as she stepped up beside him. She smiled, but it was tighter now, her eyes flicking between Garrett and the girl in red with clear confusion. “Hey… everything okay? You said you’d be right back and then you just disappeared.” Her hand stayed on his forearm, fingers light but possessive in their own way. “Who’s this?”
His ex’s gaze snapped to the blonde like a whip. The anger on her face sharpened into something colder, harder. Her shoulders went rigid, the velvet top pulling tighter across her chest with the sudden inhale. For a split second her eyes dropped to where the blonde’s hand rested on Garrett’s arm, then flicked back up, blazing. “Unbelievable,” she muttered, loud enough for both of them to hear. She took one step back, then another, the red lace skirt swaying hard against her thighs with the movement. “Perfect. Have fun.”
She turned on her heel before Garrett could say a word.
The crowd parted just enough for him to watch her walk away. She didn’t look back. Her posture was stiff with fury, one hand coming up to shove a curl out of her face as she headed toward the hallway that led to the back door. Garrett stood frozen for half a second, the blonde still talking beside him, her voice fading into static. His pulse was roaring in his ears. The image of her burned behind his eyes.
Then he was moving. He pulled his arm gently but firmly out of the blonde’s grip. “Sorry,” he said, already stepping away. “I have to go.”
He didn’t wait for her answer. He pushed through the crowd after the flash of red, the bass still vibrating up through the floor, the lights strobing across the room. His ex was already halfway down the hallway, one hand on the doorframe, disappearing outside, the lace skirt still shifting with every angry step.
Garrett pushed through the last of the crowd and stepped out onto the back porch, the screen door slapping shut behind him. The night air hit cooler than inside, carrying the faint smell of grass and someone’s cigarette from the far end of the yard. String lights were strung along the railing, casting a soft yellow glow over the wooden boards. Most of the party was still inside, so it was quieter out here, just the muffled bass thumping through the walls and a couple people talking low near the steps.
She was already at the far end of the porch, one hand braced on the railing, the other pushing a curl out of her face. The cutouts at her waist showing skin that looked even warmer in the porch light. When she heard the door, she spun around. “You have no fucking right,” she started, voice already sharp and climbing. “None. You spent the whole night with your hands on that girl, smiling at her like she was the best thing you’d seen all year, and then the second I try to have one good night you decide you get to walk over and play possessive ex? Like I’m not allowed to let someone else touch me without you throwing a tantrum in the middle of the party?” She stepped forward hard, then paced a few feet to the side before turning back, gesturing with both hands like she couldn’t contain the rage. The silver ring on her sleeve flashed every time she moved.
“I felt like shit in there. You made me feel like shit. Everyone saw you ditch that blonde and come after me like some jealous asshole. Do you know how embarrassing that was? I was finally having fun. I was finally not thinking about you for five goddamn minutes and you ruined it. You always do this. You only notice me when I’m not paying attention to you anymore. The second I look like I might be okay without you, suddenly you remember I exist.”
Her voice kept rising, words spilling out faster and meaner. “And that guy? He was harmless. He was just dancing. But you couldn’t stand it. Nooooo. You couldn’t stand seeing someone else want what you threw away. So you had to come over and make it about you again. Like always. Like the whole world is supposed to stop because Garrett Graham decided he’s jealous tonight. I was wearing this for me. Not for you. Not so you could stare at me like you still have any claim on anything. You lost that. You gave it up. And now you’re out here acting like I’m the one who did something wrong because I let someone else put their hands on me for thirty seconds.”
She was breathing hard now, curls sticking to the side of her neck. Garrett tried to speak. He really tried. But his eyes kept dropping.
Her mouth.
It was moving nonstop, sharp and furious, the deep red lipstick worn at the center from how hard she was talking. Her bottom lip kept catching the light when she got louder, fuller and angrier, shaping every bitter word. He watched the way it curled around “embarrassing,” the way it pressed tight after “threw away,” the faint smudge at the corner that made it look even more dangerous. He dragged his gaze back up to her eyes for half a second, then it fell again.
She didn’t notice. She was too far gone, too angry to see where he was looking. “You don’t get to do this to me,” she kept going, voice cracking at the edges from how worked up she was, “You don’t get to ignore me for months and then decide tonight is the night you remember how to feel something. I was fine. I was actually starting to feel like myself again. And you had to come in and ruin it because your ego couldn’t handle seeing me happy without you. That’s what this is. That’s all this is. Your fucking ego.”
Garrett’s hands were clenched so tight his knuckles ached. He took a step closer without realizing it. Then another. His eyes stayed locked on her mouth, on the way it moved, on the shape of it when she was this pissed, on how red and full it looked under the string lights. Every word she said made it harder to think. Harder to breathe. The anger in her voice, the way her lips formed the words, the way they parted and pressed and curled… it was all he could see. She was still ranting, still gesturing, still pouring out everything she’d been holding in, saying something about how selfish he was when he finally snapped.
He closed the last bit of space between them, one hand sliding around her waist right where the velvet ended and warm skin began. His other hand caught the back of her neck, fingers sinking into her curls. And then he kissed her.
Hard.
His mouth crashed against hers, cutting her off mid-sentence. He kissed her like he’d been holding it back since the moment their eyes met across the party. Like every second of watching her in that red outfit, every second of her angry mouth moving, had finally broken him. His grip on her waist tightened, pulling her flush against him as the lace skirt brushed his legs. He didn’t ease up. He kissed her deeper, like he needed to shut her up and taste her anger all at once.
Her hands fisted in the front of his shirt as she shoved up onto her toes, mouth moving against his with the same furious energy she’d been ranting with seconds ago. Garrett made a low sound in his throat and slid both hands into her curls, fingers sinking deep, tugging just enough to tilt her head back so he could kiss her deeper. Her mouth tasted like cherry lipstick and whatever she’d been drinking, and he couldn’t get enough. The red velvet top pressed tight against his chest as she leaned into him, the lace skirt brushing his thighs every time she shifted.
Then she ripped her mouth away. The slap came fast and sharp, cracking across his cheek before he could even process it. His head snapped slightly to the side from the force of it. The sting bloomed hot across his skin. Garrett’s eyes flicked back to her. He licked his lips slowly, tasting the faint trace of her lipstick and the heat she’d left behind. His cheek burned. His pulse was roaring.
She was breathing hard, eyes blazing, curls wild around her face. For one charged second she just stared at him like she couldn’t believe she’d done it. Then she grabbed the front of his shirt again, yanked his head back toward her, and kissed him.
This time there was nothing hesitant about it.
Garrett groaned into her mouth and walked her backward off the porch steps without breaking the kiss. His hands stayed buried in her hair, guiding her as they stumbled down the short path toward the street. The music from the party was nothing but a distant thump now. All he could focus on was the way her mouth moved against his, angry and desperate and so fucking good.
His car was parked at the curb. He pressed her back against the driver’s side door. The metal was cool against her bare shoulder blades, a sharp contrast to the heat of her skin. She made a small sound against his lips but didn’t pull away. Instead her hands slid up into his hair, nails scraping his scalp as she kissed him harder. Garrett’s hands dropped to her waist, then lower, gripping the backs of her thighs through the lace skirt. He lifted her easily and she went with it, hooking one leg high around his hip. The red lace rode up as her leg locked around him, the ruffled fabric bunching between them. He pressed in closer, hips pinning her to the car door, the hard line of his body flush against hers.
“Fuck you,” she muttered against his mouth between kisses, voice still shaking with anger.
She kissed him like she was still furious, like every bite of her teeth and every drag of her tongue was both punishment and permission. Garrett’s hand slid up her bare thigh under the lace, fingers digging in as he rocked against her. The velvet top twisted under his other hand where he gripped her waist, the cutouts exposing more skin for him to touch. Her curls were tangled around his fingers, wild and soft and impossible to let go of.
He kissed her deeper, rougher, swallowing the angry little sounds she made. The car door was cold at her back but she was burning everywhere they touched, her leg tight around his waist, her mouth hot and demanding against his, the red outfit shifting and riding up between them with every movement.
“This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” she said, even as her hands tightened in his hair and she pulled him back in. “It doesn’t change anything.”
Garrett’s mouth crashed back onto hers, rough and desperate, one hand sliding up her bare thigh under the lace while the other kept her leg locked around his waist. He pressed her harder against the car, the metal creaking faintly behind her back as he kissed her like he was trying to shut her up and answer her all at once.
A low whistle cut through the air.
“Well, well,” Dean’s voice drawled from the porch steps, amused and way too loud. “Look at this. Thought you two were done with each other?”
Garrett pulled back just enough to glare over his shoulder. Dean was leaning against the railing, beer in hand, grinning like an idiot. “Dean,” Garrett said, voice flat and cold. “Fuck off.”
Dean raised both hands in mock surrender, still smirking. “Hey, I’m just saying. If you’re gonna fuck your ex against your car, maybe take it inside? Some of us are trying to party without the free porn.”
Garrett turned back to her. He took her hand, and started walking toward the side of the house. She followed without pulling away, the red lace skirt brushing against her thighs with every step. He couldn’t stop touching her. His free hand slid to the small of her back, fingers spreading wide over the bare skin where the velvet top ended. Then it moved higher, tracing the edge of one of the cutouts, brushing along her waist as they walked.
Halfway across the lawn he stopped, turned her toward him, and kissed the side of her neck, right below her ear. His hand stayed on her waist, thumb stroking the warm skin there like he physically couldn’t make himself let go. She inhaled sharply but didn’t push him away.
They slipped in through the side door, bypassing the loudest part of the party. The bass from inside thumped through the walls as they moved down the short hallway. Garrett’s hand never left her. It slid from her waist to her hip, fingers hooking lightly in the lace skirt for a second before moving back up, brushing the underside of her breast through the velvet. He leaned in again and kissed the curve of her neck, slower this time, mouth open against her skin as they reached the stairs.
She was still tense with anger, shoulders tight, but she kept walking with him, curls brushing his shoulder every time she turned her head slightly. At the top of the stairs he pulled her in again, mouth finding the spot just behind her ear, kissing it once, then again, while his hand slid under the hem of the velvet top to rest against bare skin at her lower back.
By the time they reached his bedroom door, he had her backed against it. His hand was still on her waist, fingers flexing like he needed the contact. He kissed her neck again, then lower, along the line where velvet met skin. She made a quiet, frustrated sound but didn’t stop him.
He pushed the door open behind her and walked her inside, one hand never leaving her body. The second the door clicked shut he had her against it again, mouth on her neck, hands roaming, one in her curls, the other sliding down to grip her hip through the lace skirt, pulling her closer like he still couldn’t get enough of touching her.
She was still mad. He could feel it in the way her fingers dug into his shoulders, in the sharp little breaths she took every time his mouth found a new spot on her neck. But she wasn’t telling him to stop.
And Garrett couldn’t make his hands stay still. Not even for a second.
“This doesn’t fix what you did,” she said quietly, voice tight. But she didn’t push him away.
“I know,” Garrett murmured against her skin. He kissed lower, along the curve of her neck, then the sharp line of her collarbone where the velvet dipped. “Let me try anyway.”
His hands moved to the hem of the top. He lifted it slowly, eyes flicking up to hers for permission she didn’t give with words, just a sharp breath and the way she raised her arms. He peeled the red velvet upward, revealing smooth skin inch by inch. The fabric caught for a second on her breasts before sliding over her head and dropping to the floor. His mouth followed the path it left behind, kissing the center of her chest, then lower, across the soft skin of her stomach. Every new inch of her he uncovered, he touched. His palms skimmed up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts before his mouth replaced them, kissing there too, slow and deliberate.
She made a frustrated sound, one hand sliding into his hair and tugging, not gentle. “Do you think I am pathetic for letting you do this?”
“No,” he answered honestly, voice low against her skin. He dropped to his knees in front of her, hands sliding down to the waistband of the red skirt. “You’re a goddess, I’m blessed.”
He hooked his fingers into the skirt and tugged it down slowly, letting it pool at her ankles, together with her panties. His mouth followed, kissing the newly exposed skin of her hips, then the inside of one thigh as he helped her step out of the skirt. His hands stayed on her legs the entire time, sliding up the backs of her calves, then higher, gripping her thighs like he needed the anchor. He kissed the front of one hip, then the other, then lower, open-mouthed against the soft skin just above where the lace had been.
She was breathing harder now, still angry but not stopping him. Her fingers stayed tight in his hair.
“You’re still an asshole,” she muttered, voice rough.
“I know,” Garrett said again, quieter this time. He rose back up slowly, hands never leaving her body, one sliding up the back of her thigh, the other tracing the curve of her waist as he stood. He kissed her neck again, then her shoulder, then the center of her chest, worshipping every inch he could reach. His mouth moved lower again, across her stomach, slow and reverent, like he was trying to memorize her with his lips.
His hands followed everywhere his mouth went, palms skimming her sides, fingers brushing the undersides of her breasts, then down again to grip her hips. He couldn’t stop touching her. Every time he tried to focus on one spot, his hands wandered to another… to the dip of her waist, the smooth skin of her back, the soft flesh of her thigh.
Garrett kissed her once more, then sank back down to his knees in front of her. His hands slid up the backs of her thighs, gripping firmly as he looked up at her. She was still flushed, still breathing hard, still looking at him like she hadn’t decided whether she wanted to shove him away or pull him closer.
He didn’t wait for permission.
He hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, spreading her open, and dragged his tongue slowly through her folds. She tasted exactly how he remembered, sweet and slick and so fucking good it made his cock throb in his jeans. A low groan rumbled in his chest as he licked her again, slower this time, savoring it.
“Fuck,” he muttered against her, voice rough. “I missed this. Missed how wet you get for me.” Her hand immediately fisted in his hair, tight and unforgiving. He didn’t mind. He wanted the sting. He licked her again, firmer now, circling her clit with the flat of his tongue before sucking it gently between his lips.
“You can stay mad at me,” he said between slow, deliberate licks, voice low and filthy. “Hate me all you want. Just let me eat this pretty pussy until you come on my tongue.”
She made a sharp, angry sound above him, hips twitching despite herself. Her fingers tightened in his hair, pulling hard. “Shut up,” she breathed, but there was no real heat behind it anymore, just frustration and want.
Garrett smiled against her, then dragged his tongue lower, fucking it inside her once before moving back up to her clit. He kept one hand gripping her thigh, holding her open, while the other slid up to palm her ass, pulling her closer to his mouth. “You’re dripping,” he growled, licking her slow and filthy. “So fucking wet and you’re still trying to act like you don’t want this. Like you don’t want me on my knees for you.”
He sealed his mouth over her clit and sucked, tongue flicking fast and relentless. Her leg over his shoulder trembled. He could feel how close she already was, could taste how much her body wanted this even if her head was still fighting it.
“Come on,” he muttered against her, voice muffled and rough. “Be mad at me all night if you want. Just come on my fucking tongue first. Let me taste how sorry I am.”
His hand on her ass tightened as he pulled her harder against his mouth, licking and sucking like he was trying to devour every inch of her. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. He just kept eating her like he had something to prove, tongue working her clit in tight, filthy circles while two fingers slid inside her without warning, curling deep.
“That’s it,” he rasped when her hips started rocking against his face. “Fuck my tongue. Take what you need. I’m not stopping until you come for me.”
His hands couldn’t stay still. One gripped the back of her thigh hard, fingers digging into soft skin, holding her leg higher over his shoulder so he could get deeper. The other slid up the back of her other leg, palming her ass and pulling her closer to his mouth like he wanted to bury his face in her. His thumb stroked slow circles against the curve of her ass while his tongue worked her clit in tight, relentless strokes.
She made a sharp, frustrated sound above him, her hand fisting tighter in his hair, pulling hard enough to sting. He didn’t stop. If anything, it made him hungrier. He slid two fingers inside her without warning, curling them deep as he sucked on her clit again. Her hips jerked against his face despite herself. He could feel the way her thighs trembled on either side of his head, the way her stomach fluttered every time he licked her just right. He kept his mouth sealed over her clit, tongue flicking fast and filthy while his fingers pumped into her, curling against that spot inside that always made her lose it. He didn’t ease up. His hand on her ass squeezed tighter, pulling her forward so she was practically riding his face. His tongue never stopped moving, licking, sucking, circling, while his fingers worked her in steady, deep strokes.
Garrett felt the exact moment she stopped fighting it.
Her hips rolled forward once, hesitant at first, then again, harder. She started riding his fingers in slow, deliberate strokes, fucking herself on them while his mouth stayed sealed over her clit. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room, filthy and perfect. His fingers were soaked, sliding in and out of her easily as she moved, her walls clenching tight around them every time she sank down.
“That’s it,” he groaned against her, voice low and wrecked. “Ride my fucking fingers. Just like that. Use me.”
He curled them deeper on the next thrust, angling them so they dragged against that spot inside her with every roll of her hips. His tongue never let up, licking and sucking her clit in time with the way she moved, matching her rhythm. His free hand stayed locked on her ass, gripping hard, guiding her, pulling her down onto his fingers and mouth like he wanted her to take everything.
Her hips moved faster now, chasing it. Every time she sank down, his fingers disappeared inside her to the knuckle, and every time she lifted up, they glistened with how wet she was. He could feel her thighs shaking on either side of his head. Her hand was still fisted tight in his hair, tugging hard every time his tongue flicked her clit just right.
Garrett moaned into her, the sound vibrating against her sensitive flesh. He added a third finger without warning, stretching her, and she made a sharp, broken sound above him. He didn’t slow down. His mouth worked her relentlessly while his fingers pumped up into her every time she rode down.
“Come on,” he muttered against her, voice rough and filthy between licks. “Ride them harder. Fuck yourself on my hand while I eat this pussy. You’re so close, I can feel it. You’re clenching so fucking tight around my fingers.” He sucked her clit between his lips again and flicked his tongue fast, relentless, while his fingers curled and thrust in time with her movements. His other hand slid up her back, then down again, gripping her ass and pulling her harder against his face like he couldn’t get enough of her. “Give it to me,” he growled.
Her thighs started shaking hard around his head. Her hips stuttered, losing rhythm for a second before she ground down hard onto his fingers and mouth like she couldn’t help it. A broken, angry sound tore out of her throat as her walls clamped down tight around his fingers, pulsing hard.
He groaned against her clit, voice low and filthy. “Come for me. Fuck, just like that, mama. Come all over my tongue.”
He didn’t let up. He kept his fingers buried deep inside her, curling them against that spot with every clench, while his tongue licked her through it, slow, firm strokes that dragged out every wave. Her hips jerked against his face as she came, riding it out, and he held her there with both hands, one gripping her ass tight, the other still working his fingers inside her.
She was so fucking wet it coated his chin, his wrist, dripping down his hand. He moaned into her like he was the one coming, tongue never stopping as he licked up everything she gave him.
“Goddamn,” he rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “You’re squeezing my fingers so fucking tight. Look at you, soooo mad at me and coming all over my face anyway.”
Her body kept trembling through the aftershocks, thighs quivering against his shoulders. He slowed his fingers but didn’t pull them out, keeping them buried deep as he licked her softer now with gentle strokes over her sensitive clit while she rode out the last pulses. His hand on her ass stayed firm, holding her steady against his mouth like he wasn’t ready to let her go yet.
When her hips finally stopped moving and her breathing turned ragged, he pulled his fingers out slowly and dragged his tongue through her one last time, tasting her release. Then he kissed the inside of her thigh, open-mouthed and lingering, before resting his forehead against her stomach for a second, still breathing hard. His hands didn’t leave her body. One stayed on her ass, the other sliding up the back of her thigh in slow, possessive strokes.
“Still pissed at me?” he asked roughly against her skin, voice low and hoarse. He kissed her stomach, then lower again, like he couldn’t stop. “Or did that take the edge off?"
“Get up,” she muttered, voice rough.
He rose to his feet. The second he was standing, she was on him.
Her hands went straight to the hem of his shirt, yanking it up and over his head with quick, impatient movements. She tossed it somewhere behind her without looking. Her palms slid down his chest, nails dragging lightly over his skin as she reached for his belt. She undid it with sharp tugs, then popped the button of his jeans and shoved them down along with his briefs in one rough motion.
While her hands worked, she looked up at him, eyes still sharp with anger.
“You don’t deserve my mouth on your cock,” she said flatly, voice low and cutting. “Not after what you pulled tonight.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed. He didn’t argue. His hands found her waist automatically, thumbs stroking over her bare skin as she stripped him.“Yeah,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I know that.”
She didn’t reply. She just pushed at his chest until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed. He let her guide him down, sitting first before she climbed over him, straddling his lap. The second she was on top, his hands were everywhere again, sliding up her bare back, gripping her hips, then moving higher to cup her breasts as she settled over him.
She braced her hands on his chest and looked down at him, curls falling around her face, still flushed and breathing hard. His cock was hard and trapped between them, pressed against her slick heat, but she didn’t move yet. She just stared at him for a second, like she was deciding what she wanted to do with him.
Garrett’s hands kept moving. One slid down to grip her ass, squeezing, while the other traced up her spine and into her hair. He couldn’t stop touching her. Even now, with her on top and still clearly pissed, his palms kept roaming like he needed the contact to stay sane.
She rolled her hips once dragging her wetness along the length of his cock. A low groan rumbled out of his chest. “You did not tell me if you’re still mad" he asked, voice low and hoarse as his hands tightened on her.
She didn’t answer with words. She just leaned down, kissed him hard, and rolled her hips again. Garrett let her roll her hips once more, feeling the wet heat of her drag along his cock, but the second she started to move again he snapped.
In one fluid motion he gripped her waist tight, flipped them hard, and pinned her beneath him on the bed. The mattress dipped under their weight as her back hit the sheets. Her curls fanned out across the pillow, wild and dark against the white. He followed her down immediately, settling between her spread thighs, one hand braced beside her head while the other slid under her knee and hiked her leg up high around his hip.
He didn’t give her time to catch her breath.
He reached between them, gripped his cock, and dragged the head through her slick folds once, slow, deliberate,nbefore pushing inside in one deep, steady thrust. Her body stretched around him, hot and tight and so fucking wet it made his jaw clench. He bottomed out with a low groan, hips flush against hers, buried to the hilt. “Fuck,” he gritted out, forehead dropping to hers for a second. “You feel so good.”
He didn’t wait. He pulled back and drove into her again, harder this time, setting a deep, relentless rhythm right from the start. His hand stayed under her thigh, keeping her leg hooked high around him so he could fuck her deeper. The other hand slid up her body, gripping her waist, then higher to palm her breast, thumb brushing over her nipple as he moved.
He couldn’t stop touching her. Even as he fucked her, his hands kept roaming, sliding down to grip her hip hard enough to leave marks, then back up to tangle in her curls, tugging her head back so he could kiss her neck, her collarbone, the curve of her jaw. Every thrust pushed her up the bed slightly, the headboard knocking softly against the wall.
She was still glaring up at him, eyes sharp with anger even as her body arched beneath him. Her nails dug into his back, dragging down hard enough to sting.
Garrett groaned at the pain and fucked her harder, hips snapping forward in deep, punishing strokes. The wet sound of him driving into her filled the room, filthy and loud. He could feel how soaked she still was from coming on his tongue, how easily he slid in and out of her.
“You’re still so fucking wet,” he rasped against her ear, voice low and rough. “Came all over my face and you’re still dripping for me.” He thrust deep and stayed there for a second, grinding against her clit. “Keep looking at me like that. Keep being mad. You know what? I don’t care. I’m still gonna fuck you until you can’t think straight.”
Garrett kept her pinned beneath him, one hand gripping the back of her thigh and holding her leg high and open while he fucked into her in deep, heavy strokes. The wet slap of skin filled the room with every thrust. He could feel how tight she still was around him, how she clenched every time he bottomed out.
She was glaring up at him, but her mouth was open, breath coming in sharp gasps. Her hands were on his back, nails digging in hard.
“You’re such a fucking asshole,” she bit out between thrusts, voice strained but sharp. “You don’t get to just flip me over and take whatever you want after what you did.”
Garrett’s jaw flexed. He drove into her harder, grinding deep before pulling back and slamming forward again. His hand slid up from her thigh to wrap around her throat, not squeezing, just holding, thumb stroking the side of her neck. “Yeah?” he rasped, voice low and rough. “Then why’s this pussy so fucking wet for me? Why are you letting me stretch you open like this if you’re still so mad?”
She made a frustrated sound and tried to glare harder, but her hips lifted to meet his next thrust anyway. Her curls were spread across the pillow, sticking to the sweat on her neck. He leaned down and kissed her hard, then pulled back just enough to look at her.
“I’m gonna fill you up,” he muttered against her mouth, hips never slowing. “Gonna breed this tight little cunt until it’s dripping with me. You want that? Want me to fuck a load so deep in you that you feel it for days?”
Her eyes flashed with fresh anger even as her walls fluttered around him. She grabbed his jaw, fingers digging in. “Don’t you fucking dare come inside me like you own me,” she snapped, but her voice cracked on the last word when he hit a particularly deep angle. “You don’t get to do that.”
Garrett’s eyes darkened. He shifted his weight, pressing her deeper into the mattress as he fucked her harder, the bed creaking beneath them. His hand left her throat and slid into her hair instead, gripping tight. “Open your mouth,” he ordered, voice low and commanding.
She hesitated for half a second, still glaring, but she parted her lips anyway. He leaned in close, spat directly into her mouth, then kissed her before she could say anything, tongue pushing past her lips like he was claiming that too. When he pulled back, a thin string of spit connected them for a second before it broke. He kept thrusting, deep and relentless, one hand still tangled in her curls while the other slid down to rub tight circles over her clit.
“Keep talking, mama” he growled. “Tell me how much you hate me while I’m buried in you. While I’m about to pump you full.” His hips snapped forward harder. “I’m not pulling out. You’re gonna take every drop.”
She made another angry sound, but her body was arching into him now, chasing every thrust. Her leg hooked higher around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Selfish prick,” she breathed, voice shaky with pleasure and rage. “You don’t deserve to come in me.”
Garrett groaned low and fucked her even harder, sweat-slick skin sliding against hers. His hand in her hair tightened as he leaned down again, mouth brushing her ear. “Too bad,” he rasped. “Because I’m gonna breed this pussy anyway. And you’re gonna come while I do it.”
Her body went loose beneath him in the best way, hips lifting to meet every thrust, thighs spreading wider around his waist, back arching off the bed as she took him deeper. The angry tension in her muscles melted into something raw and desperate. Her nails stopped just digging and started clawing down his back in long, hard lines. A broken moan tore out of her throat, louder than before, and her head tipped back against the pillow, curls spilling everywhere.
“That’s it,” Garrett growled, voice thick and filthy as he fucked into her harder. “Let go. Stop fighting it. Let me fuck this pussy the way it needs.”
He shifted his angle, driving deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that spot inside her with every stroke. The wet, obscene sound of him pounding into her filled the room, skin slapping, her slick coating his cock and dripping down between them. He could feel how soaked she was, how her walls fluttered and clenched around him every time he bottomed out.
His hand slid between them, thumb rubbing tight, fast circles over her swollen clit while h e kept thrusting. The other stayed tangled in her hair, holding her head back so he could watch her face as she started to lose it. “I’m gonna breed you,” he rasped, low and rough against her ear. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up until it’s overflowing. Pump you so full of cum you’ll feel it leaking out of you for hours. You want that? Want me to breed this pussy?”
She made a choked, angry sound that turned into a moan halfway through. Her legs locked higher around his waist, heels digging into the backs of his thighs as she pulled him in deeper. Her hips were moving on their own now, rolling up to meet every brutal thrust.
“Fuck, Garrett…” she gasped, voice breaking. Her hands gripped his shoulders hard, nails biting into skin. “You’re such a, ah, fucking bastard…”
Her whole body started to shake. Her mouth fell open on a silent cry before a loud, broken moan ripped out of her. Her walls clamped down around him in hard, pulsing waves as she came, thighs trembling, back arching sharply, hips jerking uncontrollably beneath him. Wetness flooded around his cock, soaking him as she rode out the orgasm, still grinding up against him like she couldn’t stop. Garrett groaned low and filthy, fucking her straight through it without slowing down. His hand stayed between them, working her clit as she clenched and fluttered around him.
Garrett’s thrusts turned shorter and rougher as he got closer, his cock swelling inside her. He could feel the pressure building fast at the base of his spine, his balls drawing tight. Every time he bottomed out, her soaked pussy gripped him like a fist, wet and hot and pulsing from her orgasm.
He knew he shouldn’t come inside her.
She’d been furious with him all night. She’d told him he didn’t deserve her mouth, and even though she’d let him fuck her, even though she’d come hard on his tongue and then on his cock, he still remembered the anger in her voice when she said he didn’t get to have all of her. Out of respect, he started to pull back.
His hips drew back slowly, cock sliding halfway out of her, glistening and dripping with her slick. He was right there, one more thrust and he’d be coming.
But she didn’t let him go.
Her legs snapped tighter around his waist in an instant, strong and unyielding. Her heels dug hard into the backs of his thighs as she yanked him forward, forcing his cock back inside her to the hilt in one rough pull. At the same time her hands slid down to his ass, fingers digging in deep as she held him there, refusing to let him pull out.
Garrett groaned, low and broken, forehead dropping against hers.
“Fuck, I’m about to come,” he rasped, voice strained. His hips jerked once, like he was still trying to be good, but she kept him locked deep. “I’m gonna pull out.”
“Don’t" she cut in, voice shaky but firm, almost angry. Her nails bit harder into his ass as she rolled her hips up, grinding him deeper. “I want it. Don’t pull out.”
Garrett’s control snapped.
He slammed back into her hard, burying himself to the root with a filthy, wet sound. Her pussy was so fucking wet, soaked from her orgasm and his pre-cum, creamy and messy around his cock every time he moved. He could feel it coating his balls, dripping down between them as he started fucking her again in short, desperate thrusts. “Shit, you’re really keeping me in,” he groaned against her neck, voice rough and filthy. “You don’t want me to leave, don’t you?”
She made a frustrated, desperate sound and pulled him in even harder with her legs and hands, forcing him as deep as he could go. “Just come,” she gasped, voice breaking as he fucked into her. “I want you to fill me up.”
Garrett’s rhythm turned frantic. He drove into her hard and deep, the wet slap of skin loud and obscene. He could feel every inch of her, the way her walls fluttered and clenched around him, the way her slick coated every inch of his cock, making everything messy and loud. His hand slid under her ass, gripping hard and angling her so he could pound into her even deeper.
“Yeah,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Gonna fill this tight cunt up. Gonna take every drop like a good girl even though you hate me right now?”
“Yes,” she moaned, legs locked tight, hips jerking up to meet every thrust. “Do it. Come in me. I want it, I want all of it.”
Garrett buried himself as deep as he could go and came with a low, guttural groan. His cock pulsed hard inside her, thick ropes of cum flooding her in heavy spurts. He kept grinding through it, shallow and desperate, pushing every drop as far as he could while her walls milked him. The mess was obscene, his cum mixing with hers, leaking out around his cock and dripping down her ass every time he moved.
He didn’t pull out.
Even as the last waves hit him, he stayed buried deep, breathing hard against her neck, one hand still gripping her ass while the other slid up to tangle in her curls again. His hips gave one last slow, possessive roll, pushing the cum deeper inside her. "Go on a date with me?"
Summary: You adored your boyfriend, John Logan, with every bone in your body. Which is why you decided to throw him his very first surprised party. Except this happened to be the one time having a clingy boyfriend had it's downsides
Warnings: FLUFF, slightish bit of angst
A/N: Giving you something sweet! I really loved writing this. Lowkey one of my favorites.
Main Masterlist
After dating Logan for nearly a year, you liked to think you knew almost everything about him. You knew what made him laugh, his favorite hockey players, movies he enjoyed and video games he played. You also knew about his upbringing that shaped him into the most emotionally aware and caring boyfriend you’d ever had. But there was one thing you knew about Logan that you wanted to change.
Throwing him a surprise birthday!
He mentioned it on the off hand when you were telling him about your own 18th surprise party where your friends pretended to forget your birthday before walking into a party later that night. It was one of the most memorable events where you felt so loved. And you wanted that for Logan. Remind him that he was loved.
So the planning started. You had exactly two weeks to pull off the best surprise party of them all. You enlisted his teammates, Hannah, Allie and Jules.
—
“Hey pretty,” Logan murmured, startling you as his arms wrapped around your waist as you were working by the kitchen counter.
You were spending the night since you were away last weekend for a club retreat and Logan was being more clingier than usual.
While normally you’d relax into his hold, this time your laptop screen has the group chat pulled up and other websites. Instead you froze in his hold, quickly swiping desktops before he could catch a glimpse.
You felt guilty when Logan gave you a weird look but the expression didn’t last when you turned to pressed a kiss to the corner of his lip. He smelled fresh as his hair was still damp from the shower, which is why you wanted to sneak in some extra planning time.
“Whatcha working on?” he mumbled, head now buried in the crook of your neck. You giggled feeling his stubble against your soft skin.
“Just a group project for class,” you said, interlacing your hand with his fingers splayed across your waist. You stayed in his embrace for a second feeling his breath tickle the back of your neck.
Him seemed satisfied with your answer, pulling away slightly to spin you around in his arms so you’d face him. God you loved him so much. Every smile he gave you was just another reminder that your party planning skills had to be on top of it.
“Thought you were done with midterms,” Logan hummed.
“Yeah my marketing class is just OD,” you shrugged.
“You have Donovan right? I can give you my slides from last semester if you need help.”
Your heart clenched at his thoughtfulness. That presentation wasn’t actually until the end of the month but the fact Logan still offered you support made you love him even more.
“Thanks,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to his chest, right over his heart.
“Anything for you, gorgeous,” he hummed, “Lemme cook dinner since you’re working.”
“It’s fine Logan,” you said, “I can help.”
“Nah I got it beautiful,” he assured, pressing a quick kiss to your head.
God you loved this man. Which is why this party needed to be perfect.
—
Things got worse as the date crept forward. Logan was a clingy boyfriend which normally you wouldn’t complain about until you realized you had no way of secretly communicating with anyone if he was in the room. He was always in arms distance, not in a possessive way but more in a sense he couldn’t stand the thought of there being a single inch of space between you if you were in the same room.
You were sitting on the counter in the garage while he was changing the oil of his car. Normally you would spend the time ogling him and talking about your day but today you were distracted. In between sneaking glances of him shirtless you were firing texts to Garrett, Dean, and Tucker about food details and to see if a certain birthday gift was possible. They were annoyingly slow at responding.
“You’re awfully quiet, pretty,” Logan said, turning his attention from the car to you.
Your brows were furrowed as you were trying to make sense of Dean’s cryptic texts and your legs seining back and forth impatiently. You were distracted by the amount of recipes Tucker sent and the lack of engagement from Garrett that you hadn’t realized Logan had wiped his hands and made his way over to you.
“Baby,” he hummed, leaning into your space.
“Hmm,” you replied before glancing up from your phone and seeing he was inches away from you.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hey,” you smiled, lowering your phone.
“You’ve been looking at the phone more than me this whole time. And I’m literally half naked,” he pouted, moving a hand to grip your waist.
You chuckled at his complaint but put your phone down next to you to wrap your arms around his neck drawing him closer. Your noses brushed as you looked into those beautiful brown eyes you adored.
“I’m sorry,” you mumbled.
Then you leaned in to press a kiss to his lips as an apology. Logan instantly reacted, deepening the kiss like a starved man. His grip tightened around your waist while one hand reached up to cup your jaw. Your own hands tangled into his soft hair as you let out a soft moan when his tongue met yours. Your bodies were now flushed against each other as you felt his hot bare skin against your clothed body. Logan began to press kisses down your neck while your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist to pull him closer.
Just as Logan began to grind into you, gripping your thighs your phone began to ring.
Fuck it was probably Garrett getting back to you about that favor.
You broke away to check your screen to confirm your suspicions but Logan kept kissing your neck, not wanting to stop.
“Do you seriously have to take that?” Logan said into your skin.
Garrett wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.
You pulled away, placing a hand on his chest to allow yourself some space to hop off the counter.
“Sorry it’s my group calling about the project,” you said, quickly rushing outside to take the call. You made sure to give him a quick kiss before leaving.
Logan let out a defeated sigh watching you go. A feeling of unease began to brew in his stomach as he blinked his eyes to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating Garrett’s caller ID on your phone.
You wouldn’t lie to him, right?
—
Logan’s birthday was a week away and you had somewhat finalized your plans.
Everyone agreed that it would be best for you two to have a dinner date and then to bring him back to the hockey house. The group was going to set everything up as you were out. You had also been practicing your baking skills for the past week which meant you had accidentally set of your fire alarm twice. But you were confident now that the final product would be great.
The only problem was that Logan had a birthday tradition of bringing all his friends to his childhood diner somewhere in Hastings. You had joined him last year as his new girlfriend and he was so happy to be surrounded by you and all his teammates. Which is why it was horrible breaking the news that it would only be you two this year.
“I’m sorry babe,” you hummed, rubbing his arm.
“Yeah it just sucks. I’m not the biggest fan of birthdays but I thought they’d at least remember to save the date,” Logan sighed, frowning down at you.
In reality, Garrett wasn’t visiting Hannah’s parents and Tucker and Dean weren’t going to this once in a lifetime concert. They were staying back to decorate the house.
You told yourself the look on his face during the surprise would be worth it but in the moment you wished you could tell him the truth. He’d been on edge all week with practices.
“Hey we’re going to have a fun night though,” you offered, wrapping your arms around his middle to pull him closer.
“Yeah,” he said, but his eyes still looked sad.
You rested your head against his chest as his arms stroked your side in the comforting embrace. You could tell he was frustrated with the situation but didn’t want to talk about it.
You knew Logan had trouble expressing his emotions which was a bit of a road bump in the beginning of your relationship. You learned that you needed to be patient with him or else he’d isolate himself. Although since you’ve been together Logan has been great at communicating. Almost too good as you listen to all his wild tangents and stories that led him to his emotional conclusion.
Your phone kept buzzing in your back pocket which was starting to cut through the comforting moment that Logan released you.
“I’ll let you get that,” he said hurt laced in his voice, before walking toward the stairs.
“It’s nothing,” you assured, feeling like you were adding salt to the wound.
You knew you’ve been distracted by your phone these past weeks that Logan started to catch on. Although you tried to assure him it wasn’t anything it seemed he wasn’t buying it. Hence him closing himself off.
“I’m gonna go shower,” he said and then disappeared up the stairs.
You let out a defeated sigh but you could try to make it up to him with cuddles. Checking your phone you instantly smiled seeing Garrett was able to seal the last surprise in your plan.
You just hoped Logan won’t get even sadder that he wouldn’t want to celebrate his birthday.
—
The day finally arrived and you were a frazzled mess. You sent out all your final texts as Logan was still in the shower getting ready for dinner.
Logan’s Super Surprise Party
You
We’re about to leave! DON’T go in yet until I say so
Garrett
Yes Captain
Tucker
All the food is ready!
Hannah
I’m so excited!!!
Allie
Finalized the playlist with Justin and Dean this morning
You
Thank you guys!!! I really hope he likes it
Jules
Oh he will. Mostly because you planned it and he likes anything you do.
You rolled your eyes at Jules' playful text and tucked your phone into your shoulder bag. You had slept over the night before since all his roommates were allegedly out of town but in reality they were all just staying at their respective girlfriend’s places to keep up the act.
“Don’t you look pretty?” Logan drawled, walking in with just a towel around his waist.
You were putting the last touches to your lip combo to match the cute denim skirt and white blouse you were wearing.
“Hey birthday boy,” you smiled.
Logan wasted no time planting a kiss on your lips which ruined your entire three step lip combo process. When he pulled away there were remnants of gloss staining his own lips.
“Logannnn,” you whined, rubbing your thumb over his lips to wipe off the make up. He kissed your thumb while you glared at him.
“You ruined my lip combo,” you sighed, immediately releasing him to fix your liner.
Logan just chuckled, “Worth it,” before throwing on some jeans and a plain black top.
You were jealous that he looked effortlessly good in everything while you spent an hour looking through the duffel bag of clothes for the perfect outfit.
“Ready to go gorgeous?” he hummed, grabbing his keys.
You gave a nod and happily bounced into his embrace. He stuck a hand in the back pocket of your jean skirt, leading you to the car unaware all his friends were waiting down the block.
—
Once you got to the diner, both you and Logan slid into the booth where you had your first date. He was grinning so hard you wouldn’t think he was moping yesterday about all his friends leaving.
“What are the odds?” he smiled.
You just shrugged. You had called the place earlier to save the booth. He didn’t need to know that.
“Whatcha gonna get?” you asked, scanning the menu.
“The usual. Double patty cheeseburger and fries,” he said, “And an extra side of fries so you don’t steal any of mine.”
You gave him a playful glare as you scanned the options. You’d probably do a tuna melt.
You two ordered quickly and began to discuss nothing and everything. Logan talked about his transformer’s themed 6th birthday while you laughed looking at images of a tiny Logan. When the food did come you were grateful for that extra side of fries as Logan gave you a look every time you reached for the basket.
Everything was perfect until your phone began to ring. You had put it on do not disturb but they must’ve bypassed it.
You subtly checked to see the caller ID which was Garrett. Logan looked at you with a certain look that made your heart ache.
“I need to use the bathroom,” you said, getting up.
“Yeah sure,” he mumbled.
In the bathroom you scrolled to see the flood of texts from people asking for party details and when Logan was coming.
“Garrett I’m at dinner,” you hissed.
“I know but we’re having trouble finding the cake.”
“What do you mean—Oh shit it’s in my dorm,” you sighed.
“Is Grace already on her way?” Garrett asked.
“Let me text her,” you said, firing off some messages.
Thankfully Grace was just about to leave before you caught her. She confirmed she could bring the cake which made you take a breath of relief.
“Grace is on her way with the cake,” you confirmed.
“Great, just text when you leave. Or I guess Grace has your location,” Garrett said.
“Yeah, sounds good,” you said before hanging up.
When you got back to the booth Logan was scrolling on his phone looking a bit defeated. You caught the waitress’ attention as his back was turned to you, paying the bill secretly knowing Logan would never let you pick up a check even if it was his birthday.
Your waitress smiled at you, taking your card allowing you to return to your boyfriend. You slide in the spot next to him, pressing a kiss to his cheek before stealing a fry off his plate.
“Did you miss me handsome?” you teased watching Logan’s expression change as he took in your sight.
“I always miss you,” he hummed, “Everything alright?”
“Yeah,” you said, “Why wouldn’t it be?”
Logan didn’t get a chance to answer as the waitress came back with your card.
“You’re all set,” she smiled.
Logan gave you an alarmed look watching you quickly write in a generous tip which you had to force yourself not to smile too hard.
“You didn’t have to pay,” he murmured, arms pulling you closer to brush his lips against your ear.
“It’s your birthday,” you said sheepishly, “Lemme spoil you at least once.”
“How did I get so lucky?” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your temple.
"I'm the lucky one," you teased back which made Logan pepper your forehead with kisses to prove his point.
–
The car ride was peaceful for the most part. One of Logan’s hands was intertwined with yours as he drove through the dimly lit streets. You were buzzing with excitement as you pulled onto Hawk street. Your phone dinged which you let go of his hand to answer that you would be there in a minute.
Logan frowned at the loss of contact. He let out a sigh and began to let out everything he was feeling,
“Are we good?”
Your heart sank. You looked over to him with a shocked look on your face but Logan just looked defeated.
“Are you cheating on me?” he whispered.
“What!” you exclaimed, “Absolutely not!”
“Well you’re always on your phone,” he sighed, shutting off the car as you pulled into the driveway.
“Logan, look at me,” you said, tilting his chin to look at you.
He looked so sad that it made your heart also break. You just needed to get him inside and all would be well.
“We’re perfect,” you said, pressing a quick kiss, “Let’s get inside and I promise you have nothing to worry about.”
He let out a defeated sigh but still opened up the door. You also got out and grabbed his hand as you made your way to the porch. You subtly angled your body so Logan would be in front when you entered. As he fumbled with his keys you secretly began recording for the memories.
As soon as Logan managed to open the door the house lights flicked on to reveal the crowd of people in his living room.
“Surprise!” everyone exclaimed leaving Logan’s jaw on the floor.
You eagerly pushed for him to go inside as his friends engulfed him in hugs and praises.
“Happy birthday old man,” Jules said, embracing their brother.
“You should see your face,” Dean grinned, giving him a nudge, “We totally had you fooled.”
“Yeah, what kind of friends would we be ditching your birthday for a concert?” Tucker chided.
“Happy birthday man,” Garrett smiled, bringing his best friend into a hug.
“Thanks guys,” Logan said, still trying to process it all, "How'd you guys do all this?
“Well you have a pretty awesome girlfriend,” Hannah said, nodding to where you were shyly standing behind him.
Logan turned to wrap an arm around your waist to pull you as close as possible. He gave you a squeeze as his eyes began to fill with tears with how happy he was.
“Happy birthday Logan,” you smiled, pecking his lips.
“You did this all for me?” he asked, looking around to the decorated room filled with all the people he loved.
“Of course,” you said, “You deserve good things. And that’s not even it.”
His brows popped up as Garrett pulled out his phone to reveal a video. After weeks of begging and intense networking, you and Garrett managed to get a personal birthday video from Logan’s current favorite player on the Bruins.
“Happy birthday John Logan,” David Pastrnak said with the Bruins’ rink in the background, “Heard you’re a beast on the ice so hopefully one day we can skate together. You got some good friends, make sure to celebrate tonight.”
“What the fuck,” Logan said, turning to you and Garrett.
You both gave him a non-chalant shrug as he squeezed you tighter. He pressed a kiss to your hair as you giggled seeing him so happy.
Later, you snuck away letting Logan talk to his teammates to go light the cake. Grace was helping you with the candles and gathering everyone to the kitchen. Dean turned off the light as you all sang a loud ‘Happy Birthday’ to Logan who was smiling widely in the middle.
He blew out the candles with no problem making everyone cheer in response. You could barely set the cake down before Logan had his hands all over you.
“You bake this yourself?” Logan hummed, noticing the slightly uneven frosting letters.
“Don’t judge me,” you frowned.
“I’m not. I’m just falling in love with you even more,” he hummed, accepting the knife to begin cutting the cake.
He took a bite and grinned, "Tastes amazing gorgeous."
Soon the party started to die down. You and Logan were chatting with Garrett and Hannah until the couple excused themselves for suspicious reasons that had you making sure to sprint past Garrett’s door later.
“You have fun?” you hummed, turning to face Logan.
“Of course baby. Thank you,” he smiled.
“This was a much better surprise than what you were thinking in the car huh?” you teased, playfully poking his ribs.
“Much better,” Logan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck, “Sorry for jumping to conclusions.”
“It’s ok,” you hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck, “I think I would’ve reacted way worse if it was the other way around.”
“I’m such an idiot for even thinking those thoughts. I mean you threw a fucking surprise party for me. You’re perfect,” he said, “I love you.”
“I love you too John Logan,” you smiled, “Happy birthday.”
You both leaned in for the kiss as everything else faded away. When he pulled away he whispered against your lips