Based on this request: i want to request a beau maxwell x oc basically they dated in hs for like a year he broke up with her before they got into briar u n she had managed to not cross paths with him till they saw each other again and she couldn’t escape the situation and they end up talking maybe implying they hooked up again.
Word count: 1.6k
⋆˚࿔ tina's note 𝜗𝜚˚⋆ First, I wanna apologize for not making this an x oc but it started that way and then I realized I would have to create a whole background for the oc and I don't really like doing that unless I'm doing a whole multi-part story so sorry. This took longer than expected to write and it came out too short so I'm sorry for that too. And finally, I can't stop making these boys absolute yearners help.
Class, work, library, gym, dorm. That had been your life since starting at Briar.
Maintaining the scholarship you’d worked so hard for was your only goal.
There was no time for parties, no time for sports, no time for boyfriends.
“You’re gonna burnout” Your friend Tina said “You can’t keep going like this.
“Of course I can, I’ve been doing it the whole year” You shrugged.
“But it’s my birthday” Tina pouted “Come on, come out with us tonight, just one night”
You considered it, the paper you were working on was almost done and not due for another 4 days, you had the day off of work and Tina’s pleading eyes were pretty convincing “Fine” You finally sighed “But only for a little bit”
“Yes!” The blonde hugged you tight “Malone’s at 8, it’s karaoke night”
Malone’s at night was a completely different place from what you were used to, sometimes you ran in here during your lunch break or in between lessons if there was enough time to grab some food to go but you’d never been here at night when the place converted into a bar.
“You’re here!” Tina somehow spots you as soon as you walk through the doors “Girl the entire hockey team is here”
“And some of the football team too” Maggie, your other friend points out passing you a shot glass “The quarterback this season? HOT, he’s a freshman too which means maybe I’ll have a chance” She wiggles her eyebrows.
You freeze, the new football quarterback, Beau Maxwell, your ex boyfriend.
Your high school boyfriend who broke up with you only a few days after your first anniversary. His reasoning? College.
He was planning on focusing on his football career and he didn’t want to stand in between you and your education because he knew how hard you’d worked for your scholarship.
You wanted to argue, tell him that the only reason you’d been killing yourself with so much school work had been because of your shared plans to make it to Briar together. Because your parents didn’t have the money his did to put you through a private college comfortably, but they did have enough money for you to go to community college and you had the grades to make it in without slaving yourself over your studies.
In fact, that had been your first choice, you didn’t mind staying home and going to community college, but Beau had put the idea of Briar U together in your head back when you were just friends and your decision had been final when you finally started dating.
But you didn’t argue, you accepted the breakup and tried to move on, you were already well on your way to start at Briar so you pushed through, spent the whole fall semester with your head in your books ignoring all the noise about football season.
And it worked, it was now almost summer, the end of your freshman year, and you hadn’t had a single interaction with him. You weren’t even sure if he knew you were in the same campus as him.
The drinks flowed nicely, you joined Tina and Maggie at their booth where more friends were sitting, you did a few shots and nursed a drink for a few hours, you were having fun and thankfully the place was crowded enough that you hadn’t seen Beau all night.
“You have to sing with me!” Tina was begging you, she was a bit more tipsy than you by now “And you too” she pointed at Maggie “Oh my god, we’re doing Mamma Mia!”
You didn’t even get a chance to protest before she was at the bar signing you up. “Guess we’re Donna and the Dynamos tonight” Maggie shrugged sipping on her beer.
A little later your names were announced and as much as you tried complaining to your friends wouldn’t let you stay in your seat. Tina and Maggie were already on the stage by the time you begrudgingly made your way over.
“Woo” Allie shouted your name from the booth “Let’s go!” This is what you get for being friends with the theater kids.
Beau stopped mid sentence at the sound of your name, there was no way it was actually you, other people have the same name as you right?
He knew you were at Briar, he’d seen you around campus a few times, busy and focused as always. He had stopped himself from reaching out more than once, he had broken up with you after all.
But then he looked at the stage and there you were, beautiful as ever, and looking more free than you have in a while.
Super Trouper by ABBA started playing and you and your friends took your places as if you were in Mamma Mia and Beau swears the atmosphere changed completely as if he was in one of the romance movies him and Joana watch every time they’re together.
And then your eyes found his and time warped all around you. A few seconds felt like long minutes and nothing at all at the same time. You missed your next line but thankfully your friends kept going like nothing had happened.
When the song finished you all but ran back to your booth and got your jacket to leave “Okay, that’s it for me guys, love you, bye” You rushed out.
“Nooo, we’re having so much fun, don’t go!” Tina whined.
“I know but it’s late and I work early tomorrow” You excuse yourself.
“Okay well, be safe, text us when you get home” Allie nods.
You turn around to leave but instead find yourself blocked by someone.
Beau.
He couldn’t take it anymore. Seeing you up in that stage made him realize just how much he had messed up by letting you go.
You’d almost forgotten how your name sounded from his lips. Almost. Your body though, apparently didn’t get the memo that you’re no longer together because it completely relaxed before your brain reminded it that it was not supposed to react that way.
Behind you, your friends were shocked by the fact that the new hotshot quarterback was standing in front of you calling your name, not to mention the fact that he looked like he was a moment away from falling on his knees for you.
“Beau” You said.
“Shit” He cursed “Can we talk?”
“I was just leaving” You told him hoping that was enough for him to let you leave.
“I’ll walk you” He said “I’d offer to drive you but I’ve had a few drinks”
“You really don’t have to” You insisted.
“Or we can get a taxi?” You knew the tone he was using, it was the same one he used that one time he forgot you had a date because they were on a two game losing streak and practices were running late back in high school, it was the ‘I’m genuinely sorry please let me make it up to you somehow’ tone.
“I don’t wanna take you away from the party” You told him looking back at a group of girls where he was standing before, they looked impatient for him to go back.
“Please?” You sighed giving him a small nod, as always, you can’t resist against him.
The walk back to your dorm was quiet for a while. Like he was trying to figure out how to start the conversation.
It wasn’t until you entered your street that he spoke “I’m sorry” You didn’t look at him, just kept your eyes to the front “Like genuinely, I’m really sorry. For breaking up with you like that, for giving you shit reasons, for not fighting more for us”
“Then why’d you do it?”
“Because I’m stupid” You reached your dorm “Because I saw what college did to my brother’s relationship, and Joanna kept talking about how much fun she was having being single and how glad she was to not be tied to someone”
“And also because everyone around kept talking about how busy I was going to get with practice and games and classes, and I didn’t want to keep you waiting or make you feel like you were second to football all the time” He continued “And for a while I tried to convince myself that I’d done the right thing but really I feel empty all the time. And alone, all those parties filled with people? They don’t matter because as much as I try to let them distract me I always end up staring at the door waiting for you to walk in”
“Beau-“ You tried to speak but he stopped you.
“I love you. I know I never said it back when we were together but I need you to know that I love you and every day for the past year I’ve spent wishing I could go back in time and not let all the noise get in my head”
Now, you knew your friends would never approve of this, well, at least Allie wouldn’t. But hearing Beau say those three words is enough for you to give in.
“Beau?” He finally let you speak, big eyes stared into your “I’m gonna really need your actions to speak for your words if we’re going to try this again”
“Yes” He nodded immediately “Yes, yes baby. Anything”
“Okay”
“Okay?”
“Okay”
“So can I kiss you now?” You laughed and nodded, in an instant his lips were on yours “Fuck baby you have no idea how much I’ve missed you”
“Why don’t you show me?” He all but growled “You know, that thing about your actions?”
“Mhm” He barely pulled away from your lips as you spoke “Where’s your dorm?”
Summary: after a party, Dean had the brilliant idea to play wingman
A/N: I lied…I have one more thing to get out of my system. Inspired by that scene in Gilmore Girls
Dean was sprawled on the couch, to drunk to make it to his room. It wasn’t until he slid off the couch that he woke up.
“Fuck, my head.” Dean held his head in his hand, as if it could calm the pounding. Bits and pieces of last night began playing in his head, he remembered talking to a girl for Logan, she told him her dorm number.
“Logan!” Dean yelled out. He got off the floor and walked to Logan’s room, he knocked 3 times, no answer. He opened the door and found Logan still sleeping. “Dude, wake up!” Dean approached his bed and started shaking him until Logan jolted awake.
“What the fuck, Dean?!?” Logan exclaimed, completely startled to see the 6’2 human golden retriever standing over him.
“Is that anyway to greet your friend?” Dean feigned being hurt by his friend’s words.
“This early? Yes, yes it is. What do you want?” Logan groaned, moving to his side to try and get some shuteye.
“There was this really cute girl at the party last night, I need you to help me find her dorm.” Dean omits the fact that it was for Logan and not himself.
“Aren’t you dating Allie? Why are you finding another girl cute?” Logan asked.
“She stole my wallet.” Dean lied and Logan let out a little “ha”. “You gonna come with me or not?”
“Dude, go by yourself.” Logan said.
“Please come with me, I’ll pay for your breakfast.” Dean offered and Logan perked up.
“Pay for my food for the whole day.” Logan countered.
“Done.” Dean agreed.
You were waiting for the elevator talking to your mom.
“Si mami, ahorita voy a salir para desayunar, no te preocupes.” You told your worrying mother. The elevator dinged and you saw two boys who you have never seen before step out, walking down the hall towards your dorm.
“Permítame tantito, mami. Excuse me, can I help you?” You asked.
“No thanks.” The brunette said as he followed the tall blonde.
“Te hablo después mami, te quiero mucho.” You hung up the phone and started following the two college boys. “Hey!”
“Dont put your number, don’t put your number.” The brunette told the blonde, both of them standing in front of your dorm, the blonde
“I’m not putting my number, I’m putting your number.” The blonde corrected.
“That’s my dorm.” You said and the brunette turned around, checking you out and with a little smirk he said
“Okay, put my number.”
“Are you sure this is your dorm?” The blonde asked.
“I’m pretty sure, I’ve been sleeping there since I moved in. What’s your name, anyway?” You asked, arms crossed.
“Well my name is Dean Di Laurentis, and this pretty faced brunette is John Logan.” Dean said with his hands on John’s shoulders. “He’s single, by the way.” Dean winked, John elbowed him, and you stifled a laugh.
“So sorry, it’s just that a girl stole his wallet.” John said.
“Oh, it was in my jeans the whole time, silly me. Well, I’ll leave you two to it, you kids have fun.” And Dean left them.
“Was your friend dropped on his head as a baby?” You asked and John laughed.
“No, but it would explain so much if he was.” John replied. “You know my name, what’s yours?”
“It’s Y/N. So John, what was the plan here?” Y/N asked.
“Actually, people call me Logan but you can call me John if you like.” Logan said.
“Bueno, Logan, care to explain why Dean was going to leave me your number.”
“I think he was pimping me out. Anyway, sorry to bother you.” Logan said and he was going to talk away when you stopped him.
“I was heading to the dining hall for breakfast. You wanna join me?” You asked.
“I’d like that, actually.” Logan said snd the both of you started walking together to the elevator. “You like hockey?” The elevator dinged and you got on.
“I’ve been to one New York Rangers game but I don’t really go to the briar hockey games. I’ve been meaning to though.”
“Well when you go to a briar game, check out number 22.” Logan suggested. The elevator door opened and yall got out.
“I will.” You said. “So you’re inviting me to watch you play?”
“Well clearly Dean was trying to set me up with you, it must have been for good reason.” Logan said. “Speaking of which, I have to find him in the dining hall, he’s paying for my food.”
“Alright then. I’ll meet you at the register.” You said. You walked inside the dining hall and split up. Logan spotted Dean talking to Garrett and Tucker.
“Hey, where were you?” Garrett asked.
“Ask Dean, he pimped me out to a Latina.” Logan said, pointing at Dean before grabbing what he wanted to eat.
“Actually, funny story about that, I meant to pimp you out to that girl.” Dean said, pointing to a short brunette with medium straight hair, wearing a blue baby tee and shorts. “I mixed up her dorm number, I drank lots of beer last night.”
“I am so lost.” Tucker said. They headed to the Register to pay for their food.
“I followed Dean to one resident buildings on campus and he was putting my phone number on the door. This girl was startled, had no idea what’s going on. But she’s cute, very pretty.” Logan said.
“Looks like I did something right after all.” Dean said.
“You’re lucky she didn’t call campus security.” Logan said.
“But you two hit it off! It’s fate, I swear, god wanted me to mix up the dorms.” Dean said.
I need dean meeting baby Maxwell or babysitting her
Dean and the Art of Babysitting
Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Reader
Word Count: 1631
Request open!
Off campus masterlist
Dean had a terrible feeling this was going to become one of those nights he would remember forever.
Not because anything was wrong. Quite the opposite, actually. Beau and Y/N were out on a long-overdue date, Daniella was safe, fed, and currently sitting cross-legged on the living room rug with a marker in one hand and a sheet of paper in the other like she was running a very important business meeting.
The problem was that she had discovered a new phrase.
“Uncle Dean,” she said, without looking up, “I need the blue crayon.”
Dean, who was standing at the kitchen counter with a cup of coffee he no longer needed, glanced over. “It’s on the table.”
She pointed dramatically at him. “Bring it.”
He laughed under his breath and picked it up anyway. “Yes, ma’am.”
Daniella accepted the crayon with great seriousness and immediately added another pink triangle to whatever masterpiece she had decided to create. Then she looked up at him again, eyes bright.
“Uncle Dean?”
“Yeah, kid?”
“Can I have a snack?”
Dean narrowed his eyes. “You just ate snacks.”
“That was a long time ago.”
“It was twenty minutes ago.”
She gasped like he had insulted her personally. “I am growing.”
He looked toward the ceiling for patience. “You are four.”
“I am still growing.”
That was how it had been for the past hour. Uncle Dean this. Uncle Dean that. Uncle Dean can you open this. Uncle Dean can you help me. Uncle Dean can you sit here. Uncle Dean can you look at this. It should have been annoying, but somehow it was not. Mostly it just made him feel weirdly honored, like he had been given a title he had never earned and somehow desperately wanted to keep.
He crouched beside her. “What are you drawing?”
Daniella turned the page toward him. “Us.”
Dean blinked. “Us?”
She nodded. “Me, you, Mama, and Daddy.”
He leaned in closer. There were four very small stick figures, one of them apparently him because it had the biggest eyebrows he had ever seen in his life.
“That one is me?” he asked.
Daniella nodded proudly. “Yes. Because you have big eyebrows.”
“I do not have big eyebrows.”
She stared at him. “You do.”
Dean put a hand to his chest. “That’s slander.”
“It is truth.”
He laughed, then sat down on the floor beside her. She immediately scooted closer, pleased with herself, and pointed at the drawing again.
“That’s Mama,” she said, tapping the figure with long hair. “And that’s Daddy. He is tall.”
“Very observant.”
“And that’s me,” she added. “I am small.”
“You are the smallest, yes.”
She looked satisfied with this answer and then, after a second, leaned against his arm. “Uncle Dean?”
He glanced down. “Yeah?”
“You are funny.”
He blinked. “That is true.”
She nodded. “And silly.”
“Also true.”
“And nice.”
That one landed a little harder than the others.
Dean looked at her for a second, then softened. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she said seriously. “You are very nice.”
For a moment he did not know what to say, which was rare enough that he should have probably been concerned. Before he could recover, she tilted her head and added, “Mama says you are like a big brother.”
Dean snorted. “I hope she said that in a nice way.”
Daniella considered it. “She said it like you are family.”
There it was again. That strange warm feeling in his chest.
Dean reached over and lightly booped her nose. “Well, that sounds about right.”
She giggled and then immediately sat up straighter. “Uncle Dean, can you build a tower?”
“With what?”
She pointed to the blocks scattered across the rug. “Those.”
“Of course I can.”
“You have to make it very tall.”
Dean picked up two blocks and stacked them. “Like this?”
“No,” Daniella said, scandalized. “That is tiny.”
“Give me a second.”
He built another layer. She watched him with the intensity of a tiny supervisor, judging every move like he was on a probationary period. When he finally made the tower tall enough to satisfy her, she gasped.
“Wow.”
“Thank you,” Dean said, sitting back on his heels. “That was a masterpiece.”
She stared at it for one more second, then reached out and knocked it over.
Dean stared at the pile of blocks in silence.
Daniella looked at him, perfectly serious. “Again.”
He laughed so hard he had to lean his head against the couch. “You did that on purpose.”
She smiled in a way that was far too much like Beau’s. “Maybe.”
He pointed at her. “That is an evil smile.”
“Mama says that too.”
“Mama is smart.”
At that exact moment, the front door opened.
Daniella sprang to her feet so fast she nearly tripped over her own feet. “MAMA! DADDY!”
Beau and Y/N stepped inside, both looking warm and slightly flushed from the cold night air. Beau had one hand on Y/N’s waist, a stupidly happy smile on his face, and Y/N looked like she was trying not to laugh already.
Before either of them could say anything, Daniella launched herself straight at Beau.
“Daddy!”
Beau caught her easily and grinned. “Hey, bug. Did you survive Uncle Dean?”
Daniella nodded with grave importance. “Yes.”
Dean, who was still sitting on the rug amid the blocks, lifted a hand. “Barely.”
Y/N laughed. “She behaved?”
Dean and Beau both answered at the same time.
“No.”
“Absolutely.”
Y/N’s eyebrows lifted. “That sounds promising.”
Daniella wriggled free from Beau’s arms and ran back to Dean, grabbing his hand. “Uncle Dean helped me with the tower and read the bunny book and gave me juice.”
Dean looked at Beau and Y/N like he expected that to be enough of a report.
But Daniella was not done.
“And he is funny.”
Dean gave a small nod. “Correct.”
“And nice.”
Beau’s expression softened immediately, and Y/N’s face did too. Daniella turned to them like she was delivering a final verdict.
“And he is my best uncle.”
Dean froze.
Beau barked out a laugh. “Your best uncle?”
Daniella nodded fiercely. “Yes.”
Dean looked offended on purpose. “Excuse me?”
She pointed at him. “You are the only uncle.”
“That is a very good point,” Y/N said, fighting a smile.
Dean stood slowly, brushing imaginary dust off his jeans. “I feel deeply betrayed by this ranking system.”
Daniella seemed to think this over. Then she marched over, wrapped both tiny arms around his leg, and announced, “You are my best forever.”
That shut him up.
For about two seconds.
Then he looked down at her, totally undone in the quietest way, and said, “Yeah?”
She nodded against him. “Yes.”
Beau was grinning now, watching the whole thing with that soft, helpless look he only got when his daughter was being especially adorable. Y/N crossed the room and kissed Daniella’s forehead.
“Did you have fun with Uncle Dean?”
Daniella nodded enthusiastically. “He let me have two snacks.”
Dean pointed at her. “One of those was fruit.”
She ignored him. “And he built a tower.”
“And knocked it down,” Dean said.
“And he is funny,” she repeated, as if it were the most important detail of all.
Beau looked at Dean with obvious amusement. “She’s got you wrapped around her finger.”
Dean sighed. “I know.”
Y/N smiled. “Good.”
Dean glanced between them, then down at the little girl still attached to his leg. “So, I’m guessing I passed the babysitting test?”
Daniella looked up at him in horror. “Test?”
Beau laughed. “Don’t tell her there was a test.”
“There was not a test,” Y/N said quickly.
Dean looked at Daniella and crouched so he was eye level with her. “No test. Just a very important night.”
She studied him carefully, then nodded. “You did good.”
That was all it took.
Dean leaned back on his heels and gave up trying to pretend he was unaffected. “Thanks, kid.”
Beau stepped in beside Y/N, one arm sliding around her shoulders. “We owe you dinner.”
Dean looked at him. “You owe me a nap.”
“You got one,” Y/N said, amused.
“I was emotionally taxed.”
“By a four-year-old with crayons?”
Dean pointed toward Daniella. “She’s a menace.”
Daniella gasped. “Uncle Dean!”
He immediately softened. “A very cute menace.”
That made her beam.
Beau shook his head, laughing as he lifted her into his arms. “Come on, bug. Let Uncle Dean survive his night in peace.”
Daniella wrapped her arms around Beau’s neck but kept looking back at Dean. “Bye, Uncle Dean.”
Dean raised a hand. “Bye, kid.”
She thought for a moment, then added, “You can come again.”
Dean smiled before he could stop himself. “Yeah?”
“Yes,” she said simply. “You are my best forever.”
Beau and Y/N both went quiet at that, and for a second the whole room seemed to soften around the edges.
Dean rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed in the way that always happened when feelings got too close. “Okay,” he said, clearing his throat. “That’s enough cute words for one night.”
Y/N laughed and tucked herself closer to Beau. “You are so dramatic.”
“I learned from you people.”
Beau kissed Daniella’s hair and then looked at Dean with a grin. “Thanks, man.”
Dean shrugged like it was nothing, though the smile on his face gave him away. “Anytime.”
Daniella lifted her little hand and waved. “Bye, Uncle Dean.”
He waved back. “Bye, boss.”
And as Beau carried her down the hall toward her room and Y/N followed behind them, still smiling, Dean stood there in the soft quiet of the apartment with a few scattered blocks at his feet and the very clear feeling that he had just been promoted to a role he would guard with his life.
blurb: a rich uptown girl with car issues keeps visiting the small garage off the highway where the owner’s super hot son works.
warnings: fem!reader, fluff, lowk ditzy!reader but not really, yummy mechanic!logan.
Logan heard you before he saw you.
He memorized the sound of those heels clicking against the rough pavement like a second heartbeat. After all, not many girls around this side of town wore vintage Prada pumps to an off-highway garage.
And even if they did, they most certainly did not own a BMW 6er f12 convertible.
Logan’s older brother Jeff was leaning against the workshop desk and sipping on a can of Coke when he saw you strut in. He sighed, “Here comes Lottie.”
The nickname was a running joke between the brothers. Jeff had muttered it under his breath when you first visited the shop and asked a question about diesel gas. He took one look at you and knew you were a clueless, rich girl who shouldn’t be visiting garages such as theirs.
Logan hadn’t entertained the nickname so much. He thought it was unnecessarily mean. Besides, Lottie was always a sweetheart in Princess and the Frog.
Jeff turned on his heels and disappeared into the garage’s office, leaving Logan to deal with you on his own.
Logan put down a spare part he was working on and turned around, leaning back against the counter.
You waved excitedly with a cheerful grin. “Hi, Logan!”
He smiled politely, “Hey…”
“Did you save my girl?” You asked, batting your lashes.
Logan nodded, “She’s all fixed up for you,” he said, walking over to the wall of car keys hung on hooks to retrieve yours.
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
He chuckled whilst shaking his head. You got happy over the simplest of things. He thought it was endearing.
You walked over to your car. Nebula, as you called her. A fitting name for a sleek, black convertible with dark purple leather upholstery and shiny silver rims.
Logan came over and handed you your keys. “You wanna try her out?”
You nodded and unlocked your car before opening the driver’s side door. No beeping. Perfect.
You beamed at Logan. “You did it!”
He smiled with an easy laugh, feeling proud of his work. In reality, your car issue was a minor one; the door sensor just needed a replacement. Nothing about it required a lick of rocket science, and yet you looked at him as if he hung the stars in your galaxy.
You put your designer bag into your car and bent over to fish out your wallet. Logan stared at your body for a second before he caught himself, clearing his throat and looking away respectfully.
You stood up straight, holding your leather wallet between both hands, looking at him with a doe-eyed expression.
He scratched the back of his neck and gestured for you to follow him to the counter. The gritty sounds of his boots crunching the gravel below and the rhythmic click click click of your heels echoed through the garage.
Logan went around the counter and pulled out a receipt and wrote down the service you needed with the price. He slid the piece of paper to you but you just kept looking at his face with a smile. He blinked before realizing you didn’t care for the price. Right, he thought. Rich girls don’t worry about those things.
“Cash or card?” He asked.
You held up your metal black credit card.
Logan pursed his lips and nodded as he pulled out a card reader. You tapped your card without even glancing at the screen and clapped your hands when the machine beeped in satisfaction.
“Thank you, Logan,” you told him kindly.
He shrugged politely, “It’s no problem.”
You smiled at him. He returned it, “Do you want your recei—“
Before he could even hand you your proof of service, you were walking back to your car. He nodded to himself and stuffed the receipt into the cash register.
He watched as you exited the garage, waving at him enthusiastically as you drove by. He gave a small wave back.
+
A week later, your BMW pulled into the garage whilst Logan was working under a car.
He didn’t hear the sound of your heels this time as he had headphones in, blasting a classic rock song. He felt a shadow looming nearby so he turned and saw your heels appear. He paused and rolled out from under the car, meeting the sight of your broad smile peering down at him.
“Hi, Logan!”
“Hey…” He sounded confused. His eyebrows furrowed and he glanced around, “Didn’t you pick up your car last week?”
You nodded. “Yep. But my AC is broken now…” You pouted.
Hm, Logan thought. He sat up, “Oh, I didn’t see that when I did the diagnostic last week—“
“Must be a new issue, then. These foreign cars are all funny,” you replied, tilting your head.
He cleaned his hands with a rag before standing up. He had oil stains on his shirt and just a little smudge on his face. You thought he looked so ruggedly handsome.
“Let me take a look,” he said and you stepped out the way for him to crank open your hood and inspect the situation.
As he got to work, you leaned against your car and watched. After a moment, you asked, “How was your weekend?”
People don’t usually talk to Logan when he repairs their cars. Especially not pretty, rich girls like you.
“It was good, played hockey, worked here in the shop,” he responded casually.
You nodded along even though he couldn’t see you.
“Did you win?” You asked.
He laughed, an amused sound. “Yeah…yeah, we won.”
You clapped your hands, “Yay!”
Logan laughed again. It was cute, he thought, how you always clapped at good news.
“You like hockey?” He asked, looking over your hood to meet your eyes.
You hummed, “I only recently got into it. My family prefers watching polo, golf, or tennis.”
Rich people sports, he wanted to say. That made sense.
“Recently, huh?” He said instead, ducking his head to keep working. “Who should I thank for putting you onto hockey?” He joked.
You smiled shyly and said, “You…”
His hand paused. The parts of your car suddenly looking like alphabet soup moving in jumbled letters. He lifted his head to meet your gaze again. But before he could manage a reply, you changed the subject. “Is it broken beyond repair?” You asked, turning your attention to your car parts.
He snapped out of his daze and shook his head. “Uhh, no. No, you just need AC coolant.”
“Is that an easy fix?” You asked.
He nodded, “Yeah, the easiest.” He said.
You smiled in relief. “Thank goodness I have you fixing my car,” you told him.
He smiled at that.
He fixed your car, you chirped out a “Thank you, Logan!”, you paid without looking at the bill, and waved goodbye as you left.
“That the BMW girl again?” Logan’s dad asked as he stepped out the office.
“Yeah,” Logan replied, wiping his hands.
“Lottie back again so soon?” Jeff teased. Logan rolled his eyes at the jab.
“You overcharge her?” His dad asked.
Logan looked at him, “Why would I do that?”
His dad shrugged, “Luxurious car fee?”
Logan squinted his eyes, “We don’t do that.”
Jeff piped in, “We could. She doesn’t even check her receipts.”
Logan looked between his dad and brother, “So what? We charge her fair and square.”
His dad shared a looked with Jeff before he went back inside the office.
+
Week after week, you came by to the garage. First it was an oil change, then a rim replacement, then a loose window ribbon, then a tire with low air, and so on.
By week 7, Logan had had enough. It’s not that he didn’t like seeing you, no. Far from it. He actually enjoyed your company. He often looked forward to when you’d come by and say Hi, Logan! in that sing-song voice of yours, your joyful smile, and innocent questions.
But now he was noticing a pattern.
So when you rolled in that Thursday night like clockwork, he didn’t go up to you. He stayed by the workshop desk and watched you with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Hi, Logan!” You beamed with a gleeful wave.
But upon meeting his stern expression, your smile faltered and your hand slowly dropped back to your side. You looked around the empty garage before walking over to him in hesitant steps. The sound of your heels filled the space between the two of you. You stopped in front of him and flattened down your skirt, a nervous tic of yours that you never noticed before.
“Y/n,” he said, his tone serious. “This is the seventh time you’ve come to the garage.”
You nodded, “Nebula keeps acting up—“
“No, she doesn’t.”
You looked at your feet. No smile, no lively clapping.
His arms uncrossed and he stepped closer. He wasn’t angry. No, it wasn’t that. Logan isn’t an idiot. He knew. He knew you had a crush on him, knew the only reason you showed up time and time again was just to spend time with him. Why else would you come? He knew families like yours had their own repairmen at fancy dealerships who could fix any problem. You didn’t need to come into his family’s garage.
Yet, you did.
Logan figured it out by week 4. But truth be told, he never mentioned it because a part of him liked being around you too. He liked hearing your upbeat voice, the familiar tap of your heels, the sound of your laugh. So he stayed quiet, he fixed your tires, and refilled your car’s oil. He went along with it. Because he liked your company just as much as you liked his.
Unable to lie to him, you lifted your head and met his eyes. “I did those things to my car on purpose.” You confessed quietly.
Logan blinked. His stance eased at your admission and he looked at you with soft eyes.
“I watched a YouTube video on how to drain AC coolant,” you added. “And drove around until my tires lost some of its pressure, and—”
“Y/n,” he held your chin with his hand. “You didn’t have to do all that to see me.”
Your eyes widened as you stared at him. He smiled gently, “I…like seeing you. With or without Nebula.”
“You do?” You asked.
He nodded, “I do.”
He leaned in slowly, giving you the chance to pull away. But you stayed. His lips met yours in a gentle kiss. Not hungry or desperate, just a soft sealing; a mutual understanding—I like you and you like me.
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours. You looked at him with a honeyed, dazed expression. He smiled down at you and pecked your lips once more. You weren’t a spoiled, rich girl to him. Not clueless or ditzy. You were just…you. A sweetheart with a crush on a cute guy who would do anything to see him. You were Lottie.
He glanced behind you at your car. He pulled away with a reluctant sigh, “What did you do to her this time?”
You smiled sheepishly, “I jammed my gearshift…”
He chuckled softly, both amused and fondly exasperated by you. “Okay…let me take a look.” He said, lacing his hand with yours and bringing it up to his lips to press a kiss.
Mmmmm Valarrs twin welcoming Kiera into the family on their wedding night. Valarr walks in on his twin kissing and pleasuring his new bride
Just both of them praising and being so sweet to her
“Come join us brother. Your princess makes such pretty sounds”
walk with me we're cooking here
valarr x twin!reader x kiera of tyrosh
valarr and twin!reader who have been sneaking around for some time. it's okay though, because they assume they'll be married, although valarr very annoyingly won't fuck her before they're married. he doesn't want to dishonour her or risk getting her pregnant before marriage, which frustrates the hell out of reader, but the compensation is that valarr ends up getting a lot of practice using his mouth to make you cum (and vice versa).
and then baelor announces that valarr will be marrying a tyroshi princess, and you are furious. you're even more pissed when valarr won't dispute it, he's too dutiful, and he says it would be wrong for the two of you to continue seeing each other. you don't speak to him for weeks.
kiera finally arrives and you are determined to hate her, but you can't, she's just so sweet. it's a relief to valarr because he likes kiera as well and he wants the three of you to get along. he misses you and wants you to forgive him and, strangely enough, maybe you befriending his bride will be what fixes things.
and since you and kiera have become friends, it doesn't surprise him when the two of you disappear after the wedding. it does surprise him when he gets back to his chambers to find his bride and twin naked and grinding their wet cunts against each other.
"won't you join us, brother?" you call, not stopping your exploration of kiera's body. "your princess makes such pretty sounds when she cums."
kiera pulls her mouth from your neck.
"husband, how cruel you are to deny your sweet sister," kiera purrs.
"and foolish," you smirk.
"very foolish," kiera laughs.
valarr understands your unspoken threat: he can join in, if he likes, or his wife and sister will happily continue on enjoying his wedding night without him. and for all the weight of expectations and duty and glory, he is only a man.
you pushing valarr's head down and into kiera's pussy so she can feel how good he is with his tongue. you lying on your back, and kiera lying on top of you with her back to your front, and valarr on top of you both so he can take turns pushing his cock into both of you. you playing with kiera's tits and her grinding back and forth between you and valarr. he cums in kiera first, which is only right, she is his bride. but you've been waiting for valarr for so long, that soon as he can go again, you're pushing him down and riding him until you've had your fill.
***
elsewhere, aerion lingers outside your chamber door, certain you must be returning soon and how grateful you will be for his 'comfort' after watching your twin wed. he would absolutely rage to know that the young prince once again got everything he wanted.
Summary: Weekly dinner with friends, comes with some exciting news after hiding it for weeks. (Spoilers from the books!)
Beau Maxwell x female!reader
The second you and Beau walk into Tucker and Sabrina’s place, you already know it is going to be loud in the exact way that makes your head hurt and your chest feel weirdly full at the same time.
And This happens every week, dinner with the group was a tradition at this point, and this time it was Tuckers and Sabrinas time to host.
Which meant there were toys scattered around the living room, Tucker shouting from somewhere in the kitchen probably acting like Gordon Ramsey on timer, and Sabrina already sounding exhausted before dinner had even started.
“Take your shoes off,” Sabrina called the second she saw you. “Jamie just learned how to lick under furniture and I don’t know what she’s licking anymore.”
You took your shoes off while Beau helped you with the coat, ever since he got drafted at NFL your visit to these dinners have been limited, so you both were so excited to see your friend again and share some news.
First thing you did was go and wash your hands in the bathroom so you could hug little Jamie, she was adorable little girl who loved dolls so you always knew to get LOTS of them for her, Tucker always got mad but seeing smile on his daughter’s face always warmed his heart. You could see Jamie sitting at her tiny table in the corner, happily eating pieces of fruit while babbling to herself.
The second she spotted you, her face lit up.
“Auntie!”
You crouched down and opened your arms just in time for her to throw herself at you.
“Hi, baby.”
Jamie wrapped her little arms around your neck, giggling when you kissed her cheek.
“You bring present?”
“Of course I did, don’t tell your father.”
After a few more minutes of Jamie proudly showing off her dolls and demanding attention from Beau, she became distracted by her new toy and wandered off, leaving the adults to settle into their usual spots around the house.
That gave you a chance to properly greet everyone. You hugged Hannah first. Allie was next, then Grace, the three of them immediately asking questions about your recent travels with Beau now that football season had finally slowed down enough for him to breathe.
Garrett greeted you with a quick hug and a warm smile. Logan squeezed your shoulder when you hugged him.
Then there was Dean…
“Where's my hug?” he demanded before you even reached him. You rolled your eyes but hugged him anyway. After saying hi to everyone in the living room, you headed toward the kitchen where the actual hosts of the night were.
Or, more accurately, where Tucker was doing all the work while Sabrina pretended she was helping.
The second you walked through the doorway, Tucker looked up from the stove.
“There she is.”
You smiled.
“Hi, Tuck.”
Before he could answer, you walked over and wrapped your arms around him. Tucker immediately hugged you back. You moved over to hug Sabrina next She smiled when she saw you coming. You’d always loved Sabrina. She was blunt, stubborn, terrifying when necessary, and somehow one of the most caring people in the room. You kissed her cheek before heading back toward the living room.
Beau was sitting on the couch between Dean and Logan, which looked about as relaxing as it sounded. Beau looked like he'd already tuned out half the conversation. The second he saw you walking over, his arm lifted automatically across the back of the couch. Eventually you found yourself sitting with Hannah, Allie and Grace while the guys argued about something completely pointless.
Again.
"So how’s NFL life?" Grace asked.
"Do you want the honest answer?"
"Always."
"I miss having a normal schedule."
Hannah nodded immediately.
"I remember Garrett's hockey seasons."
Garrett overheard from across the room.
"They weren't that bad."
"They were awful."
You smiled, listening to them go back and forth. The conversation continued easily for a while, everyone catching up and laughing as the guys argued over something completely ridiculous in the background. Eventually Jamie wandered back into the living room rubbing her eyes, one of her dolls dragging behind her.
Sabrina immediately stood up.
"Okay, that's my cue."
Jamie reached for her mother without protest, already half asleep.
"Night, everyone," Sabrina said as she carried her upstairs.
A chorus of goodnights followed them.
While Sabrina handled bedtime, Tucker finished dinner, insisting he didn't need help despite Garrett offering twice and Dean trying to steal food before it was ready. A little while later Sabrina came back downstairs just as Tucker carried the last dish to the dining room table.
"Food's ready," he announced proudly.
Everyone got up from their spots and slowly made their way to the table.
As conversations picked back up around the table and dishes started getting passed around, you exchanged a small glance with Beau. It was going perfectly. Everyone was talking, laughing, passing dishes around the table and catching up on everything they'd missed over the last few weeks.
Then Dean stood up.
"So who wants wine?"
Immediately, almost every hand at the table went up. He grabbed a few bottles from the counter and started making his way around the table.
And when Dean got to you.
You just smiled and said "No thanks."
Dean paused, face scrunching like you killed his best friend.
"...No thanks?"
"Yeah."
"You?"
"Yes, Dean."
He stared.
"You never say no to wine, we were supposed to be alcoholics im this group, what happened to you.” He asked with confusion.
You just laughed at his dramatics, “Nothing happened Dean, im just not drinking tonight.”
He just stood there holding the bottle, staring at you. Like you'd kick him.
"You're sick."
"What?"
"You're sick."
"I'm not sick."
"You have to be sick."
"Dean."
"Food poisoning?"
"No."
"The flu?"
"No."
"Rabies?"
You stared at him with confusion on your face. "Rabies?"
"You never know."
Allie smacked his arm.
"Sit down."
"No. Something's wrong, Beau what did you do to her?”
Allie smacked Dean’s arm again before he could spiral further.
“Sit down.”
“No. Something is wrong. Beau, what did you do to her?”
Beau finally looked up from his plate, completely relaxed.
“What makes you think I did something?”
“Because she’s acting weird,” Dean said, pointing at you like he was presenting evidence in court.
“I’m literally just eating dinner,” you said without looking up.
“You turned down wine, It’s fucking weird.”
Tucker sighed from the other end of the table. “He’s been doing this all night. If you ignore him he will shut up.”
“Wow thanks guys.” Dean muttered while rolling his eyes as he sat down again.
The table drifted back into noise again, everyone settling into their usual overlapping conversations. Forks clinked, someone laughed too loud, Tucker talked with Garrett about training.
So nobody noticed when you leaned sideways.
Beau’s plate was right there in front of him, half full, close enough that it was easy. He was mid conversation with Logan, not paying attention at all when you reached over and took a bite straight from his plate like it belonged to you.
Beau stopped talking mid sentence. Slowly turned his head toward you. And instead of being annoyed, his expression just shifted into something amused.
“You didn’t even ask,” he said.
“It’s good.”
Beau let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head like you were ridiculous in the most familiar way.
“Yeah, I know.”
You took another bite like you had every right to be there, like this had somehow always been the arrangement. In fact, after a second, he slid his plate a little closer to you without even being asked, as if deciding that if you were going to do it anyway, he might as well make it easier. Then, almost naturally, you shifted your plate toward him too, trading them without ceremony. Beau glanced down at it. Then back at you. A faint smile pulled at his mouth.
“Alright,” he said simply, like it made perfect sense.
He just started eating your plate without hesitation while you kept his. Across the table, Dean was still talking loudly about something nobody was listening to, waving his hands around as usual. Tucker was laughing at him. Garrett looked tired. Logan was trying not to get dragged into it.
Life kept going around the table the same way it always did.
You reached over your plate, mixing together the last of Beau’s food with your own, then added a piece of dessert from the middle of the table. Same fork. No hesitation. Like your taste buds had started making decisions without consulting your brain.
Beau leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you with that calm, amused expression he’d been wearing all night, like you were the only interesting thing happening in the room. He nudged his drink closer when you reached for it without looking.
Dean, unfortunately, saw everything.
He stopped mid sentence.
“…what is she doing now?”
Allie didn’t even glance up. “Eating.”
“No,” Dean said slowly, pointing. “That is not eating. That’s like mixing chemicals.”
Tucker waved him off. “She’s fine, Dean.”
“She is combining chocolate cake with mashed potatoes.”
“That sounds so disgusting ,” Grace admitted.
“Its so good actually,” you said simply, still eating like it was the most normal thing in the world. That made the table pause for half a second.
Dean narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a normal thing people say.”
You finally looked up at him, completely calm, fork still in hand.
“I’m pregnant.”
The words landed in the middle of the table like someone had pressed pause on the entire room. People suddenly leaning forward, smiling, talking over each other at once.
“Oh my God, that explains everything,” someone said.
“The food thing makes so much sense now.”
Beau just leaned back in his chair, smiling like he’d been waiting for everyone else to catch up.
Dean, still processing, looked between you and Beau like the puzzle had finally solved itself.
“…so I was kind of right,” he muttered.
“Unfortunately,” Logan said.
You laughed into your hand, shaking your head while Beau reached under the table and squeezed your knee gently, like a quiet confirmation that this was real, that this was happening, that everyone you loved was right here reacting exactly the way they should.
The noise around the table only grew louder after that, questions overlapping with congratulations and jokes and someone already talking about baby names like they had not just been blindsided five seconds ago. The questions started almost immediately.
"How far along are you?"
"Almost fourteen weeks."
"Oh my God," Grace breathed. "You've been hiding this for fourteen weeks?"
"We wanted to wait a little."
"Fourteen weeks is not a little," Allie informed you.
You shrugged, "We were busy.”
The girls immediately started talking over each other. Then Hannah looked directly at you.
"Wait. Have you had cravings?"
"Unfortunately."
The girls immediately perked up.
"What kind?"
You pointed at your plate.
"Apparently this."
Grace looked down at the mixture of food still sitting there.
"Righttt, that’s why you’re eating…that.”
Then Allie grinned.
"Okay, but the important question."
"Has Beau been good?"
The second the question left her mouth, every girl's attention shifted toward Beau.
Beau looked up from his plate.
"What?"
"Answer the question."
Beau immediately looked offended.
"Of course I've been good."
The girls were already staring at you expectantly.
You couldn't stop smiling.
"Three weeks ago I woke up at two in the morning because I wanted an Erewhon smoothie."
The table groaned immediately. Hannah was already laughing.
"What did you do?"
You pointed at Beau.
"He drove almost five hours at two in the morning and brought me 4 smoothies.” You said getting emotional now. Hormones.
Grace dropped her fork.
"Five hours?"
You nodded, already smiling.
"I woke up in the middle of the night and for some reason I could not stop thinking about this Erewhon smoothie. I tried going back to sleep, I tried ignoring it, but it just kept getting worse. At some point I got so frustrated that I started crying."
"That is the most pregnant thing I've ever heard." Sabrina laughed.
"It gets worse," you said, laughing too. "I was literally sitting in bed crying about a smoothie and Beau woke up. He spent twenty minutes trying to convince me that I'd survive until morning, but apparently I looked so pathetic that he eventually gave up."
"I did not say pathetic," Beau muttered beside you.
"You were thinking it."
"So I fell asleep and when I woke up the next morning he was gone. I thought he'd gone to training or something, but then he came back carrying four smoothies because he wasn't sure which one I'd actually wanted."
A collective groan went around the table.
You felt your eyes sting a little more just remembering it.
"Oh no," Allie said immediately.
"What?"
"You're getting emotional."
"I'm literally fine."
Your voice cracked halfway through the sentence. The entire table burst out laughing. You dropped your head into Beau's shoulder.
"This is so embarrassing."
Beau just laughed quietly and wrapped an arm around you.
You stared toward the kitchen.
“…Sabrina.”
Sabrina looked up.
“What?”
“Do you still have that chocolate cheesecake?”
A grin immediately spread across Sabrina’s face.
“Yes.”
You looked at Beau. Trying to give him your best puppy eyes you could muster.
Beau was already pushing his chair back.
“I’ll get it.”
Dean threw both hands in the air.
“There he goes!”
“You didn’t even ask him,” Grace laughed.
“I didn’t have to.”
Beau leaned down and kissed the top of your head before heading toward the kitchen. You watched Beau disappear into the kitchen and couldn’t stop smiling. A minute later he came back carrying not one slice of cheesecake.
But Three.
“You don’t know which one you’ll want,” he said, setting them down in front of you.
The entire table groaned.
“Dude you’re her bitch now,” Garrett informed him.
Beau looked at you happily stealing a bite before he’d even sat down.
“I know.”
And somehow, judging by the smile on his face, he couldn’t have been more pleased about it.
➷ summary: you’re the captain of the briar girl’s volleyball team, leading your team through the ncaa volleyball semifinals in the hopes of reaching the championship. and you do achieve that, but not after experiencing the most insane introduction with john logan, a man you hadn’t known to exist until now
➷ word count: 5464
➷ warnings: cursing, sexual references kind of (no smut), probably inaccurate volleyball because i literally have never played and don’t know anything about it (i was researching as i wrote this, so i'm genuinely so sorry if it’s completely wrong. also, for the sake of plot making sense, we’re gonna say the ncaa volleyball tournaments take place in march because i want hannah and garrett, and allie and dean to be together)
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
It was nearing the end of the 5th set, and yet, still, both Briar U and Harvard’s girl’s volleyball teams were tied. Fucking 24 points each, both having two winning sets beneath their belts. Meaning, whoever got the last two points– the points that both teams desperately needed– would get a ticket straight to the NCAA Championship.
And you, the libero on the team, the captain, were fucking livid.
Your team, as well as yourself, had been playing sloppy– or at least, it felt like you had– and you really had no clue why. You guys had been perfect during practice, together as one team. Hell, the first two sets had been great, too. Wipeouts.
But then, of course, because it was fucking Harvard, they won the third set. And then the fourth.
And now you were on the fifth and final set of the NCAA Semifinals, tied 24 points each.
It had to be the most intense game you had ever played in your 15 years of volleyball.
It didn’t help that Harvard was absolutely, 100%, targeting your ass. You guess it made sense– since your freshman year, you’d been talked about. A prospect that sports sites couldn’t stop talking about. Your name had been in their mouths since your first game at Briar U, and it hadn’t left since.
And that’s because you– to be totally, completely humble– were a really fucking amazing libero.
Your defensive moves and tactics were the highlights of many games, the Briar U volleyball account literally reposting edits that fans have made of your best saves. You didn’t let it get to your head, of course. You couldn’t, even if you had tried. You weren’t like that– you could never be like that, because in all honesty, you knew the only reason you had gotten as good as you had was because of past coaches and teammates. As well as current ones.
So yeah, you were good, maybe even great as some of the sports sites put it, but it was all through the effort of others.
And, to be honest, right now, you didn’t feel great.
Or good.
You felt completely, utterly, horrible, because during this set– despite it being in the beginning– you had failed to save two hits, the spikes from the opposing team smacking the center of your side of the net. This meant that Harvard had earned two points because you couldn’t get your shit together, and it was driving you fucking nuts.
You felt like you had the pressure of this win on your shoulders, and it really didn’t help that the stands were filled to the brim with students. Harvard students, yes, but mostly Briar students, since it was ‘Briar Blackout’ tonight, a term coined for any sports event when they were wanting to fill the stands, especially now, since it was semifinals, which were held in an arena very close to campus. And boy, were they filled. Which made this all that much worse. God, did it feel like you were letting them down right now. It was embarrassing. Every time Harvard got a point, the disappointed groans of your supporters met your ears, and the usual smile that you wore on your face as you played had been completely wiped from your features during the third set. Because genuinely what the fuck?
This game had been disappointing on so many levels to the point that you were now actively listening to the chants from fellow students and supporters, something you never did. You always tried to block them out, to focus on yourself, but right now, you needed the support.
And it helped a bit, hearing the chants of your name, as well as the other names of girls on your team, shouting how you guys totally ‘got this’.
The people sitting in the courtside seats were the loudest.
In the chairs to your right sat people who had actually bought tickets, while the courtside seats to your left was the Briar boys volleyball team. And, in the courtside seats directly behind you sat the Briar U boys hockey team. Which was new.
You’re pretty sure it was because they had won nationals, so they were here to support the girls volleyball team as they fought for their place. Which you were dreading may be coming to a dead-end tonight.
But you couldn’t be thinking about the hockey boys right now– you couldn’t be thinking about any of this, not when you watched as Luisa Elliot, your best friend, your outside hitter, stumbled as her hands tapped the ball, sending it in the completely wrong direction. Instead of it going back over the net like it was meant to, it had been hit completely off course.
It flew over your head, and was heading straight for the stands directly behind.
That was no good.
You sprint with not an ounce of hesitation towards the ball, following its movement with your eyes and legs, and you knew there was no way in hell you were going to make it– not when you were coming horribly close to the hockey boys. And, if you ran into them before you sent that ball back where it was meant to go, then you might not get the point, or, worse, Harvard could get the point.
And, fuck, you really couldn’t have that.
So you did what you always did– you leaped, quite literally throwing yourself forward in a dive, right arm pointed straight out, desperate to hit that ball back to your teammates. And you felt it, the ball smacking against the fleshy part of your hand below the knuckle of your thumb.
You figured it went as planned, your eyes watching as the ball went back over your head– and, when a loud, collective, deafening cheer sounded from your side of the stands, you were positive that your play had gone perfectly, the ball going exactly where it was supposed to be.
However, you were not where you were supposed to be.
No, you were currently dangling over one of the Briar hockey boys.
In the save that may have kept Briar in the game, you had sacrificed your dignity, because here you were, body pressed against and over a man you had never once spoken to– hell, you didn’t even know which hockey player was beneath you. All you knew was that you could feel his face pressed into the fabric that covered your stomach, the rest of your upper body draped over the top of his head. The only reason why you hadn’t flipped completely over the man was because his right arm had instinctively secured itself around the back of your thighs, keeping you in place.
To your left, you heard the loud cackle from one of the boys, and to your right, you heard another one of the guys react with a shocked, “Oh, shit!”
You tried to move quickly, hearing the game continuing behind you as the ball was passed between the Harvard girls. Your hands, which had previously been held out in front of you, trying to balance yourself, now were being grabbed by the two other hockey players beside you, who helped tug you to an upright position as quickly as they could.
As they do this, you feel the arm of the guy that you are currently straddling slide away from your thighs, and he holds his hands back, palms facing you as if he was surrendering to something.
You only get a quick glance of the guy’s baffled– but heavily amused– eyes before your left hand quite literally presses against his face, using it as leverage to push yourself off him, where you start at a sprint back towards the game that had your entire focus. And, it’s lucky you did that, because just as you were about to make it back to the court, the middle hitter of the Harvard team had spiked the ball straight to the floor on your side of the court.
Again, you dove to the ball, slamming your hand down on the polished wood floor just in time. Instead of the volleyball making contact with the planks of wood, it ricochets off the back of your right hand, moving upward where another one of your teammates– Liliana Amato– bumps it up and over to Louisa.
Louisa, the fucking amazing hitter that she is, spikes the ball with the palm of her hand, sending it straight to the back corner of Harvard’s side of the net.
Their libero isn’t fast enough.
No one on their team is fast enough, because the ball hits the wood with a loud smack, resulting in the entire room to vibrate with the loud cheers and screams of Briar students and fans.
You jump up quickly when you hear the whistle from the referee, and you swear you could cry from pure glee when the ref announces that, yes, the point did count, despite the Harvard team trying to claim that your pancake move hadn’t actually saved the ball.
This causes another wave of loud cheers to erupt in the room, and you move to Louisa and Liliana, a giant grin on your face as you three high five, but not before each of you took a running headstart, jumping as you met in the middle, your shoulders colliding in a celebration of glee. It was something you always did, the three of you, because, as fate had it, you three were the ‘big three’. You guys moved with an efficiency like no other, and as it turned out, sports websites loved it.
All you needed now was one point.
One point, and you would be two points ahead, and then you’d win.
If you guys got this point, you’d make it to the NCAA Championship, something that Briar girls volleyball hasn’t been to in over ten years.
The arena gets quiet again as the two teams get ready, and from the corner of your eye you watch as Macey Cameron, your team's setter, tosses the ball up into the air, using her palm to serve it to Harvard.
And, like that, another intense battle ensues. You swear to God you’ve lost at least twenty pounds through this game because the Harvard girls really were putting you to work– the ball had gone over the net and back three times in the last thirty seconds, and each time, you’ve had to dive to save the ball from one of the girls' vicious spikes.
Like now.
You had just gotten to your feet again when Harvard’s middle hitter sent a completely fucking lethal spike your way. It was going down and over your head with a speed you didn’t even know was possible, and you tossed yourself backwards, right hand out to save the ball from hitting the floor. As it flies up, your body rolls on top of itself, and you’re pretty sure you’ve done some sort of fucking backward sumersault, because one second you’re on your back, and the next you’re on your knees, panting as you rise back to your feet, watching as Liliana sends the ball back over the net.
You watch as the ball flies near the back of the court, hitting the polished wood planks before any of the girls can get it.
But the room stays deathly silent because was that out?
It couldn’t be out.
There was no way you guys just did all that shit for the fucking ball to go out.
Everyone’s eyes are on the ref, who’s talking to the other referees. They’re huddled in a group, and after thirty seconds, they step apart. You watch, and you feel like it’s in slow motion as the man points to your team, nodding.
It had gone in.
The ball had gone in, meaning that Briar had just won the second point needed.
Meaning you were going to the fucking NCAA Championship.
In an instant, the room erupted in cheers so loud that it vibrated through the ground, reaching your feet as you and your team jumped up and down, your coaches– who have yelled at you more times than you could count this game– joining in. You’re so ecstatic that you don’t even think to apologize to the hockey boy that you had run down just minutes prior.
The hockey boy that is now watching you as he cheers, a soft, intrigued smile on his face.
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
Typically after volleyball games, you went straight home, where you would take a shower and then slump into bed, passing out before you could even question if you were comfortable. It was a ritual at this point; you play a game, you go home and sleep immediately after.
But tonight was different.
Tonight, you and your team had made it to the fucking NCAA Volleyball Championship, which Briar hadn’t done since you were still in elementary school. So, yes, you would fight through your exhaustion for one night, and head to Malone’s for a late night meal with three of your teammates– your best friends– and you would have a great time despite desperately wanting to get comfy in your bedsheets.
Which is how you found yourself now, at 10:30 p.m., entering Malone’s with Louisa, Lililiana, and another girl on the team, Jade, at your side, the four of you walking through the doors of the popular diner.
You were chatting with Louisa who walked directly next to you, and you laughed at something she said, the soft sound carrying through the diner over the group you had yet to notice. The group you had yet to ever meet.
“Holy shit, it’s her!” Dean hissed, leaning across the table to nudge Logan in the shoulder from where he sat beside Garrett. “She’s literally right there–”
“Yeah, I have fucking eyes and ears, man,” Logan responded back quickly, voice terse as his eyes sideglanced you and your group, watching as the four of you walked past the table that currently held six people, including himself, without any knowledge that you were being watched. He looked back to Dean, eyes narrowed, “Can you be quiet?”
“Why?” Dean asked with a smirk, leaning back against the booth chair, his arm still hung comfortably around Allie, who was grinning with Hannah. “You’ve been aware of this girl for four hours now, and it’s obvious you already have a massive crush on her.”
“I don’t–”
“You’ve been stalking her Instagram since the game ended,” Garrett interrupted with a snort. “I’m pretty sure you’ve scrolled down to her sophomore year of high school.”
Hannah laughs into her drink at that, sharing a look with Tucker who had been snacking on the basket of fries that sat in the middle of the friend group.
Logan feels his face heat up at that, and he promptly shuts off his phone, pressing it face down onto the table. Then, he picks up his drink, taking a large sip as he shrugs, speaking into the glass, “She’s interesting.”
“Yeah, interesting because she practically gave you a lap dance mid-game,” Tucker snickered, which, as a result, caused Hannah and Allie to erupt into fits of laughter.
Logan glared harshly at Tucker, “That’s not why I find her interesting.”
“Sure,” Dean drawls out.
“Dude, I’m serious,” Logan huffs, taking a fry and chucking it at the blonde’s head. Then, he leans back against his seat, crossing his arms over himself, “She’s good at her sport. It's fun to watch."
“I think he’s so intrigued because she has no idea who he is,” Hannah butts in with a grin, laughing as Garrett nods along, his arm resting firmly around her, his fingers rubbing against the fabric of her cardigan. “And that’s new for any Briar hockey boy.”
“Oh, definitely,” Garrett agrees.
Logan only stays quiet with a sharp roll of his eyes. But he doesn’t deny it. He can’t deny it, because it’s true.
Just hours ago, after your amazing win, you had been asked for a post-game interview by Briar’s sports media team. And you had said yes, because why would you not? It was better than having to deal with the glares and snarky comments from exiting Harvard fans.
Now, one thing about you was, you didn’t do hockey. Like, at all. You’ve never been to a game before. You didn’t understand how the stupid little ice game worked. Which, very fucking embarrassing for you, was discovered by the entire internet just hours prior.
It was discovered by John Logan hours prior.
The questions had been basic; they always were. Just repeats of the same things, such as certain plays, how you felt winning, yada, yada, yada. However, tonight, the last question had been different, directly tied to the man you had plowed down hours ago. The man who you didn’t know a fucking thing about, because you seriously didn’t do hockey.
“Alright,” the reporter, Sammy, had said, moving onto the next question. “Now, kinda venturing off… we actually wanted to talk about a specific save tonight.”
You smiled your practiced smile, the type that was sweet and polite and all the right ways, “Oh yeah?”
“John Logan. How are you feeling about that?” The reporter stated the question like you were supposed to know who the fuck that was. And maybe it was because your brain was practically mush from the brutal game, paired with the fact that you were running on pure adrenaline post game, but you couldn’t for the life of you connect that the guy you had run down was John Logan. Again, whoever the hell he was.
“Sorry, who?”
Yeah, you couldn’t have picked a worse fucking response.
But, in John Logan’s eyes, that was the perfect fucking response. When he watched the interview on the way to Malone’s after the game– because he was intrigued with volleyball, that was the only reason– he couldn’t help the amused but giddy smile that laced his face.
The reporter’s smile faltered, and she looked back to the camera that was videotaping the entire thing for the school’s media, before her gaze returned back to you like you guys were in an episode of The Office, “Uh… John Logan?”
“Yeah, um... I’m really sorry, I have no clue who that is.”
“The guy you ran into. When saving one of the passes.”
“Oh,” you respond. And because for some fucking reason you can’t help but embarrass yourself tonight, the situation finally clicks in your head, and you say the worst thing humanly possible: you smile, and say, “Hockey boy.”
Like a fucking idiot.
Or, in John Logan’s eyes, like a fucking angel.
“...Right. He plays right wing for Briar men’s hockey,” she explains. And then, she looks back at the camera as she asks, “You didn’t know the hockey team was behind you, watching tonight?”
And, of course, because for some reason your brain’s goal is to get you to make a complete fool out of yourself, you answer an even worse answer.
But, no, you weren’t a fool in Logan’s eyes. Not even close. You were the complete opposite and it had his heart going like a freight train was headed straight for him.
“I knew they were here. I just don’t have a clue who they are.”
“You don’t know Garrett Graham?”
“Uh… nope? I don’t think so.”
“Dean Di Laurentis?”
“Not ringing a bell, sorry.”
“John Tucker?”
“The guy I ran into?”
Logan had laughed at that, making up a quick excuse to Tucker, who had been sitting next to him in the car back when Logan had first seen the video.
“What? No– no, that was John Logan.”
“Right.” You shake your head and you laugh, “Too many John’s, am I right?”
The reporter was watching you like you had grown another head; she did not laugh. You felt a swell of embarrassment creep up in your chest, but you pushed it away, trying to finish the interview as quickly as possible. And you had.
Jesus Christ, Logan practically ate the thing up. He’d played it back, telling himself it was for educational volleyball purposes, when really it was to watch as your eyebrows furrowed in confusion when asked who he was.
And not caring when finding out who he was.
Which is how he ended up searching your name on Instagram, scrolling through your feed, post by post like some weird stalker, according to his friends. Who, presently, were watching him, because he had turned on his phone yet again, eyes flickering down to the screen, watching an old volleyball practice video you had posted.
“Just go talk to her, dude,” Garrett finally said after another thirty seconds of watching Logan silently yearn at your Instagram profile. “She’s two tables down.”
Logan followed Garrett’s gesture, his head turning a fraction, his eyes catching your form as you hovered over a laminated menu, talking pleasantly with the girl who sat beside you. You pointed at something on the menu, wiggled your eyebrows at the girl across from you, and then snorted at what you had said while your three friends gave you bored expressions.
God, he hadn’t even spoken to you and he was positive he was in love.
“No,” he finally says, twisting his head back to his friends.
“Okay, this is painful,” Dean finally said, throwing his hands up. “Give me that–”
Dean had reached forward, plucking Logan’s phone from his loose grip.
“What– dude, stop– give it back–”
But Dean had stood in the booth, holding Logan’s phone out of reach, and he scrolled all the way back up to the top of your Instagram. He wasted no time, clicking the follow button with a sigh of content before shutting off the device and tossing it back to Logan.
And, oh, if looks could kill.
“Are you fucking–”
“Shhhh, thank me later.”
ˏˋ°•*⁀➷
“No way.”
“What?” Louisa had said, smiling at the waitress as she brought out the four Cokes that you guys had ordered. She took a long sip, staring at you from over the rim, “What’s up?”
You silently turn your phone, showing your three best friends your most recent notification.
John Logan has requested to follow you.
“Holy fuck,” Jade gapes. Then, she snatches your phone from your grip, and you reach forward, trying to snatch it back. However, she’s already leaning far away from you, “Oh, we are accepting this right now–”
“No! No, we are not,” you respond, voice stern as you stand to try and reach for your phone again. “He literally just followed me. If I accept now, he’ll think me plowing into him was intentional or something, so give–”
“And, accepted! Alrightly, follow back… and look at that, he already approved it!”
“I hate you,” you groan.
“Bro,” Liliana said, gesturing to your phone, “he was the one who followed you first. Which means that after you ran him down, he looked you up on Instagram. Which means he has been debating following you for four hours now. Which means he has the hots for you.”
“You guys are all delusional,” you respond, but not before quickly thanking your waitress, who brings over the four burgers and fries you guys had ordered just a bit ago. The food had come quickly, and you know it’s because Malone’s is relatively empty tonight. Only three tables are taken, including the one that you and your friends occupy.
“I don’t think you’re grasping the severity of this situation.”
“‘The severity of the situation’?” You repeat Jade’s words. “The hell does that mean?’
“That you have one of the hottest guys at Briar, a hockey player, following you almost immediately after you straddled him–”
You feel your face burn, “I did not straddle him.”
“Babe,” Louisa interjects, “you absolutely straddled him. Wanna see a video?”
You groan, “They already posted it?”
“Girl, they posted it three minutes after it happened,” Liliana said. She grabbed her phone, typing quickly, and then slid her phone across the table. You steadied it in front of you, leaning over to watch. And, yeah, you definitely straddled the guy. But not after you fucking launched yourself at him like a rabid squirrel, nearly flinging over his shoulder– you only hadn’t because he had held you against him.
“Oh,” Louisa says from beside you, pointing to the phone. “So that’s Garrett Graham,” she points to the guy who was on your right, the one who had vocalized his surprise when it had happened, “and that’s Dean Di Laurentis,” and then she points to the guy who had cackled. You watch as her finger points to the man next to Dean, “That’s John Tucker. The other John. They all live together. They throw the best parties, too, out of all the hockey boys.”
“How do you know all this?”
“Literally everyone does except you, apparently.”
“Okay, whatever.”
Jade groans loudly, “Can we return to the issue at hand here? John Logan thinks you’re hot.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Girl, look at his smile after you push your hand against his face.”
Jade leans over, using two fingers to zoom the video on the guy’s face, and sure enough, after you push off against his face, sprinting to save the volleyball once more, he watches you with what looks to be a dazed grin, his bottom lip tucked beneath his teeth.
Fuck, it was kinda hot.
“That doesn’t mean anything,” you choose to say instead.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Jade groans. “Look, whatever. Do you at least find him attractive?”
You shrug, lying, “I dunno. Didn’t get a good look at him.”
“Alright, Liliana, pull up the edit.”
“What the fuck do you mean, ‘the edit’?” You question, absolutely baffled. “This guy has edits made for him?”
“He’s a college hockey player, and he’s fucking amazing. And really fucking hot. So, yeah, he’s got edits– but this one is like, top tier. Really gets you going, if you know what I mean–”
“You guys are disgusting.”
“Here,” Liliana says, clicking a video in her liked posts. She shifts her phone towards you, turning up the volume with the pad of her thumb, and you watch as the song “Do I Wanna Know?” by Arctic Monkeys sounds through her phone, an extremely well crafted edit of John Logan both on the ice and in interviews playing before you.
“Okay,” you say once the edit finishes, “he’s hot. I get it.”
“See!” Jade grins, “He’s hot, and he’s definitely interested in you after tonight, which means that–”
But you all pause. All four of you freeze, because two tables down, you hear the sound of your voice on full blast, coming from someone’s phone. It’s you answering a question after a relatively successful game, followed by a song. Meaning that somewhere in this fucking diner, someone was watching edits of you.
“Shit! Dean, turn it down–”
It was too late, though.
You and your friends’ heads snapped in the direction of the noise, only to be met with the eyes of six others– five who seemed absolutely thrilled that you had noticed, while the sixth definitely looked like a deer in headlights.
The sixth being John Logan.
You can’t even react accordingly, because Louisa is grinning like a madman, shaking your shoulder and pointing very obviously at the group that’s only two tables away, “Holy shit, he’s right there, oh my God–”
“I can see that, Louisa,” you hiss, pushing her hands off you. Then, you turn back to John Logan, watching as he whispers heated words to his friends before standing. And holy fuck, he’s making his way over to you. Before he even reaches the table, Liliana, Louisa, and Jade are standing, gathering their things and food, and your eyes widen with an alarmed expression, and you hurriedly whisper, “Where the fuck are you guys going?”
“To a different table so we don’t block his cock.”
“Oh my–”
You can’t even finish your words, because your friends are gone. And John Logan is standing right in front of you, a small, gentle smile on his face as he watches your friends scurry over to the table he had just come from. They shove themselves into the booth next to Logan’s friends, acting as if they knew the people they now sat with, which they did not.
Logan’s friends didn’t seem to care, though. They looked just as eager, making room so your three obnoxious teammates could sit comfortably.
You fight the urge to audibly sigh, looking back at the man in front of you. You match his smile, and you really don’t know what’s with your fucking head today, but the first words that leave your mouth aren’t something sweet. They aren't cute. They make you look like a dipshit.
“My victim.”
You immediately want to get up and leave, because genuinely what the fuck were you on today?
But you don’t leave, not when John’s smile widens, and you can see his pretty teeth. He looks thoroughly amused, excited even, and he nods along with your words as he responds, “My attacker.”
“I wouldn’t call it an attack–”
“What would you call it?” He asks with his gentle grin, and he pulls out the chair where Jade had just been, sitting directly across from you.
“A collision on the playing field,” you offer with a hint of playfulness, which he catches onto instantly. “I’m sure you’re used to those. With hockey and everything.”
“So you know who I am now?” He asks, his eyes sparkling with something exciting.
“Hard not to when our video is already making its way through social media. Have you seen it?”
“Absolutely,” he says with a nod, and his tone is serious in a joking way. He’s got his arms now on the table, leaning forward as he speaks to you. He’s still grinning, and you conclude now that this guy is insanely good at keeping eye contact. It's really hot. “You tackling me, me catching you–”
“Straight out of a sports romcom,” you conclude. Then, you shake your solemnly, “What a waste, am I right? If we had some good dialogue, we would’ve gotten a ticket straight to the Oscars!”
“Oh, I know,” he says, and he throws his hands up dramatically. “We’ve been snubbed.”
Fuck, he was fun to banter with.
All the nerves you felt when you first realized he was walking over had vanished into thin air, because you guys got along good. You clicked instantaneously, falling into an easy back and forth that had you leaning forward as you spoke to him, words playful as he nodded along, eyes wide in a way that showed he was having just as much fun as you were.
You guys had been so invested in your many conversations about literally whatever the fuck came up that you didn’t even realize when your friends left. Or when his friends left. Or when you two were the only people left in Malone’s, except for the staff.
And, through the long, witty, playful conversations you were having with John, you two somehow ended up staying at Malone’s until close. It was late out, just past 2 a.m., and John offered to walk you home, which you refused at first, worried about keeping him out too late. But the man pouts dramatically, a playful expression as he told you there's nothing else he'd rather do, and you can’t help but agree.
Which is where you found yourself now.
Pushed up against the front door of your apartment, lips pressed against his, hands threaded through his hair while his fingers held your waist, thumbs rubbing over your hipbones with the type of gentleness that made your heart ache.
He presses more kisses to your lips. They’re firmer, eager, and it’s now that you know you have to break the news to him.
“Wanna know another thing about me, John?” You grin, tilting your head back as he presses kisses down your neck.
He hums against your skin, sucking gently at your pulse point before smoothing it over with his tongue, pressing once final kiss to the skin. He moves his way back up your neck and jaw with soft kisses, pressing one final kiss to the softness of your lips, “What?”
“I don’t do hook-ups. Or casual.”
You expect him to falter, to pull back with a face of disappointment. You figured that’s what would happen, but you didn’t necessarily care. Sure, it was going to suck, having to end this short-lived thing with the hottest guy you ever met, but you weren’t going to change your rules for a guy you had just met.
But, no, Logan doesn’t react how you were expecting at all.
No frown, no hint of irritation. He does something else, something that catches you off guard in the best way possible.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
summary — you & ilya against the world, always. but what happens when garrett graham enters the picture?
pairing: ex!rafe x rozanov!reader x garrett graham
warnings! fem!rozanov reader, badly done crossover with even worse timelines, inaccurate russian, even more inaccurate hockey descriptions, mentions of toxic relationships and bad fathers, hockey violence, & mentions of blood
masterlist!
It's always been you and Ilya against the world.
You've all heard the story, or at least you think you have. The youngest Rozanov, born more than a decade after the first. A mistake. But Ilya never let you believe that.
You all know the part where Ilya was drafted in the NHL, the brightest young star (along with Hollander of course) before he became an adult. You know all about their heated rivalry, and when it was leaked, you know that he came back for you. It was printed in every paper, the second they found out their star Ilya fucking Rozanov was paying for childcare and his bar tab.
But what you don't know is how he stood in the doorway of your childhood bedroom, jaw clenched, hands shaking, and said: "Пойдём, малышка. Мы уходим." [Come on, little one. We're leaving.] You don't know how he raised you on the road, and to be frank, he doesn't either. It was a lot of sleepless nights, juggling practices and games and babysitters and school forms he barely understood, but he did it, he gave you the world, and now it's yours to conquer.
And you did.
You earned your way into Briar with a full-ride academic scholarship, hours of studying, tutoring, late nights, early mornings, watching your brother's games nervously chewing on a pen lid, with textbooks spilling over the coffee table. You didn't want Ilya paying for anything. He'd already given you everything.
But Ilya being Ilya?
He’d paid for your off-campus apartment anyway. "Ты учись. Остальное — моё дело." [You study. The rest is my job.]
You tried to argue. He ignored you. Classic Rozanov stubbornness as you'll all discover.
He helped you move in, stocked your fridge, grumbled about Hollander, and then insisted on taking you to a Briar hockey game.
His reasoning? "I want to see rink. Campus. And boys who think they talk to you." You rolled your eyes so hard you nearly saw your brain. "Il’ushka, I’ve been here three days."
"Da. Plenty of time for idiots."
The rink was freezing, the kind of cold that seeped into your bones, but you both welcomed it, a second home. Students packed the stands, stomping, chanting, waving signs, tha air buzzing with anticipation.
Ilya sat beside you, arms crossed, jaw set, eyes sharp watching the ice with a cold stare you've known as his game face. You leaned in, murmuring, "Their breakout's messy. Defence is pinching too early."
A small smirk tugged at his mouth, "Хорошо, малышка." [Good, little one.]
You nudged him. "I learned from you."
He grunted, which, from Ilya, was basically a sonnet.
Then he saw him.
Dean Di Laurentis. #66.
Dean cut through the neutral zone, stickhandling through two defenders before snapping a pass across the slot.
Ilya hummed in approval. "Этот хороший. Головой играет" [This one is good. He plays with his head.]
You raised a brow. "You like him?"
"Da. Reminds me of me. But less handsome."
You snorted, a smirk finding its natural place on Ilya's lips as his eyes followed the play, proud that he made you laugh.
After the game, Ilya stood abruptly. "Come. I talk to him."
You grabbed his sleeve. "Il’ushka, no. You can’t just—"
"I am."
He dragged you down to the tunnel, ignoring your muttered Russian curses.
The air smelled like ice, sweat, and victory. Players trickled out, sweaty and laughing, gawking at Ilya as they passed him, too intimidated to say anything. Then Dean appeared, towel around his neck, hair damp, grin bright enough to light the hallway. He looked like the human embodiment of a golden retriever. Trouble.
Ilya stepped in front of him like a brick wall. "You play well."
Dean blinked. Then blinked again, recognition hitting him like a check into the boards. "Holy- you're Ilya Rozanov."
Ilya nodded once, then jerked his chin toward you. "This is my little sister. She new here. You look after her."
Dean's grinned, golden retriever energy activated instantly, "Absolutely. Yes. Of course. Consider it done."
Ilya clapped him on the shoulder, hard enough to make Dean stumble. "Good."
Dean straightened, still grinning. "I'll, uh— I'll make sure she's good. Scout's honour."
You were pretty sure he’d never been a scout and knew even less about honour, muttering in Russian, "Ты сумасшедший." [You're insane.]
Ilya shrugged.
"Family."
And that was that.
Dean Di Laurentis became your unofficial off campus guardian.
And somewhere in the locker room behind him, Garrett Graham was about to walk into your life.
The tunnel buzzed with the familiar post-game adrenaline, laughter echoing off concrete, the slap of sticks against bags, the sharp bite of cold air mixing with sweat. Dean tugged you through the crowd with the enthusiasm of someone who had never once considered consequences.
You muttered something in Russian under your breath. Dean glanced back. "I heard that."
"You are liar," you shot back.
He kept walking until you yanked him to a stop, surprising him, though it shouldn't. You were a Rozanov, strength was practically genetic.
"Dean. No. I'm not going in there."
He blinked at you, genuinely confused. "Why not?"
You stared at him. "Because it's a locker room."
Dean shrugged. "They're decent."
You raised an eyebrow.
He sighed. "They're mostly decent. Okay, fine, they're not decent at all, but I just need to grab something. Two seconds."
You sighed, resigned to your fate. Ilya had shoved the two of you together like mismatched puzzle pieces and somehow it worked, Dean's chaos balancing your quiet steel. So you followed him inside.
The room hit you like a wave, loud, humid, and chaotic. Players half-dressed, laughing, shouting, slamming lockers. Someone was signing off-key, and someone else was throwing tape balls at a teammate.
And then—
You saw him.
Garrett Graham.
Hair damp, towel slung low around his hips, tape still wrapped around one wrist. He was mid-conversation with a teammate when he looked up—
And froze.
His eyes flicked from Dean, to your joined hands, to you.
Something in his expression shifted. He straightened, tugging the towel higher in a subtle gesture so respectful it almost startled you.
"Uh... Dean?"
Dean waved him off. "It's fine. Baby Roz meet Cap. I've taken her under my wing—"
You elbowed him sharply. Dean yelped, dramatic as ever, earning snickers from the team.
"Right, right," he corrected. "I'm her Campus Guardian Angel."
You hit him again.
"Okay! I'm driving her home," he amended, rubbing his already sore ribs.
That earned a chorus of exaggerated "ooohs" from the boys. You replied in Russian, a threat involving sharp objects and their dicks. They didn’t understand the words, but the tone was enough to silence them.
Dean looked proud. "My little Hell Cat," he murmured.
Garrett looked at you properly then, not in a lingering way, but with a kind of quiet awe. You could almost see the thought cross his mind: Rozanov genes are no joke.
"Hi," he said softely.
You nodded. "Hi."
Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking like he'd just discovered hid new favourite hobby, one that probably involved gossiping with your brother and his boyfriend.
Garrett immediately stepped back, hands up. "I'm not— I wasn't— I didn't—"
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
Dean clapped him on the shoulder. "Relax, G. She's cool."
Garrett shot him a look. "Dean, she's literally in the locker room."
Dean shrugged. "Yeah, and? She's seen a man before."
You groaned. "Di Laurentis."
Garrett's ears went pink. You pretended not to notice.
"I'm... gonna put on actual clothes," he muttered, disappearing behind a row of lockers so fast you almost laughed.
Almost.
You didn't notice that Dean never grabbed anything from his locker.
It was raining. The sideways, miserable, British kind that soaked through your jacket and made you question every life choice that led you outside. You stood under the a barely there cover of a building, clutching your bag, giving the sky an infamous Rozanov glare.
You sighed and called the only person who would pick up at this hour. "Dean," you said the second the answered, "please tell me you're on campus."
There was a suspicious pause. "Define 'on campus.'"
You closed your eyes. "Dean."
"Okay, okay, Hell Cat, don't yell. I'm… nearby."
"You're lying."
"I'm… spiritually nearby."
You switched to Russian. "Ты бесполезный." [You are useless.]
Dean gasped. "Wow. Hurtful. Accurate, but hurtful."
"Dean, I need ride."
Another pause, longer this time. "Right. About that. I… can't."
You frowned. "Why?"
"I'm… busy."
"You’re eating cereal, aren’t you?"
A guilty silence.
You sighed. "Fine. I'll walk."
"NO-" Dean practically shouted. "No, no, no, don't do that. Stay where you are. I'll… send someone."
You narrowed your eyes. "Who?"
"Uh-" Dean cleared his throat. "A responsible adult."
"Dean. You don't know any responsible adults."
"Gotta go! Love you, bye!"
The line went dead. You stared at your phone. "Он идиот." [He is an idiot.]
Ten minutes later, a familiar black Jeep pulled up to the curb, and your stomach dropped.
Garrett stepped out. Hair damp from the rain, hoodie pulled over his head, his expression softening the moment he saw you.
He jogged over, holding his jacket above your head like a makeshift umbrella. "Hey. You okay?"
You blinked. "Garrett? What are you—"
"Dean called me," he said, voice warm despite the cold. "Said you needed a ride."
You closed your eyes. "I'm going to kill him."
Garrett smiled, small, crooked, worst of all, devastating. "Please don't, he owes me twenty bucks." You huffed a laugh despite yourself, as he opened the passenger door for you. "Come on. You're freezing." You hesitated for half a second, just long enough for him to notice. He softened. "It’s just a ride. Nothing weird." You nodded and climbed in.
The car was warm, smelling faintly of pine and something that was probably Garrett's cologne. He slid into the driver's seat, shaking rain from his hair.
"You really didn't have to come," you said quietly.
"I wanted to," he replied, just as quietly.
Your heart did something stupid.
He pulled out of the parking lot, driving carefully through the rain. The silence between you wasn't awkward, just full. Charged with something. Almost familiar.
After a minute, he glanced over. "You okay?"
You shrugged. "Long day."
"Want to talk about it?"
"No."
"Want me to distract you?"
You looked at him. "With what?"
He smiled. "I can list all the ways Dean is an idiot."
You snorted. "That would take weeks."
"I've got time."
You shook your head, but you were smiling now. "He tricked me."
"He tricked me too," Garrett said. "Told me you were stranded and freezing and probably dying."
You groaned. "I hate him."
Garrett’s voice softened. "He means well."
You looked out the window. "He meddles."
Garrett hesitated. "Do you… mind?"
You swallowed. "I don’t know."
He nodded, eyes back on the road. "Okay."
Another beat of silence.
Then, softly, "For what it's worth… I'm glad he called me."
You turned your head. Garrett kept his eyes on the road, but his voice was steady. "I like spending time with you."
Your breath caught. "Garrett…"
He shook his head. "You don't have to say anything. I just… wanted you to know." You looked down at your hands. "I like spending time with you too." He inhaled sharply, so quietly you almost missed it.
The rain softened as he pulled up outside your building. He put the car in park but didn't move to open the door. "Text me when you're inside," he said.
You nodded. "Okay."
You reached for the handle, then paused. "Garrett?"
He looked at you immediately. "Yeah?"
You swallowed. "Thank you. For coming."
His smile was soft enough to undo you. "Always."
You stepped out into the rain, heart pounding, and walked toward your building. Halfway to the door, your phone buzzed with a text from Dean. "You're welcome."
You typed back in Russian.
"Я тебя убью." [I will kill you.]
Dean replied with a heart emoji.
Following Dean's fairy godmother night, something between you and Garrett shifted. You started reaching for him without thinking, calling when you needed a lift, or a hand with something you absolutely could've done yourself, or when the walk home felt too long. And he always came. He started lingering after dropping you off, not long enough to be obvious, but long enough that you felt it. Long enough that he felt it too. You found each other on campus more often, and when you were in the same room, his eyes rarely left you. It was both possessive and instinctual, like he was tuned to your frequency, slowly, unconsciously orbiting closer.
After that, the messages came more often. At first it was just him checking in, 'Did you get home okay?', 'How was your day?', but then it became a steady thread running through your week. He'd send you photos during practice, asking how to improve his play, or a voice note of him laughing at something stupid one of the boys said. You found yourself smiling at your phone more than you wanted to admit, typing replies before you'd even realised you'd opened the message. And he always answered. Always. Sometimes immediately, something with a rambling paragraph that made you laugh, sometimes with a sleepy voice note that made your stomach flip. God, his morning voice was sexy.
The car rides became their own little ritual. He'd offer before you could even ask, and you stopped pretending you didn't love it. He always leaned over to open the door for you, always waited until you were buckled before pulling away, always took the longer way home while you pretended you didn't notice. The car smelled like him, like his cologne that found itself tangled in your clothes, and the music slowly shifted from his playlists to ones he'd made for you, combining your tastes. He'd glance over at you at red lights, that tiny half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, the one he didn't realise he did. The one that made your chest go warm.
Then came the late night calls. At first it was after games, he'd ring you still buzzing with adrenaline, voice rough and breathless, telling you about that little improvement you'd suggested that worked perfectly or how the team played, asking your opinion on things. You became the first person he called, the one he wanted to talk to before anyone else after a bad game or even a good one. And then the calls started happening on nights without games too. Nights he couldn't sleep. Nights when you couldn't either. Nights when he just wanted to hear your voice. He talked more when he was tired, softer, more open. You learned the sound of his laugh when he was half-asleep, the way his voice dropped when he was being honest, the way he'd say your name. And he memorised everything about you. More than once, you fell asleep on the phone together without meaning to, waking up to the sound of his breathing and a gentle, "Sweet dreams angel."
You were lighter around him. Happier. You teased him more, and he teased you back, with a softness in the way he looked at you that hadn't been there before. He stood closer without thinking about it. You leaned into him without realising you were doing it. Your friends, especially Dean, noticing before you did. Even Ilya raising an eyebrow when you met for coffee or on your weekly calls, you talking about Garrett without even realising you'd brought him into the conversation. But he didn't say anything, just watched you with a knowing look that made your cheeks warm. You'd always stand by the fact that "Russians don't blush," but he didn't look convinced.
And somewhere in the middle of all that softness, Garrett asked you to come to his next game. He said it casually (clearly shitting himself), like it was nothing (it was everything), like it was obvious you'd be there. Like he wanted you there. You agreed without hesitation, without checking the schedule, without thinking about anything except the way his eyes brightened when you said yes.
It wasn't until you wanted into the rink, the cold air biting at your cheeks, that you saw the opposing jerseys. The familiar colours, the logo you once wore of the team you'd spent months trying not to think about. His team.
Your stomach dropped.
Garrett didn't know, how could he. And you didn't know either, not until that moment when he faced off against Rafe Cameron.
The air in the rink felt colder. You sat frozen in your seat as the puck dropped for the first period, your heartbeat thudding in your ears louder than the crowd. Garrett skated like he always did, fast, focused, clean, but Cameron's team played dirty from the first shift. Hooks that went unnoticed, elbows that somehow didn't get called, late hits that had the entire student section groaning. Every time one of Garrett's teammates got clipped, you felt your stomach twist.
And the refs? Blind. Or pretending to be,
By the end of the first period, the score was tied, but the tension on the ice was anything but even. Garrett skated toward the bench, chest heaving and jaw tight. He glanced up instinctively, like he always did, finding you in the stands, and the moment his eyes landed on you, something in his expression softened.
But Rafe followed his line of sight.
His head snapped toward you. His eyes widened, then narrowed, curving into that cruel, familiar smirk you'd spent months trying to forget. He waved, smiling like he's been handed a gift.
You felt sick.
When the second period started, Garrett lined up for the faceoff. Rafe skated lazily into the circle opposite him, leaning in too close, his mouth hidden behind his visor. You couldn't hear what he said, but you saw the way Garrett's shoulders stiffened. You saw the way his grip tightened on his stick, and his eyes darkened, the warmth replaced by something cold and sharp.
The puck dropped.
Rafe won the draw, but Garrett didn't go for the puck.
He went for him.
He slammed Rafe into the boards so hard the glass rattled, the crowd erupting in a mix of shock and satisfaction. Rafe barely had time to shove back before Garrett's gloves hit the ice. One second. Two. And then Garrett's fist connected with Rafe's jaw in a clean, vicious punch that echoed through the rink.
The benches exploded.
Dean was the first one over the boards, skating straight toward Garrett, not to stop him, but to stand between him and anyone who tried. The rest of the team followed, forming a wall of navy jerseys around their captain like they'd been waiting for an excuse.
Because they knew. They knew Garrett wasn't the type to snap without reason. They'd seen the dirty plays all game. They'd seen Rafe chirping. They'd seen the way Garrett's eyes had flicked to the stands.
And they knew exactly who he'd seen there.
Rafe hit the ice, clutching his jaw, still smirking through the pain. Garrett didn't even look at him. He just stood there, chest heaving, fists still curled, eyes burning with a fury you'd never seen in him before.
Not until now.
The refs dragged Garrett off Rafe like he was a live wire, still sparking, ready to swing again. He didn't fight them, but he didn't look away either, not from Rafe, not from the blood in his mouth, not from the bruise already blooming across his cheekbone, not from the flicker of fear in Rafe's eyes as he hit the ice. That tiny, involuntary flash was the only thing that made Garrett stop.
They shoved him into the penalty box, the door slamming shut behind him with a metallic crack that echoed through the rink. He sat, scarily calm, elbows on his knees, jaw clenched so tight you could see the muscle ticking from across the rink. His gloves lay discarded at his feet, knuckles already swelling.
Dean skated past, tapping his stick against the glass in a silent I've got you, but Garrett didn’t even blink. He stared straight ahead, chest rising and falling in sharp, controlled breaths, like he was holding himself together for you.
You couldn't look away from him. And he couldn't look away from you.
Even from across the ice, even through the plexiglass, his eyes found yours, dark, furious, burning with something you've never seen in him before. Something protective. Something dangerous. Something that made your stomach twist and your throat tighten.
Rafe, meanwhile, skated by the box with a swagger that made your stomach twist. He glanced up at you, eyes dragging over your face with that same cruel recognition, and then he tapped his helmet twice, a mocking salute, before mouthing something you couldn't hear but understood perfectly.
Still yours, sweetheart?
Your skin crawled.
Garrett saw it. He saw Rafe look at you. He saw your face fall. And his expression darkened into something lethal.
The penalty expired, and Garrett exploded out of the box like he'd been shot from a cannon. The rest of the period was chaos, fast, brutal, and desperate, but Briar found their rhythm. Dean scored on a breakaway. Garrett assisted the tying goal. And with two minutes left, Briar buried the game‑winner.
The crowd roared. The buzzer sounded. Briar won.
Garrett skated off the ice with murder in his eyes.
You waited in the tunnel, heart pounding, unsure if you should even be there at all. When he finally emerged from the locker room, hair damp, knuckles bruised, still flushed with adrenaline, he stopped dead at the sight of you.
"Why didn’t you tell me?" he demanded, voice low and shaking with anger he was barely holding together.
You blinked. "Tell you what?"
"That he was your ex." His jaw flexed. "That that was Rafe Cameron."
"I didn't know he was playing tonight," you said, trying to keep your voice steady. "I didn't even know he was still in the league."
Garrett stepped closer, eyes burning. "He said something. At the faceoff. Something about you."
Your stomach dropped. "What did he say?"
Garrett shook his head, looking away. "Doesn't matter."
"Garrett-"
"I’m not repeating it." His voice cracked. "I'm not putting that in your head."
You exhaled, frustration and fear tangling in your chest. "You can't just shut me out."
"I'm trying to protect you!"
"And I'm trying to understand why you nearly got suspended!"
He flinched. You'd hit the nerve.
He ran a hand through his hair, pacing. "I could've cost us the game. I could've been benched. I could've-" He stopped, voice breaking. "I lost it. Because of him. Because of what he said about you."
"Garrett," you whispered, "you don't even know what happened between us."
He turned sharply. "Then tell me."
You hesitated.
He stepped closer. "Talk to me, baby."
Your breath shook. "He was manipulative," you said, voice trembling. "He'd disappear for months whenever he wasn't in the 'right headspace.' He'd come back like nothing happened. We were together before anyone noticed him, and when they did, he used that I was Ilya Rozanov's little sister. Used my name. Used me."
Garrett's face twisted, horror and fury mixing into something dangerous.
"He became cruel," you continued. "Vicious on the ice. Vicious off it. He'd say things that made me feel small. He'd make me feel like I owed him something. And I ended it because it was getting toxic and I deserved better. I didn't deserve his дерьмо [shit]."
Garrett's eyes never left yours, as he stepped closer, voice low and shaking. "You deserved so much better than him."
You swallowed. "I know that now."
"And he doesn't get to talk about you. Not like that. Not ever."
You looked up at him, breath catching. "Garrett… what did he say?"
He closed his eyes, jaw tight. "Something I'm never repeating. Something that made me want to break his face."
You stepped closer. "You already did."
He huffed a breath, half laugh, half groan, and finally, finally looked at you with something raw and protective, and unbearably tender.
"And I'd do it again," he whispered. "For you? I'd do it every time."
You reached for his hand without thinking. He let you take it, fingers curling around yours like he'd been waiting for you to touch him since you'd met.
"Angel..." he whispered, stepping closer.
His free hand lifted, hesitating for a millisecond, before cupping your jaw. You leaned into it, breath trembling. His forehead dipped towards yours, noses brushing as his thumb stroked your cheek.
"Tell me to stop," he murmured, voice wrecked.
You didn't.
He leaned in, closer, and closer again, your lips a breath apart, your fingers curling into the fabric of his t-shirt—
"Garrett! Jesus Christ, man—"
Dean's voice cracked through the hallway like a slap.
You both froze.
Dean skidded to a stop, eyes widening as he took in the scene, the closeness, the bruised knuckes, the way Garrett's hand was still on your jaw,
"Oh," Dean said, blinking. "Right. I'll just— yeah. I didn't see anything."
He backed away so fast he nearly tipped.
Garrett didn't move, didn't drop your hand, didn't look away from you. But the moment, the almost kiss, hung suspended between you like a puck waiting to be dropped.
“Dream now, my baby, of life in the clouds, Your head held so high and your wings spread so proud, For I know a secret I promise is true, Here there be dragons, and one of them's you.” Maekar sings to a sleepy Aelora, the three year old not wanting to go to bed. Alyssa already asleep cuddling her dragon toy Maekar gave her for her first nameday.
“Oh my gods, it’s your fault.” You whisper from your spot in the doorway, having been watching the man for the past few minutes. Seeing Aelora falling asleep in her grandsire’s arms.
“What?” He asks gruffly, pretending like was wasn’t just singing to his granddaughter.
“You would tell Aerion he was a dragon!” You whisper shout a massive smile on your face as you try to stifle your giggles not wanting to wake the girls. “If my girls think they are actual dragons I will blame you.”
“He is, he’s from the dragon house. It’s not my fault my son is very literal.” Maekar responds rolling his eyes at you before tucking Aelora into bed, kissing both girls foreheads before doing the same to you and leaving to go back to his chambers. “Get some sleep.”
-
“I want another.” Aerion late one night when you’re both cuddling in bed, having spent the day fishing with the girls and Maekar. Aelora loving fishing just like her father, whereas Alyssa liked paddling in the river with you.
“When you’re the one pushing the babe out then you can pick when we have another.” You tease trying to hide a moan when he kisses down your throat.
“But you look so pretty carrying my hatchlings.” He whispers into you nipping at your skin.
“Please stop calling our children hatchlings.” You giggle kissing your stupidity pretty husband.
-
“Brother, took you long enough.” Maekar say to Baelor, the prince staying in summerhall for a few weeks, as he had to meet with some lords Maekar had pissed off. “I’m winning our bet by the way.”
“What bet?” Baelor asks not knowing what his youngest brother was talking about. Deciding not to think to much about it as he has amazing news to share. “Oh, brilliant news Keira is pregnant.”
“Yes I’ve heard.” Maekar says leading Baelor to the dining hall, the man arriving just in time for dinner.
“How?” Baelor asks, only finding out moments before his departure.
“You seem to forget our daughters are best friends.” Maekar says rolling his eyes, you having received the letter before Kiera had even told Valarr. “They tell each other everything, to much actually.”
“What makes you think that? Could it be a possible security issue?” Baelor asks worried about possible repercussions to your letters.
“There was a mixup with letters, I really didn’t need to know how good your son is with his tongue.” Maekar says entering the empty dining hall, everyone still getting ready. “So no, if they get intersected I don’t think there’s much the blackfryes can do with our children’s sex lives or what the grandchildren have been up to.”
-
“Why am I so bloated? I look like I did when I was pregnant with the twins.” You complain to your husband as you stand in front of the mirror. Aerion fixing his hair next to you.
“That’s because you’re pregnant my dragonness.” Your husband says casually, finally happy with his hair as he goes to help you with your necklace.
“Even if I am.” You say knowing you are but waiting to tell your husband until your letter has a chance to reach Kiera. “I shouldn’t have a bump this big this early. We cant be having another set of twins.”
“Watch it be triplets.” Aerion teases wrapping his arms around your waist resting his head on your shoulder. “You look so beautiful.”
“Kepus! Alyssa took brightflame!” Aelora cries running into your chambers the three and a half year old wearing her new dress that Maekar got for her. “Make her give him back!”
Running in after her sister is Alyssa, who looks like the girl version of her father, holding that stupid red dragon you got for Aerion as an anniversary present. Both girls loving the toy since you gave it to your husband. “It’s my turn with him! Muña tell her!”
“Gods please don’t be twins.” You mumble to yourself with a small smile. “Girls, if you can’t share you have to give him back to Kepus.”
-
“I hear Kiera has already told you.” Baelor says to you over dinner, the twins occupying Aerion and Maekar. Both girls still sulking over brightflame being confiscated. “Her and Valarr are very excited.”
“I’m so happy for her.” You tell your husbands uncle, when a servant enters the hall holding a letter. “Jace will be an amazing big brother.”
“I’m sorry m’lords, the letter as urgent written on it.” The servant says quickly hurrying over to pass you the letter. Scurrying off before you can thank him.
“Keira I take it?” Maekar says cutting Alyssa’s food for her as you open the letter. “What does she have to say?”
“She’s saying we could have a joint celebration, if one of us is up to traveling if not, once the babies are born we should all go for a family holiday to dragonstone.” You say skimming the letter, to busy making sure to leave out the pregnancy sex that you accidentally announced your own pregnancy.
“Babies?”
-
“I feel like a whale.” You say a few moons later, the maester having just left after informing you that ‘you have at least one in there, probably more.’ An idiot could have told you that.
“No, you look like a dragonness carrying my hatchlings.” Aerion corrects, hand resting on your bump so he can feel the babies move.
“Dragons lay eggs.” You respond not feeling very dragonly as a baby keeps kicking your ribs. “They don’t have a baby punching their bladder.”
“You’re protect our eggs by keeping them with you.” He says moving to kiss your stomach. “Be good my little hatchings, muña is tired.”
“You are so weird.” You say softly to your crazy husband who you love more than anything in the world, baring the children obviously. “I love you my dragon.”
-
“How are you feeling?” Aerion asks you after your long labors, having given birth to triplets in the late hours of the night, having only just been able to sleep.
“Like I just pushed out three watermelons.” You respond resting your head on his shoulder. “We have five children.”
“Two more and we beat father.” At your look he just kisses the side of your head. “I’m so proud of you. Do you want me to get the twins?”
“Please.” You say having missed your girls in the hours of labor. Now being the best time to see them as the triplets slept.
-
“Muña!” The girls whisper shout, clearly having been told they have to be quiet by their father as they run in. Climbing into bed with you to give you a cuddle. “Missed you muña.”
“I missed you too my little dragons.” You say softly, kissing the side of both their heads. “Do you want to meet your new siblings?”
“Can we?” Alyssa asks, looking at Aerion as he moved over to the crib, picking up one of the babes.
“You have to be gentle with them.” You remind, knowing Aerion and Maekar will of already told them. “They’re very little.”
“Girls, meet your brother.” Aerion says waking over holding a sleeping babe that was wrapped in a blue blanket. “This is Aelyx.”
“Hello Aelyx.” The twins say in unison, looking at their brother in fascination. “He’s so small.”
“You used to be that small.” You tell them taking Aelyx from your husband’s arms so he can fetch the other two babies. “Do you want to meet your sisters too?”
“We have sisters?” Aelora asks carefully getting off the bed to join Aerion over by the crib, letting him pick her up so she could look at the two sleeping girls. Alyssa still looking at her little brother, smiling when he holds her finger. “What are their names?”
c/w ᝰ.ᐟ jealousy + insecurity, ex mentions, crying (both), drunkenness/intox, miscommunication, possessive!dean, pet names (princess, baby, angel, baby doll + no y/n), angst with comfort, party setting + language
“There you are, princess.”
You smile before you can stop yourself as Dean presses a rough kiss against your cheek, his body sliding in behind you, big and warm against your back while the crowd moves around both of you.
“Havin’ fun?” He asks, mouth brushing your neck while his hands settle on your hips.
“Mhmm,” you giggle.
“You drunk, baby doll?”
“Mhmm…”
His laugh rumbles against your skin. “Yeah? Are you askin’ me or tellin’ me?”
You laugh harder at that, turning your head slightly when he nudges his nose against your cheek. Dean catches your mouth, kissing you deep and slow before pulling back with a grin still spread against your lips.
“You wanna dance?”
“Okay,” you say, and the second that word leaves your lips he’s pulling you away.
The dance floor is packed by the time the two of you push your way into the middle of it. Bodies crowd tight around you beneath flashing lights, Dean’s hand tightening on your waist, pulling you against him.
The two of you start dancing, your body moving easily with his while the crowd shifts around you.
“You look so fuckin’ good,” he mumbles, low and deep against your ear, making you press into him a little more.
His hands hold your hips again, turning you and pulling you close, your arms wrapping loosely around his neck while a smirk tugs at his lips and his hands move lower.
The chain around his neck glints beneath the lights as he dips in, pulling you closer by the small of your back, his lips on yours, sending a wave of warmth rushing through you.
A smile breaks across his lips as the music changes—something slower—putting you right where he wants you. Your back hits his chest, breath catching in your throat.
His hands wrap around your body, his face tucked so close you can feel every warm breath, the two of you grinding slower now.
Your eyes flutter open and a wave of unease rushes over you as you lock eyes with a few people you recognize from the rink. The second you catch them staring, they look away, one of them muttering something into his red SOLO cup while the other nods in agreement.
Dean starts singing along to the music, his deep voice vibrating against your neck. You focus on that, the corners of your lips trembling as they pull into a smile you wish wasn’t so weak.
You try to let yourself fall back into him, focusing on the heat of his body and the smell of his cologne. His hands drag you closer, but it doesn’t stop the unease this time. When you open your eyes again, the insecurity hits harder.
Wellsy… She gives you a small smile, tight around the edges just like yours.
You close your eyes again before the doubt can settle too deep, Dean’s head tucking back into your neck. His lips move slow against your skin beneath the pounding music, his grip firming on your waist instinctively.
He turns you around again, one hand sliding over your waist while the other curls loosely around your throat, pulling you back against him before kissing you so deep your thoughts scatter for a second.
His mouth moves against yours, slow and messy, warm from beer. Dean kisses like he gets distracted by it—like he forgets there are people around once he gets ahold of you.
Your fingers tighten in the front of his shirt, as a lump forms in your throat, your breathing tightening in your chest as the thoughts come rushing in.
Maybe if she called, it would be over.
What if he wishes he were kissing her instead?
What if he wishes you were someone else?
“Dean,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking against his lips.
“Angel,” he murmurs, kissing you again.
You swallow hard, collecting yourself for a moment. “Do you wanna go upstairs?”
Dean grins so boyishly it makes the hurt worse.
He grabs your hand, pulling you through the crowd so fast you barely have time to keep up with him. He drags you through the packed house, still glancing back at you with that stupid excited smile.
And when you reach the steps he hooks an arm underneath your thighs and lifts you clean off the floor, starting up the stairs with you. A startled laugh slips out of you, but he swallows it, not catching the way it waivers on his lips.
Your fingers slide into his messy blond hair as he carries you farther upstairs. You close your eyes tighter, stomach sinking as you become all too aware of the sting building behind your eyes—tears balancing dangerously along your lashes.
You’ve felt weird all day. Ever since this morning when you opened Instagram and saw Dean’s name underneath one of Allie’s posts.
One stupid comment. Congratulations!
That was it. Nothing flirty. Nothing inappropriate.
Nothing that should latch on and refuse to let go, but it does.
Allie was standing on some giant stage in New York smiling beneath bright lights while thousands of people flooded the comments underneath her post and somewhere in between all of them was Dean.
And now, those weird looks and whispered conversations downstairs suddenly feel loaded. Every glance feels like the people around you know something’s going to happen, and you don’t, and they don’t want to miss the chance to see when he finally finds his person again.
Like you’re temporary.
Just the girl standing in the middle of whatever unfinished thing still exists between Dean and the girl everybody thought he’d end up with.
Dean shoves the bedroom door open, and kicks it shut, the bass downstairs making the pictures in his room rattle against the wall, the hum of the party seeping through the bottom of the door.
You reach for the ties of your top, trying to pull yourself together as he tears the t-shirt over his head, the both of you stripping between messy kisses before he’s dragging you down onto the mattress with him.
You crawl toward him slowly, knees sinking into the comforter while Dean watches. “Fuck, baby…” He lies down on the bed, guiding you on top of him as he brushes his hair off his face, biceps flexing with it. “Been waiting for this all day.”
Those six words heal something in you for a moment. Inching you back to that place you had been before you woke up this morning.
He reaches his arm up, hooking his hand around the back of your neck, lowering you toward his lips. “I love you—”
“Allie?”
You blink down at Dean once, thinking you heard him wrong, but it sounded like he said her name. Dean’s head snaps toward the door—all the color draining out of his face.
A person from behind the door tries again. “Allie, Dean? You in there?”
Dean goes completely stiff beneath you. “No—” The word flies out of him. “No, dude, what?”
Your stomach drops so hard it makes you sick.
Dean’s already trying to recover before you can even think straight.
“You need something?” He calls quickly, voice tighter now.
“Just wanted to say ‘hi’, man. Sorry.”
You shove off him, knee catching in the comforter as you stumble toward your discarded clothes on the floor, heart shattering so hard it aches.
“Hey—hey.” Dean catches your wrist, fingers wrapping around you fast enough to stop you mid-step. “Baby.”
“Let me go,” you whimper, and he does, his hands drawing back but he follows after you anyway as you struggle back into your clothes.
“What—what’s goin’ on?” He asks breathlessly. “I’m sorry about the Allie thing, alright? I’m sorry, baby.”
The room around you swims with the tears waiting to fall from your eyes, trying not to blink because you know once they fall there’s no stopping them. But you break anyway.
“That’s just Cooper,” Dean says quickly, words starting to trip over each other now. “I haven’t seen him in forever, he just—he’s fuckin’ dumb, alright?” He laughs nervously, but there's nothing funny about it and he can feel that.
Your fingers shake so badly fumbling with the zipper of your jeans it takes three tries to get it up.
“Baby, c’mon.” Dean’s voice whispers over your shoulder, his big hand coming down to rest on your hip. “Just talk to me.”
You lift the sleeve of your top, brushing away your emotion. You can feel him staring at you now, looking over your shoulder, but he can't see enough—not yet.
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes, turning you toward him, hands gripping your arms. “Baby—hey, hey.” His blue eyes search your face desperately. “No, no, no. Don’t cry. Please don’t cry.”
You try to look away from him, but Dean pulls you into his chest before you can, his arms wrapping around you tight. One hand cradles the back of your head, the other pressed against your back, trembling with adrenaline.
“Baby,” he says again, softer now. You can feel his heartbeat pounding underneath your cheek, suddenly sober, that loose buzz he’d been feeling downstairs long gone.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, big hands cupping your face while his thumbs swipe beneath your eyes trying to catch the tears.
“Baby… I—That. That can’t just be because of that, right?” He asks, voice stumbling over itself now. “I mean—yeah, okay, wait. That—that was insensitive as fuck…” His brows pull together harder the longer he looks at you. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Your lip trembles, and Dean’s entire expression shifts, his thumb brushing along it too like he's trying to stop that from happening. The panic on his face gets worse, blue eyes moving frantically over your face, trying to figure out how this got so bad.
“Talk to me,” he whispers but you bite your lips instead to keep from crying, complete whiplash from the girl laughing and wrapped around him downstairs twenty minutes ago—but you were putting on an act for the both of you.
Allie’s name breathing into the room at the same time that Dean was telling he loves you was just it… the breaking point. The moment you couldn't keep up with the lie that you were okay, because you're not.
His hands tremble as he holds your cheeks, leaning in to kiss you, gentler than he ever has, like he thinks he can soothe this out of you if he’s soft enough.
He draws back a little, the air between you tight and heavy, as you whisper.
“You’re not over her, are you?”
“What?” He asks, not angry or defensive, just hurt. “Allie? I am. I promise you, I am.”
“I don’t think you are,” you whisper. “Or…” Your voice cracks a little and you look away from him, embarrassed the second more tears start slipping loose. “Maybe you are, I don’t know.” You laugh, but it sounds miserable. “I just—”
“Talk to me,” he says quickly, following your face when you turn away, trying to catch your eyes again. One of his hands slides down your arm, rubbing nervously while he watches you unravel. “Please.”
You stare down at the floor for a second before finally whispering, “I saw the comment… On her post,” you continue quietly. “It sounds so stupid out loud. Oh my god,” you sigh heavily, burying your face in your hand.
“It doesn’t—”
“And, people…” You swallow hard, trying to get the words out confidently but they sound so small. “I know they were talking about us downstairs.” Your throat tightens harder.
His brows pinch in confusion, stepping a little closer. “What people?”
You shrug defeatedly, shaking your head. “It doesn’t matter. It’s so stupid,” you whisper.
“It’s not,” he stops you from brushing it off as his hand slides down your arm, fingers threading through yours. “Seriously, who?”
“People expect you to be with her.” Your eyes finally lift back to his. “They do, Dean.” You wipe a few tears away, watching your hand tremble out of the corner of your eye. “I mean, she’s Allie. She’s beautiful and everybody loves her—”
Dean’s face softens. “Hey,” he says quietly.
“I just feel like—” Your throat tightens before you swallow. “I don’t know. Like maybe I’m just the girl in the middle of all that.”
He looks down at you, his lips pulled tight, the pink flush in his cheeks deepening, blue eyes shimmering now with tears of his own.
“Allie is a good person,” he says honestly. “She is.” He squeezes your hand in his. “She’s funny and she’s kind… I cared about her for a long time.”
Your stomach sinks hearing those words leave his lips. His forehead presses against yours, breathing deeply with you.
“But she’s not you.” His voice comes out low and certain this time. “She’s not the girl I’ve been thinking about nonstop for months. She’s not the first thing I think about when I wake up or the last person I talk to when I go to bed at night.”
He steps a little closer, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you into him. Dean blinks and a tear rolls down his cheek. You reach up, cupping your hand against his face, brushing it away and he leans into it, looking down at you.
He grabs your hand, kissing your palm, then your wrist, guiding you to wrap your arms around his neck.
“She’s not the girl I dragged upstairs tonight because I couldn’t stop looking at her downstairs,” he continues, his voice gentle and broken. “And she’s definitely not the girl making me panic because she thinks I want somebody else.”
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding your head.
“It ended. We both knew it was ending before it actually did. I moved on,” he says softly. “And then I met you. Not the other way around. I swear.”
You nod up at him, feeling guilty for even bringing it up in the first place, maybe because he’s making you feel the opposite of what any guilty person would make you feel. There’s no defensiveness. No twisting it back on you. Just honesty.
“I just…” Your voice breaks, fingers twisting weakly in the front of his shirt again. “I don’t want to be the placeholder. The girl that’s here until you get your girl back.”
“Holy shit,” the words trip out fast. “How can you think that?” You can hear the hurt in his voice now as he buries himself in your neck. His breath comes out shaky as a few warm tears fall on your shoulder, seeping through your shirt. “You’re perfect,” he mumbles against your skin. “You’re mine.”
Your fingers slide in his hair, holding him closer and he exhales.
“I hate seeing you cry,” he whispers.
“I hate seeing you cry too. I’m sorry,” you answer, your voice just above a whisper.
“Please believe me, alright?” Dean asks as he pulls back and matches your gaze.
“I believe you. I do.”
“I’m sorry, baby. I should’ve caught this sooner.”
“You’re okay,” you whisper.
He inhales sharply through his nose, an anxious laugh slipping through his lips with your own. You rub the little rivers of wet off the apples of his cheeks, embarrassment crawling warm up your neck now after seeing his reaction.
“If it helps,” he says softly, “everybody downstairs already knows I’m crazy about you. I’m serious.”
“I’m crazy about you too.”
“I am obsessed with you.”
“Stop,” you laugh weakly, rolling your eyes while he bends suddenly, lifting you again.
“I mean it,” he mumbles as he nuzzles into your neck before dragging back. “You gotta promise me something, though.”
You look back at him and nod.
“You gotta promise me you’re not gonna sit in your head thinking shit like that by yourself. Because I swear to god, baby, I’m gonna prove to you that I got you. You have nothing to worry about.”
“I promise—”
“I can’t lose you,” he pushes out before you can even finish.
“You won’t,” you whisper softly.
“Me and you,” he says quietly.
“Me and you.”
dividers @uzmacchiato
🌻🐝taglist on my pinned post 🏒 @rafesthroatbaby @liss2709-blog @sushi-girl04 @judesgfirl @cdiaz18 @fiercetigerpoison @obsessedwrafe @vanillaiceyhot @maialopez23 @rexit-mo @georgiastars13 @princessaaa13 @dragonvalyria @livlovesfastcars @thebitchylibra @corvusmorte @st8rkey @imperfectlyperfect78 @winchestersbgirl @glitterandviolence13 @miramindlesslywriting @slut-4-rafey @emelia07
Wondering if you have any crumbs for the iceflame childhood friends to lovers au 👀👀 cause I’m still thinking about baby iceflame doing a traditional Valyrian wedding ceremony!!! 😭
Like what happens when they’re grown up and LS is being courted by other suitors?? Or is Aerion so obsessed with her (he always is) that it’s just an accepted fact as they grow up that they’re gonna marry as soon as they come of age??? I need them desperately 🙏
for those who might have missed the og post.
Okay, so, the hilarious thing is that everyone keeps applying normal-person logic to Aerion and it keeps not working, and the reason it doesn't work is the reason nothing about him ever works the way you'd want. The court thinks he's a boy with a fixation, except it isn't.
You go back to Winterfell.
And the distance is supposed to be the cure. That's the theory of it. Let time and leagues do what we cannot.
And it does nothing, because Aerion still sees you. Not often. A tourney, a visit, some occasion of state that brings the North and the crownlands into the same hall, and there you are, and every single time you're a little bit older. A little more wolf. The girl from the library yard growing year by year into the woman, his she-wolf, the thing his twelve-year-old self looked at and knew. And every time Aerion is pleased. Visibly. Insufferably. He looks at you across a crowded hall like a man appraising the single best decision he ever made (he's literally 14 💀).
Look how beautiful my wife is, he says, to no one, to everyone. A she-wolf of the North.
And everyone chuckles. The uncomfortable chuckle. The isn't-he-funny, isn't-it-a-phase, surely-he'll-grow-out-of-it chuckle, and they move the conversation along, because the alternative is sitting with the fact that he means it. Aerion has always meant it. He has never once not meant it.
And then he grows into his beauty.
The sharp, difficult boy becomes a sharp, difficult man, and the silver hair and the pale lavender eyes and the raspy voice start doing exactly what Targaryen beauty does at court, which is draw ladies the way blood draws sharks.
Aerion could have anyone. Everyone can see he could have anyone.
And the having-anyone is supposed to be the other cure, the one that pairs with distance: he'll see what's on offer here, he'll taste it, he'll forget some northern girl he hasn't lived beside since they were children. Except he doesn't even notice them. They bore him, they irritate him. He receives the attention the way you'd receive flies buzzing around your head. It's happening, it's of no consequence, it has nothing to do with anything except be annoying. They are not you.
That's the whole of his interest in the matter. They are not you, so they do not exist to him.
The book was clear. There's no breaking this. Not without the Targaryens publicly dishonouring one of the oldest traditions of Valyria itself, the old dragonlord bond, the blood-law that predates the Faith and supersedes it. And a dynasty that styles itself the blood of old Valyria cannot very well announce to the realm that Valyrian custom means nothing the moment it inconveniences them.
So they're stuck. They've raised a son who weaponised their own mythology against them at the age of twelve, and now the only honourable exit is the one he wants, and the only dishonourable exit costs them the very thing their crown is built on.
So they hope. That's all they've got. They hope.
And then the rumours begin.
That Barthogan never took the childhood thing seriously, that a Warden of the North has better uses for an only daughter than a second son's adolescent obsession.
Or, the inverse, whispered the other direction: that it's Maekar doing the selling, that he's trying to auction Aerion off, dangle him in front of the great houses now that the boy's grown handsome and useful. They even produce a card to play: a true Targaryen bride, his cousin Daenora, pure Valyrian blood, the kind of match that would satisfy every old-way principle Aerion claims to hold so dear. If you're so set on Valyrian tradition, the offer goes, here. Here is tradition. Here is a dragon for a dragon. Take her.
Aerion is equal parts amused and irked.
Father, he drawls, and once can hear the boredom and the steel braided together in it, I have a wife. I am simply awaiting the moment we are of age, so that I may go north and consummate our union.
Said like a man stating the date of a harvest. Said like the most settled fact in the world.
Maekar forbids it.
And Maekar forbidding it is not some quiet thing, either. It's a fit. The cold fury coming off its leash, voice carrying through Summerhall, servants flattening themselves against walls and finding urgent reasons to be in other corridors. Maekar rages.
And Aerion is unmoved despite it. He has the ease of someone who's already won the argument in his own head and is merely waiting, with poor patience, for everyone else to arrive at the same conclusion.
So Maekar forces it. Presents matches. A parade of them. Suitable girls, advantageous girls, girls of standing brought before the prince in the hope that one of them will land, that proximity or beauty or sheer relentless repetition will crack the fixation open.
The lucky ones leave in tears. That's the lucky ones.
Because Aerion makes it very, very clear, in the flat voice, the frightening one, the one with no heat in it at all:
If you attach me to another, if you make me dishonour my vows. I shall cut the girl's heart out in our marriage bed and gift it to her family.
And nobody laughs at that.
He's not showing off. Not this time. He simply tells you the shape of the consequence and lets you understand that he means precisely what he says and not one degree less. All he wants is you. That's it. That's the entire shape of his ambition. Give him that (give him the one thing) and Aerion will be the most dutiful son a man ever had. (He will not. Everyone in the room knows he will not. But maybe some small, ungovernable part of him even believes it.)
So it escalates. It escalates and escalates until Maekar (out of fury, out of strategy, out of the parental conviction that the boy simply does not understand what he's asking for) decides on a gamble.
He sends Aerion North.
Only a month or two. A measured dose. And he sends ahead a simple instruction to Barthogan Stark, father to father, one hard man to another: make him hate it.
Show the pampered southern prince the brutal truth of the North: the cold that gets into the bone, the dark that swallows the afternoons, the absence of the servants who've run after him his entire life. Make him handle rough living. Make him cold and tired and miserable and let the North do what arguments and matches and a cousin named Daenora could not. Let the place itself disenchant him. Let reality finish the job.
Both fathers in grim agreement for once. Both fathers certain.
Both fathers are very wrong.
Because of course it doesn't work.
You send Aerion to the one place in the world where you are, and ask the North to make him miserable. Except, the North cannot, because Aerion is not measuring the North by warmth or comfort or the number of servants at his elbow.
He's measuring it by exactly one variable and that variable is are you there, and you are. He's exactly where he wants to be. With the only person he has ever wanted to be anywhere with. Barthogan sets him to rough work to break him and Aerion does the rough work with that same ferocious obsessiveness. Because every cold brutal day of it is a day spent north, spent near, spent inside the life he decided on at twelve and has never once reconsidered.
And somewhere in those weeks the shape of it stops being his fantasy and starts being a plan.
He will be Lord of Winterfell. Not a second son lost in the long shadow of Summerhall succession. Lord of Winterfell, consort to the she-wolf who will be Lady of Winterfell and Warden of the North in her own right.
He looked at the brutal reality his father sent him to be crushed by and he saw a kingdom. He saw you at the centre of it. He saw the rest of his life and it was, in his not-so-humble estimation, perfect.
Maekar sent him north to teach him to hate it.
He came home (when he came home at all) having decided he was never really going to leave.
Word count: 765 (first piece ever written so have mercy)
Setting: Party on campus
Relationship: Somewhat of a meet-cute between reader and Dean
Summary: You're at your first college party and a drunken guy won't leave you alone. You keep trying to avoid him until he gets aggressive and you tell him you're going to find your boyfriend. Looking around the room you catch Dean's attention and decide in an instant to use him as a scapegoat.
The music is loud and filling your senses as you dance in the living room. The lights overhead had been shut off allowing the fairy lights to put a shimmer of blue light over your skin. The liquor in your system making your body warmer by the second and your head swims with the buzz you're feeling.
Hands find your waist and you tense momentarily before peeling them from your clothes. Turning to find a brunette with bloodshot eyes, swaying more from the alcohol than the music.
"Come on dance with me," he slurs his speech.
You shake your head. "I'm good." You take a couple steps back.
His smile falters. "You can't dance like that and expect me to not make a move."
The look on his face makes your heart speed up, a panic washing over you as he moves forward once more. He reaches for your waist but you swat him away before he can get a hold of you.
"Piss off. I said no."
Your eyes dart over the crowd of people. Scanning over the girls fawning over the hockey boys. Nervously you scan the crowd.
"Come on baby," the drunk guy continues. "Don't be a tease."
Finally your eyes find a mess of blonde hair on someone with their back turned to you. Swallowing your nerves you shove the man back as he reaches for your wrist.
"I'm going to tell my boyfriend and then you'll be screwed."
The drunk guy scoffs. "Oh, and eho is this boyfriend' of yours?"
You smirk at the man. "Why don't I show you."
Turning on your heels you feel the man's eyes on you as you start walking towards the stairs. You hear him yelling behind you while your heart hammers in your chest. The blonde hair you spotted earlier is your true north in this case. Mentally the thoughts swirl as you try to figure out the best way to handle this situation but it's no use.
"Hey!" You say loud enough for the group of girls to hear and the blonde turns around.
Dean Di Laurentis in all his cocky smile glory looking at you. He moves the beer bottle from his lips and before he can so much as protest you grab him by the neck and kiss him. You're both tense for what feels like eternity before your one hand finds his chest and his settle on your hips as he kisses you back. His lips soft and the taste of beer clinging to them.
You pull back, cheeks flushed and lungs rising and falling rapidly before you remember why you walked this way in the first place. Turning the drunk man from earlier stumbles backwards and through the crowd. All eyes on you as you realize Dean's hands still rest on your hips.
"Hi to you too," Dean laughs, snapping you from the man that was long gone.
Turning your head back you watch as Dean cocks his head and studies you. His eyes scanning yours before falling on your lips. Subconsciously your tongue darts out at the focus.
"Sorry about that." The blush deepens on your cheeks.
Finally he removes his hands to sip his beer. "Sorry? I'll accept your apology if you promise to do that again." He teases.
A smile creeps onto your face. "I might keep that in mind for future reference, but you served your purpose."
He smirked and the sight made butterflies flutter in your stomach. Something so simple causing your whole body to react.
"Oh really? And what is my purpose?" He crosses his arms, the muscles becoming more defined.
It took everything to not tear your gaze from his eyes to focus on his arms. Your mouth feeling dry and thoughts dissipating the moment you try to hold onto one.
"Um," you swallow hard. "Fake boyfriend duties."
He barks out a laugh as you bite your bottom lip nervously. "Well... you're welcome in guess."
With a smile and a mock salute you step away and as you go his voice booms behind you.
The hospital room looked too bright for a night like this.
It was all white walls and soft beeping machines and the kind of quiet that only existed after something huge had finally happened. Beau was sitting in the chair beside the bed, elbows on his knees, his face still pale with shock and sleeplessness and overwhelming relief. He had not stopped looking at the baby in your arms for more than two seconds at a time, as if he was afraid she might disappear if he blinked too long.
She was tiny and warm and impossibly real.
Daniella.
You still could not fully believe it. Nineteen years old, you and Beau had somehow crossed into this new, terrifying, beautiful kind of life where your arms held a daughter and your world had narrowed down to the sound of her breathing.
Beau reached out carefully and brushed one finger over her cheek. “She’s so small.”
You let out a tired laugh. “You say that like you expected a full-grown person.”
He looked up at you, eyes red around the edges. “I don’t know what I expected. I just… not this.”
“Good,” you whispered, smiling despite the ache in your body. “Because this is all we get.”
Beau nodded slowly, as if he understood that in a way he hadn’t before. Then Daniella made a tiny sound against your chest, her mouth twitching as if she was dreaming of something she had not yet learned to name.
Beau went still.
“Oh my God,” he whispered. “She made a noise.”
You glanced at him. “Yes, Beau. She’s a baby.”
“I know that.” He sounded offended by the suggestion. “I just didn’t expect her to sound like that.”
You rolled your eyes, but the motion was gentle. Everything in you was gentle now, softened by exhaustion and love. “You have spent the last six hours acting like she’s a miracle from space.”
He looked down at her again. “She is.”
Before you could answer, there was a knock at the door.
Both of you startled. Beau straightened so fast he nearly knocked the chair over, and you instinctively pulled the blanket a little higher around Daniella. The door opened a second later, and Dean stepped inside with the kind of careful expression people wore when they knew they were entering a room where life had changed forever.
He was carrying a small stuffed bear in one hand and a paper bag in the other.
For a second, he just stopped in the doorway.
Then his eyes landed on the baby in your arms.
“Oh,” he said softly.
Beau’s face cracked into a grin that looked half exhausted, half relieved. “About time you got here.”
Dean shut the door behind him and stared at him. “I came as soon as your text stopped sounding like you were going to throw up.”
“I was not going to throw up.”
“You texted me ‘she’s here’ four times in all caps.”
“Because she is here.”
Dean ignored him and walked closer, the stuffed bear tucked awkwardly against his side. He looked at you next, and whatever teasing he had been carrying on his face melted away.
“How are you?” he asked quietly.
You smiled weakly. “Alive.”
“That’s a strong start.”
Beau let out a breath, almost a laugh. “You brought a bear?”
Dean looked down at it like he had forgotten he was holding it. “Yeah. It was either this or a bunch of flowers, and I figured flowers are dumb. This seemed less likely to die.”
That made you laugh despite yourself, and the sound softened the room immediately. Dean’s mouth twitched like he had been hoping for that.
He stepped closer to the bed, slow and careful, his eyes flicking down to Daniella again. “Can I?”
You looked at him. “Can you what?”
“See her.”
Beau answered before you could. “You’re looking at her, genius.”
Dean shot him a look. “You know what I mean.”
You nodded and shifted slightly, adjusting the baby in your arms. “Come here.”
Dean moved to the side of the bed, but when he looked down at Daniella properly, he seemed to forget what to do with his hands. The confidence he usually wore like a second skin vanished. In its place was something softer and much more dangerous: awe.
“She’s really tiny,” he said.
Beau snorted. “That’s been everyone’s biggest observation tonight.”
Dean ignored him and leaned in a little. Daniella’s tiny fingers were curled near her face, her mouth parted just enough to make her look peaceful in a way that should not have been possible after everything she had just put you through.
Dean stared for a long moment.
Then he looked up at you, voice quieter than before. “She’s beautiful.”
Your throat tightened. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He swallowed once and glanced back at Beau. “You did good.”
Beau’s expression went strange for a second, like he was trying not to let the words hit too hard. “We did good.”
Dean nodded, then held out the stuffed bear. “I got her this.”
You took the bear carefully with one hand and smiled at the little stitched face. It was soft and cream-colored, with a blue ribbon around its neck.
“She’s going to love this,” you said.
“She better,” Dean said. “I had to argue with the lady at the gift shop because she kept trying to sell me something pink and obnoxious.”
Beau barked out a laugh. “That sounds like you.”
“It was not pink.”
“It was absolutely pink,” you said, looking from the bear to Dean. “You bought her a bear.”
“I did.”
Beau leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and looked at Dean with suspicion. “You came with a gift and no food. That’s weird behavior.”
Dean pointed at the bag in his hand. “There’s food in here.”
Beau’s eyes lit up. “Oh, thank God.”
You shook your head, smiling, while Dean moved toward the chair near the wall. But before he sat down, he looked back at the baby one more time, his whole face softening in a way that made him look younger than he wanted anyone to notice.
“You named her yet?” he asked.
The room changed.
Not in a bad way. Just in the way it did when a question mattered.
You looked at Beau, and Beau looked back at you. There was a beat of silence, one of those full, weighty silences where everything important seemed to settle into place.
Then you nodded.
“Daniella,” you said.
Dean blinked. “Daniella?”
Beau grinned a little. “Yeah.”
Dean looked between the two of you. “As in…?”
You watched understanding dawn slowly across his face. He had always been smarter than he acted, and for one suspended second, you could see the realization hit him all at once.
His mouth opened. Then closed.
Then he pointed at himself, completely stunned. “No.”
Beau’s grin got wider. “Yes.”
Dean stared at you in disbelief. “You named your daughter after me?”
You laughed softly. “Well, sort of.”
“Sort of?” he repeated, still looking like the words had knocked the air out of him.
Beau shifted in his chair, pretending he was casual even though his smile gave him away. “We wanted a name that felt right.”
Dean looked at the baby again, then back at you. “You could’ve told me you were considering that.”
“We wanted to surprise you,” you admitted.
He let out a breath, then rubbed one hand over his face like he needed a second to process the fact that he was apparently now standing in a room with a newborn named after him.
“You’re kidding,” he said.
Beau crossed his arms. “We’re not kidding.”
Dean pointed again, this time at Beau. “You are insane.”
“Maybe,” Beau said. “But it worked out.”
Dean looked at you in disbelief, then laughed once, short and broken in a way that made it obvious he was trying not to get emotional in front of both of you.
“You named her Daniella,” he repeated, this time quieter.
You nodded. “Daniella Dean made you sound too much like a cop.”
Beau coughed to hide a laugh. “That was my argument too.”
Dean turned to him, scandalized. “My full name is not cop material.”
“It absolutely is,” you said.
He pointed at the baby again, this time with more reverence than shock. “She’s gonna hate all of you when she realizes what you’ve done.”
“Probably,” Beau said. “But she’ll get over it.”
Dean stared at Daniella a second longer, and then something in his face shifted. He set the food bag down and slowly lowered himself into the chair beside the bed, suddenly careful, suddenly not joking anymore.
When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter.
“Can I be there?” he asked.
You frowned a little. “For what?”
He looked up. “For everything.”
The question caught you off guard.
Beau seemed to feel it too, because his expression changed, becoming thoughtful in that rare way he got when something really mattered. Dean glanced between you both and hurried to explain himself.
“I mean, obviously not literally everything,” he said, trying for lightness and failing. “I just,if you’re asking me to be her uncle, I’m not doing a half-assed job. I want to be there. Birthdays, holidays, first day of school, all the embarrassing stuff you’ll make Beau do while I stand there looking better than him,”
“Dean,” Beau said, although he was smiling now.
Dean held up a hand. “No, I’m serious.”
He looked back at you, and the joking edge was gone completely.
“I want to be her godfather,” he said.
The room went still.
You felt your eyes burn immediately, and Beau’s hand found yours on the bed, fingers lacing with yours without either of you needing to say anything.
Dean, suddenly self-conscious, looked down at the floor. “I know we’re nineteen and that sounds dramatic and maybe weird and maybe people usually ask old married guys or whatever, but I love you both and I already love her and I’m not gonna screw this up.”
Beau let out a breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh trying not to become something else. “You’re already screwing it up by talking like you’re giving a speech.”
Dean scowled at him. “I’m being vulnerable.”
“That’s not how vulnerable people talk.”
You laughed then, and the sound made Dean relax a little. He leaned back in the chair, one arm draped over the side, still looking faintly stunned by the whole thing.
You shifted Daniella carefully in your arms and looked at him. “You really want that?”
Dean’s expression softened again. “Of course I do.”
Beau squeezed your hand once. “Then yeah. You’re her godfather.”
Dean’s head snapped up. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Beau said. “You’re stuck with us.”
“And with her,” you added, smiling down at the sleeping baby.
Dean blinked hard, then looked away too fast for either of you to pretend not to notice. “Cool,” he said, voice rough. “Great. Awesome. Very normal reaction to being honored and emotionally destroyed in a hospital room.”
Beau laughed. “You’re such a liar. You’re totally happy.”
Dean pointed at him without looking up. “Shut up.”
But he was smiling now, really smiling, and when he finally stood and came back to the bedside, he did it slowly, like he was approaching something sacred. He looked at the baby one last time, then at you.
“Daniella,” he said, trying it out like he was making sure the name fit. “Yeah. That works.”
“It does,” you said softly.
He nodded and held the stuffed bear closer to his chest. “She’s gonna know she’s loved, right?”
Your answer came immediately. “She already does.”
Dean looked at you, then at Beau, and something warm passed between the three of you. Not the easy kind of warmth. The kind that came from shared history and late nights and growing up too fast and still somehow ending up in a room like this together anyway.
Beau leaned back in the chair and looked at the baby in your arms with a tired, dazed kind of wonder.
“She looks like you,” he murmured.
You glanced down at Daniella and smiled faintly. “She looks like both of us.”
Dean snorted. “She looks like she’s already judging me.”
“Good,” Beau said. “She should.”
“She’s your daughter,” Dean replied. “That checks out.”
You smiled at the two of them, at the ridiculousness of it, at the tenderness hidden beneath all the teasing. Then you looked back at the tiny girl asleep against your chest, with her name settled into the world and three young people already orbiting her like she was the center of everything.
Maybe she was.
Dean picked up the stuffed bear and set it carefully near the baby blanket. “Does she need anything else?”
Beau glanced at you, then at the diaper bag, then back at Dean. “Yeah. Probably a degree and a trust fund.”
You laughed, and Dean groaned. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” Beau said, grinning, “you love me.”
Dean shot him a look, but there was no real bite in it. “Unfortunately.”
You watched them bicker for another second, then looked down at Daniella.
Her tiny hand had curled around the blanket near her face. She was breathing softly, entirely unaware that she had already changed everything.
And maybe that was the strangest part of all.
Not that you and Beau were nineteen.
Not that you were scared.
Not that the future was still huge and blurry and impossible to predict.
It was that even now, in the middle of all that uncertainty, your daughter had already given you something certain to hold onto.
A name.
A godfather.
A stuffed bear with a blue ribbon.
And a room full of love so big it barely fit inside the walls.
Dean settled into the chair like he belonged there, and Beau leaned over the bed to kiss your forehead once, gentle and sure.
“We did good,” he whispered.
You smiled against the ache in your chest and looked at your daughter, at your boys, at the life you were all building before you had even finished being kids yourselves.
Your daughter found the photo album by accident, which was how most important disasters began in your house.
It had been tucked on the bottom shelf of the living room bookcase, under old notebooks and a stack of Beau’s class binders. You had meant to put it somewhere safer, but “somewhere safer” in a small college apartment with a four-year-old was really just code for “somewhere you will forget about it until it is too late.”
You were in the kitchen making lunch when you heard her small voice rise from the rug.
“Mama!”
You looked up. “What is it, baby?”
There was a pause, then a tiny gasp of awe. “You were babies!”
Beau, who was standing by the counter with a bowl of cereal in one hand and his phone in the other, froze. “That is not a sentence I want to hear without context.”
You wiped your hands on a dish towel and walked into the living room. Your daughter sat cross-legged on the floor, the album open in front of her like she had discovered buried treasure. Her face was bright with excitement, her hair in two crooked pigtails, and both of your hearts seemed to stop when you saw the page she had turned to.
There you were. Nineteen, exhausted, younger than she could possibly imagine. Beau had one arm around your shoulders, his hair too long and his smile too soft for the camera. You were holding a newborn wrapped in a blanket, your cheeks hollow with sleep deprivation and your eyes full of a kind of love that made time feel unreal.
Your daughter pointed at the tiny bundle in the photo. “Mama… Daddy… who is that baby?”
Beau looked over your shoulder, and the expression on his face changed instantly. He was smiling, but there was something stunned in it too, like even now he could not quite believe how fast years had passed.
You sat down beside her on the rug. “That baby?”
She nodded seriously. “Yes.”
Beau crouched on the other side of her, setting the cereal bowl aside. “That, kiddo, is you.”
Her mouth fell open. “Me?”
“You,” you said, laughing softly. “That was you when you were a baby.”
She stared at the picture with complete disbelief, then back at you, then at Beau. “No.”
Beau’s eyebrows lifted. “No?”
She shook her head hard. “I was not that tiny.”
You touched the edge of the photo. “You were even tinier than that, actually.”
Her eyes widened further. “No way.”
“Way,” Beau said, grinning. “You were itty-bitty. So small your socks barely fit.”
She looked scandalized. “I had socks?”
“You had everything,” you said. “Tiny socks, tiny hats, tiny mittens you hated.”
She leaned closer to the page, squinting at the photo like she was trying to catch herself in the act of being newborn. “I don’t remember.”
Beau snorted. “That’s because you were basically a potato.”
You slapped his arm lightly. “Be nice.”
“I am being nice.”
“You called our daughter a potato.”
“A cute potato.”
She giggled at that, but her attention was already moving through the album. Her fingers turned the page carefully, reverently, like she understood that the book was important even if she did not understand why. There were photos of you and Beau holding her in the hospital, photos of you both asleep on a couch with her curled between you, photos of your tiny apartment littered with bottles and blankets and the sort of beautiful chaos only young parents truly know.
She stopped on one where Beau was sitting in a chair with the baby asleep on his chest, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open, completely worn out. Your daughter looked at it for a long time.
“Daddy was tired,” she said.
Beau groaned. “Thank you for pointing that out.”
You smiled. “He was very tired.”
“I had a newborn on me constantly,” he said. “That was not a complaint, by the way. I’m just saying I was a little sleep-deprived.”
“A little?” you repeated.
He looked at you with mock offense. “Don’t act like you weren’t too.”
You raised your brows. “I was recovering from giving birth.”
“Right, yes, and I was recovering from seeing it.”
You let out a laugh, and your daughter looked between the two of you, clearly sensing there was a story she did not yet understand.
“Tell me,” she said suddenly. “Tell me about when I was born.”
Beau and you exchanged a look.
There were some stories you never minded repeating. This one was always one of them.
You shifted on the rug and tucked one leg beneath you. “Okay,” you said softly. “But it was a very long day.”
“I like long stories,” she announced.
“That’s good,” Beau said. “Because your mom was in labor forever.”
“I was not in labor forever,” you said.
He tilted his head. “Babe.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“You were making sounds I had never heard from another human being.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “That is deeply unhelpful.”
Your daughter looked delighted. “Mama made sounds?”
“Yes,” Beau said immediately.
“Beau,” you warned.
He held up one hand, trying very hard not to laugh. “What? She asked.”
You took a slow breath and gave your daughter a more careful smile. “I was in a lot of pain, baby. And your daddy was with me the whole time.”
Her little face softened at that. She turned to Beau. “You stayed?”
“Of course I stayed.”
“Even when Mama made sounds?”
He laughed. “Especially then.”
You rolled your eyes, but your mouth was twitching. “You were not nearly as brave as you pretend.”
Beau placed a hand over his chest in mock injury. “I was nineteen and terrified.”
“That part is true,” you said.
“I was also trying very hard not to faint.”
“You did not faint.”
“I considered it.”
Your daughter gasped. “Daddy almost fell down?”
“Almost,” you said. “But he didn’t.”
She nodded solemnly, as if this was evidence of great character. “Good.”
Beau leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Do you want to hear the best part?”
She immediately sat straighter. “Yes.”
“The best part,” he said, looking at you now, “was when we finally got to hold you.”
Your smile turned quiet.
You remembered that moment with startling clarity, as if it had happened yesterday instead of years ago. The fluorescent lights, the beeping machines, the ache in your body, and then the first unbearable relief of hearing her cry.
Your daughter’s gaze darted between you both. “Was I loud?”
Beau laughed. “Very loud.”
“That’s because you were angry to be born,” you said.
She frowned. “I was mad?”
“Oh, you were furious,” Beau said. “You looked like we had personally ruined your evening.”
That earned a giggle from her.
Then she curled her fingers into the hem of your shirt and asked in a small voice, “What happened then?”
You looked down at her hand and felt your chest tighten with the same love that had hit you at nineteen so hard it nearly frightened you.
Then you began.
You were crying when they handed her to you, and you didn’t even notice at first. You were too busy staring at the tiny face in front of you, too overwhelmed by the fact that the baby in your arms was real and yours and somehow here after months of fear and hope and half-sleeping in lecture halls with your hand on your stomach. Beau stood beside the bed like he had forgotten how to use his legs.
“Oh my God,” he whispered, voice cracking immediately. “She’s really here.”
You laughed through tears you could not stop. “You were there for the whole thing, genius.”
“Yeah, but this part is different.”
He looked wrecked in the best way, hair sticking up in every direction, eyes red, expression completely open. Then he asked the nurse, in a voice far too serious for a nineteen-year-old quarterback, “Can I hold her?”
The nurse smiled like she had seen everything before. “Of course.”
Beau took her carefully, like she was made of glass and moonlight, like one wrong movement might break the whole world. But the second she settled against his chest, something in his face changed. The scared boy disappeared, and in his place was a young father who looked like he had been given something sacred.
You watched him stare down at the baby in his arms with tears in his eyes, and when he finally looked up at you, he was smiling so hard it almost hurt to see.
“She has your nose,” he said in disbelief.
“She has your whole face,” you whispered back.
He laughed then, breathless and stunned and so full of love it made your own chest ache. “We made that,” he said, as if he was still trying to understand it. “We really made that.”
And then he leaned down and kissed your forehead, careful and reverent, before pressing the gentlest kiss to the baby’s head. “Hi,” he whispered to her. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
When the flashback ended, the room felt warmer somehow.
Your daughter was staring at you with huge eyes, her mouth slightly open. “Daddy cried?”
Beau gave a helpless shrug. “A little.”
“You cried too?” she asked you.
You nodded. “A lot.”
She looked down at her hands, then back at the album. “Because you loved me?”
Your throat tightened. “Because we loved you before we ever met you.”
Beau’s hand found yours on the rug and squeezed once.
Your daughter studied the photograph again, this time with a completely different expression. She touched the tiny blanket around baby her, then the side of your face in the picture.
“That is me,” she said softly, as if she were finally letting herself believe it.
“That is you,” you said.
She glanced at the next picture, where Beau was making a ridiculous face and trying to get the newborn to look at the camera. “Daddy looks silly.”
Beau gasped. “I look handsome.”
“You look silly,” she repeated, delighted.
You laughed so hard you had to lean into Beau’s shoulder. He was already smiling, his arm slipping around your back, and it made the whole living room feel like a memory you wanted to keep forever.
Your daughter flipped one more page and found a picture of all three of you on the couch in your first apartment. The room was tiny, the furniture mismatched, the floor covered in laundry you had not yet conquered. But there you were, both barely out of childhood yourselves, looking at the camera like you had somehow decided to build a family before you had even finished becoming adults.
“Were you scared?” she asked quietly.
The question landed gently, but it still hit deep.
You answered first. “Yes.”
Beau nodded. “Very.”
She frowned. “Then why?”
You and Beau looked at each other for a second, the answer passing silently between you before either of you spoke.
“Because,” you said, brushing a curl off her forehead, “love does not wait until everything is perfect.”
Beau added, “And because we wanted you.”
She seemed to think about that very carefully. “Even when you were babies?”
He laughed, low and warm. “Especially when we were babies.”
You reached over and tapped the photo. “We were young, sure. We were tired a lot. We were figuring things out as we went.”
“But,” Beau said, squeezing your hand, “we were never unsure about you.”
Your daughter looked up at the two of you, absorbing every word with that serious little face she got when something mattered to her.
Then she smiled.
“Okay,” she said.
You laughed softly. “Okay?”
She nodded. “I was a tiny baby and you were babies too.”
Beau leaned back on his hands. “That is objectively correct.”
“And now I am big,” she declared.
“Very big,” you agreed.
She brightened at once. “Can I see more pictures?”
“Absolutely,” you said.
Beau reached for the album and opened it to the next page, where there were more versions of your life than you could count: hospital bracelets, sleepy smiles, late-night bottles, messy hair, first outfits, first steps, first everything. Your daughter leaned close, pointing at each image with increasing excitement while Beau made comments under his breath and you corrected him whenever he got something wrong.
But even as the conversation continued around you, you kept looking back at the first picture.
Nineteen years old.
Exhausted.
In love.
Holding a newborn who had turned out to be the brightest, loudest, most stubborn little person you had ever met.
Your daughter looked up suddenly, catching you staring. “Mama?”
“Yes, baby?”
She smiled at you with all the trust in the world and said, “I’m glad I was your baby.”
The words went straight through you.
Beau’s expression changed too, softening in that quiet way it always did when he was looking at the two of you together. He reached over and kissed the side of your head, then gently pulled your daughter into his lap.
“We’re glad you were our baby too,” he said.
You wrapped an arm around both of them, holding on just a little tighter.
And there on the living room rug, with an album full of old photographs and a four-year-old who had no idea how loved she was, it felt like the whole strange, beautiful story of your family had come full circle.
Not because life had been easy.
Not because you had done everything right.
But because somehow, at nineteen, two babies had become parents, and the little baby in the picture had grown into the girl laughing in Beau’s lap, asking for one more story.
