he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
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@suns3treading
❝good for me❞
in which they’ve each found their cure
pairing: oscar piastri x oc!callista fc: isabelle mathers & pinterest warnings: poorly translated french
(a/n: hey~ hello~ i might be back? lol this one was fun to write actually! so i hope it’s fun for you all as well! as always, happy reading!💝)
📅 February 6, 2026
liked by nicolepiastri and 39.8K others
81cheries Callista mentioning Oscar as she shares her skincare routine with @|vogueaustralia !🧖🏻♀️🫧
“I apologise if you can hear my cats meowing in the background. […] My fiancé just got home and they’re very excited. […] They clearly know which parent spoils them more”
view all comments
user her fiancé being none other than australian f1 driver, oscar piastri as she releases a video with vogue australia!!!🧡
user petition for callista to start a youtube channel pls, i’d religiously watch her videos i fear
user omg a little glimpse into their everyday life🥹
user “they clearly know which parent spoils them more” cat dad oscar, you are the best thing to have ever happened to me
user our crazy cat lady and her polite cat fiancé with their little cat family 😻🧡
user if you listen closely, you can hear a bag of treats being opened. oscar really does spoil their cats bdskhdwkdhs ♥︎ by author
user i would be as excited as their cats too if my dad was oscar piastri🤣
user NICOLE IN THE LIKES THATS HER FAVOURITE DAUGHTER IN LAW FR
⤷ user callista’s her only daughter in law🤣 ⤷ user and that’s why she’s the immediate favourite!
📅 February 21, 2026
liked by 28.9K others
everythingoscallista Throwback to the Vegas GP in 2024 where they had Oscar play “This or That” He’s known all along that he’ll marry Callista😂🧡
view all comments
user i just know he went to the school of tom holland manifestation
user he’s been scheming from day 1😭 ♥︎ by author
user keep in mind that they were a year into their relationship atp…
user he’s been locked in from the very start😍😍
user he really meant it when he said “i would’ve proposed sooner if i had known she was ready”
user i literally forgot this even existed, i’m so glad i forgot about it and i now can relive this moment again 🙏🙏🙏
user no hesitation whatsoever is CRAZY
user “i think my girlfriend would be happy” and that’s on happy wife, happy life‼️
user the way he’s been longing for callista for YEARS AND NOW THEY’RE HAPPILY ENGAGED
user when a man knows what he wants >>>🤤🤤
📅 March 7, 2026
liked by 61.3K others
f1driversandwags Oscar Piastri talks about getting recognised more often by his fiancé, Callista Narcisse’s fans out in public in Off The Grid! They really are the sweetest pair 🤍😂
“By the time we made our relationship public, a few more people knew who I was […] I was getting recognised and approached in public and often times, they were not F1 fans which is cool. […] They’d talk and ask about Callista and I’m not gonna deny someone the joy of talking about Callista. […] It’s a nice change of pace in conversations, with them I can just be Oscar, the fiancé. […] I’m always looking forward to it.”
view all comments
user he knows the consequences of pulling a baddie iktr 💅
user oscar is my favourite accessory of hers actually!
user we ❤️ you, mr.chérie ♥︎ by author
user if he’s not this obsessed, i don’t want him!!!
user as a dancer, i literally only knew about f1 through callista and now i watch and support BOTH oscar and charles on the weekends 😂
user not a single chalant bone in his body when it comes to his girl
user he is EXACTLY where he wants to be 💀🧡
user started stanning callista in 2017 now i’m watching her millionaire man drive in circles every weekend…
user i literally only seek for callista content on his account 🤣
user love the way he’s like “yeah! i am callista narcisse’s fiancé! what about it!”
📅 March 17, 2026
liked by 53.6K others
cherrypastry Here’s the translation to Callista opening up about knowing the dangers of F1 as someone who supports 2 active drivers, her brother, Charles and her fiancé, Oscar! 🥺😔
“The sport has evolved massively since then but it doesn’t lessen the dangers of it. […] With 2 people who are actively still in the sport, you have to swallow the fear and try not to dwell on it but in every single race- whether I’m in the garages or not, I’ve constructed a way to get to them as quickly as possible, if need be. […] And, if I’m in the paddock, I always make the time to visit Charles before watching the race over in Oscar’s garage. […] I know what's going on, I can understand the sport so I just have to put my trust and know that it’s safe for not only my family but for other drivers as well.”
view all comments
user being so brave for your brother and partner knowing that you’ve lost a godfather figure to the same sport 💔 ♥︎ by author
⤷ user we don’t give her enough credit. i would sooner lose my mind if i were her…
user she’s literally the best backbone both oscar and charles have 🥺❤️🩹
user thanks callista now i’m crying
user i can’t imagine how stressful it must be to be a sister AND a partner of an f1 drivers😓
user a truly beautiful and caring sister and fiancé
user beautifully said with such raw words, ms. narcisse 🥲 i’m not tearing up at all 🥲
user MY CHÉRIE </333
user “for not only my family but for other drivers as well.” bc she’s made such good friends with the other drivers as well 💔😩
user my poor baby shaylaaaaaa
📅 April 5, 2026
liked by 19.4K others
callistasource Oscar and Callista seen out and about in Monaco! It seems like the photo she posted on her story is the bouquet she has on her lap 🥰💐
view all comments
user it’s his birthday tmr and he’s gifting his fiancé instead…
user he really is the type of partner who buys flowers “just because”🥹 ♥︎ by author
user him and alex being alike in a way they always spoil their partners with flowers <33 #pialbon
user oscar and his flowers 💐🩷
user i get so giddy whenever ik they’re together that’s mama y papa fr
user the flowers and what i’m assuming is hot chocolate since they don’t drink coffee on her story is so sweet idky 😭🫶
user fleur!!!
user his plate license being out of frame is criminal btw
⤷ user wait- what’s his plate license? ⤷ user O81C ☹️☹️☹️
📅 April 11, 2026
liked by 23.8K others
op81cn Tennis with Oscar and Callista! A year apart and nothing has changed, the way he looks at her 🥹🫶🎾
view all comments
user the fact that they reacquainted from watching a tennis match back in 2023🥹
user okay loverboy (said adoringly)
user with the photo of them in 2023, we’re just missing 2024 💔
user when you have a lifelong crush on your partner >>> ♥︎ by author
user i’m so happy for my personal close friend, callista for FINALLY having a man that worships her😭❤️🔥
user our prince and princess!!!
user i’m still not over the first photo and NOW WE HAVE A 2026 VERSION???🥲🥲🥲
user he’s so happy to be there with her bekzbwkss
user the eyes chico they never lie…
⤷ user he’s literally giving the look of love 😩
📅 May 1, 2026
liked by 43.2K others
narcisse.piastri Oscar was recently described as “Although, Oscar knows Callista’s capable. He is known for being fiercely protective of her.” in a recent article by Mr. Porter 🥹❤️🔥
view all comments
user whatever callista said in her prayer… I NEED IT
⤷ user in reality, it’s what oscar said in his prayer that we need💀💀💀
user absolutely huge respect for him
user “although he knows she’s capable” AAAA THIS IS WHY WE LOVE HIM 🥹🤍🤍🤍
user well, good on him! as he should!
user such a gentleman, he was raised right 🥰
user A MAN A MAN A MAAAAAAAAN ♥︎ by author
user extremely necessary lore drop btw this is just what i needed #livelaughloveoscallista
user he has 3 younger sisters and she has 4 older brothers, it only makes sense for him to be very protective of her 🤭🤭🤭
⤷ user i just know that her brothers are happy she chose oscar of all people 🤔
📅 May 27, 2026
liked by 86.5K others
f1wagculture Fawning over this part from the new “High Performance” podcast video. I truly love the relationship Oscar has with Callista 🥹🥲❤️🩹
“That was a big change for me, moving out at 14 years old and going off to school outside of Australia. […] That was pretty tough. It was tough in the sense that I was leaving everything behind, like my family, my friends and my home but it was a necessary step to take, in order to get to F1. […] There are times where I seek for the comfort of home but now that I’ve grown, I feel like I have a pretty good sense of self-awareness in terms of what I need and don't need and when I need some help. […] I also learned that home isn’t just a place- It can be a person […] Thankfully, I have my fiancé, Callista for that. With her, I know I’m not completely on my own.”
view all comments
user oh i didn’t need this today 💔
user HIS HOME ISNT A PLACE, HIS HOME IS CALLISTA
user he has such a beautiful way with his words😭
user this is a VERY sensitive topic for me
user naww they help heal parts of each other ❤️🩹
user oh wow i’m bored let’s delete our accounts!
user tears streaming down my face always 🥲🥺
user idc triple his pain and give it to zac brown
user my poor baby, i’m so glad he has callista😓
user SOBBING EVERYTIME HE TALKS ABOUT LEAVING HOME EARLY SOBBING EVEN MORE HIM THANKING CALLISTA FOR BEING HIS HOME ♥︎ by author
📅 June 5, 2026
liked by 43.6K others
81busybees Fork found in kitchen! Oscar has never fail to mention Callista in a recent interview!😭🍴🧡
"In Monaco, I got a second and a third […] I need to add the top step especially since it’s my fiance’s home-race.”
view all comments
user i see he’s also high on that hOPium
⤷ user he’d do anything for his wife! (and charles’ approval💀)
user FROM HIS LIPS TO GOD'S EARS
user he wants that p1 for the p1 of his heart 😜 ♥︎ by author
user he’s gonna do 6 overtakes i can feel it in my bones
user i think its easier to learn french for your fiancé with the current state of your car, oscar😅
user P7 TO P1 LFG OP81
user universe if you’re listening, don’t let this man embarrass himself in-front of his wife 🙏
user watch him get p4 lol
⤷ user YOU TAKE THAT BACK RIGHT THIS INSTANT 😠
📍 Monte-Carlo, Monaco • June 8, 2026
liked by oscarpiastri and 1.2M others
callista the cure 🫀
view all comments
oscarpiastri Let’s get the cat out of the bag 😂🐈⬛👜 ♥︎ by author
⤷ user your fiancé is literally saying that YOU’RE HER CURE and you commented that???😭🥲💀 ⤷ user there’s levels of dorkness to this comment
user ballet, her home, her cats, her family, her work and oscar = callista’s cure ❤️🩹☹️
oliviarodrigo ilysm 💘💘💘 ♥︎ by author
user this is quite literally the most wholesome photo dump ever 🥹🤍
arthur_leclerc Petite sœur avec sa petite nièce ❤️ ♥︎ by author [baby sister with baby niece]
lucien_n Mon précieux 😘 ♥︎ by author [my precious]
user the caption- the bouquet oscar bought her- the cat they adopted together- the hand holding- the pastries- the polaroids- HES HER CURE IM DECEASED
alexandramalenaleclerc Loveeee 😍😍 ♥︎ by author
user camilla’s first appearance on aunty callista’s account. the 2 youngest leclerc-narcisse girls 🥹🩷
hattiepiastri no. 1 girl 🤍 ♥︎ by author
⤷ user watch out oscar, your little sister is here to steal your girl ⤷ user hattie’s comment being more sweet than oscar’s is killing me🤣
𝐎𝐍𝐋𝐘 𝐁𝐔𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 — OP81
oscar piastri x hijabi!fem reader
summary: fans are quick to notice an f1 driver follows and interacts with a random bunny pet account. only thing is it’s not random, it’s yours, and secretly his too
social media
( warnings: none really just some fluff! again i try to be as inclusive as possible but let me know if anything is inaccurate or offensive. i love all of you so much and literally am so grateful for everyone! )
𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏
liked by Oscarpiastri & 7,458 others
hoppingaround81: pixie took on her first ever in person. australian grand prix! ( only her human went to the race, but pix enjoyed all the beaches very much ) 🏎️🏝️🧡🦘
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user: pixie looks so cute at the beach
user: i bet she loved it
user: they do live in australia so i’m sure they have been going there since y/n got her
^yourusername: yes but only she started swimming in sept 2025!
user: is the 6th pic her pretending to be a kangaroo?
yourusername: she thinks she’s one of them!
user: why is oscar piastri in the likes
^user: maybe he likes bunnies
^user: he probably thinks it’s a fan account
^user: technically it is…
^user: yeah she’s been a supporter of him since his f3 days. this used to strictly be an oscar fan page until he joined in 2023 and that’s also the year she got pixie
user: ughhh you've got it all girl!
user: oh to be pixie at the beach with my human who busted attended the australian gp
user: queen did you see oscar crashed on formation lap? :(
^yourusername: yes i did unfortunately. absolutely gutted for the poor guy, but he will come back with a bang!
𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢
oscarpiastri: grateful for everyone at the AUS GP, always amazing to be back in my hometown and interact with everyone. this year we were off to a not so great start for the season, but my head is up and i’m ready to race again. interested to see how the rest of this season unfolds, hopefully it’s only up from here.
———————————————————————————
user: saddest day of my life
user: i actually screamed in terror when he crashed
user: the curse continues
^user: still so pissed off
^user: man i really thought he had it this year
user: i was so confident in him
user: ugh i really thought we were gonna see him at least somewhere on that podium
user: oscar will be back stronger
hoppingaround81: the season’s not over!
^liked by oscarpiastri
hattiepiastri: still the best brother 🧡
^user: aww at least his family was there for comfort
^user: no that makes it sooo much worse
^user: enough bickering about that. soooo likedd is nobody going to mention how oscar only liked a fan pages comment and not his own sisters????
^user: omg girl you’re so right
𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏
hoppingaround81: visited the butterfly gardens and pix couldn’t stop making friends with them! 🤗🦋
———————————————————————————
user: she really is the friendliest little bunny
user: aww and you guys are matching
^yourusername: the butterfly would not leave us alone
user: not her being the real life snow white
^user: she collects animals like she's genuinely in pokemon. not that it's a bad thing though
user: butterflies suit you pair well!
user: how does she make everything look so aesthetic
^user: aside from her being an influencer on social media, the real answer is because she's just THAT girl
^user: yeah. there's no explanation really
^user: ohhhh my bad, you right
user: my fav f1 account bc it's not just about racing
^user: no literally, i love how we get to know her personal life
user: this account is the embodiment of balanced!
𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏
hoppingaround81: someone was so excited to get outside that she escaped out the front door when mom was leaving, but thankfully dad rescued her. don’t worry we took her to the park the next day!
———————————————————————————
user: i’m sorry, we? pls who is we
^user: yeah literally who is we?
^user: how come this is the first dad mention
user: who has our bunny mama been hanging around!?!?!
user: pixie running away is cracking me up
𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢
oscarpiastri: enjoying some time off the croatian way
———————————————————————————
𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓
𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏
hoppingarounding81: enjoying the croatian summer sun with pix!
———————————————————————————
𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐓𝐔𝐑𝐍𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓
𝐭𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫
𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢
oscarpiastri: pixie’s parents are getting married
———————————————————————————
maxverstappen: p said he NEEDS to come over and see the bunny, she’s freaking out
^hoppingaround81: please tell her the whole fam is invited to the wedding. pixie will be there ofc!
user: huge day for annoying people!!
^user: everyone in my life WILL be hearing about this until the wedding
^user: girl then make them hear about the wedding for forever
user: oh my god my bingo card was right
user: | KNEW IT AWWW
user: and they called me crazy
^user: those people better look now
^user: i hope all feel stupid
user: | WAS NOT READY FOR THIS INFORMATION TODAY OR EVER.
landonorris: bro when were you gonna tell me you had a bunny AND a whole girlfriend 😭
^oscarpiastri: fiancé now!
user: thank you twitter user, i had time to prepare
^user: girl time to prepare?
^user: pfffttt lmao right, like we obviously knew they were dating but ain’t no way we expected an engagement post
user: yeah i totally thought they were hinting at like a new relationship not a long term hard launch
𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏
hoppingaround81: special day for everyone especially our beautiful baby pixie. can’t believe i’m married to the love of my life, we’ve been with each other since 2019 and we always planned on forever 🧡🪩💐
———————————————————————————
alexandraleclerc: this is the cutest wedding ever, hi little pixie!
carmenmundt: i’m so obsessed with her tiny little bow
^georgerussell: the cutest ring bearer
user: since 2019 are you actually kidding me
user: not even shocked he kept this private for as long as he did
user: SHE IS SO GORGEOUS OH MY GOD
^user: the hijab with the layered wedding dress???
^user i’m actually crying this is so beautiful
user: oh! i was not expecting to be bawling for an f1 couple this early in the morning
nicolepiastri: my daughter in law 💕🥺
hattiepiastri: MY SISTERRRRR ❤️
^mclaren: we're not crying.....( hand us the tissues pls)
user: husband oscar? oh wowowowow
user: if you don’t think this is most gorgeous stunning couple, bride, wedding, and bunny parents you’ve ever seen then i don’t know what to tell you
user: pixie is just the most adorable thing ever
^user: dare i say the best paddock pet
^user: she’s never been in there but yk hell yeah
𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢
oscarpiastri: happy to now officially be known as mr. hoppingaround81, please inform the FIA and timing tower 😊🐇💍
———————————————————————————
user: AWWW
user: HIS WIFE IS GORGEOUSSSS
^user: right! the third pic omg!!
user: followed oscar for oscar and f1 but seems like i’m staying for his beautiful wife and pixie 😊
^hoppingaround81: pixie is so happy!!
user: OSCAR PIASTRI IS A MARRIED MAN??? EXCUSE ME???
user: he won at life idc what anyone says
user: her lace hijab has me tearing up 🥹
user: the details and aesthetic of the wedding is just amazing and next level
alexalbon: pixie and y/n are officially my favorite piastri family members now ( sorry nicole )
^nicolepiastri: none taken, theirs ours too!
𝐨𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐩𝐢𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐢+𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐩𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝𝟖𝟏
oscarpiastri+hoppingaround81: bunny parents are adding one more to the mix, miss pixie is getting a sibling in 2028!
we’re ready to raise you and pix loves you already 💕🐇
———————————————————————————
so hungry, i could eat … | oscar piastri
summary: one little conversation between Nicole Piastri and the McLaren social media admin brings you back into Oscar's life
fc: gala nikolic
warning: I am aware of all the spelling errors, but to change them I’d have to rewrite, screenshot and insert the slides all over again and I’m just too lazy to do that, so you’ll just have to life with it
a/n: I love them you guys!!! I’m totally open to writing a part two if you’re interested, but I also might just do it anyway. I hope you enjoy🍀
oscatpiastri
oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??
view all comments…
user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted
user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING
-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her
-> user wow you guys are quick
user oh to be able to read his mind rn
user admin chose violence today
-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀
user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint
-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that
🔒 yourusername
yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit
view all comments…
yourfriend1 caption is so real dude
yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils
-> yourusername REAL
yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again
-> yourusername ‼️‼️
yourbestfriend girly you’re famous
-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?
-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?
-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING
yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔
yourfriend4 what just happened
yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak
yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls
TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR
TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND
👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE
oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!
INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR
yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long
oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.
yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?
oscarpiastri: Great! 👍
🔒 yourusername
yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN
view all comments…
yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will
yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big
-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT
yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞
-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh
-> yourusername YOU GUYS
yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT
yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw
-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME
-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??
-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash
-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN
-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me
yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him
-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING
🔒 yourusername
yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT
view all comments…
yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED
-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry
yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say
-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER
-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING
f1updates
f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:
“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”
view all comments…
user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT
user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn
user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔
-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery
-> user that would be the plot twist of a century
user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee
user THIS IS STILL MY BOY
🔒 yourusername
yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?
view all comments…
yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU
yourfriend2 wow😳
yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)
yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem
-> yourusername max verstappen?
-> yourfriend3 that one, yes
yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?
-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year
view all comments…
mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡
user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day
user not even Norris bottled this hard
user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??
user op the man you are
user AURA
user oh 2025 you were so promising
yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)
-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂
-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN
-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀
-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL
🔒 yourusername
yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚♀️
view all comments...
yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?
yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛
-> yourusername BE QUIET
yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞
-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic
oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts
-> yourusername don't, just don't do it
yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦♀️
yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨
yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?
-> yourusername BE NICE
yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲
yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least
f1gossip
f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?
view all comments…
user NO😫
user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on
-> user I started to doubt his abilities
user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty
user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP
yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED
-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT
user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden
user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE
-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend
user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???
-> user did I miss something?? who is that?
-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then
-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her
81_updates
81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔
view all comments...
user HOLD ME BACK
user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now
user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night
user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4
user god that girl is lucky
user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN
user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game
🔒 yourusername
yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?
view all comments...
yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛
yourfriend2 you guys make me sick
-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋
yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair
yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?
-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??
-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him
-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent
-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN
yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁
-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one
oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil
-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle
-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt
-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA
-> oscarpiastri are you ok?
-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))
-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?
-> yourusername SHHH
oscarpiastri and I did not force you
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri 🔋☀️
view all comments...
user when hes good with words😍😍
user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her
-> user I think that’s part of the appeal
user KARTING OSCAR
user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐
user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship
-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year
user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE
user HES SO CUTE
user our boy has a girlfriend… he’s actually done it
Sneaking Around | B. Maxwell
There was no logical explanation as to why she wanted to hide her relationship from her roommates… except for the fact that she was afraid they wouldn’t understand why she fell for him. Beau didn’t mind sneaking around though, as long as he got to be with her.
Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Fem! Reader (established relationship)
Warning(s): a few cuss words, maybe illusions to sex, mentions of sex (no smut), coloring date (some may be offended or disgusted? Idk why but..), mentions of future, sneaking around, soft! Beau, best friend! Dean.
Word Count: 3.8k
Request: Yes | No
Note: so I’m tired of all the ☠️ memes and talk. So here’s a cutesy little fluffy post. I love Beau and he’s my favorite. Also my TikTok is flooded with off campus right now and how did I never notice Beau handing Tucker a coconut during the drunk Shakespeare? 😂 This is my first off campus fic so… I guess I’m officially writing for it now. 🤪 (I also read the books like in 2016 or 2017 but I’m re-reading them now so if anything is ever a bit different from the show that might be why)
*Not Edited!* (are we surprised? 🥲)
You didn’t mean to keep your relationship a secret for as long as you had. You meant to tell Allie and Hannah within a few weeks or months after you started seeing Briar U’s quarterback, but then things kept popping up. Allie and Sean kept splitting and Hannah kept her focus on her jobs and scholarship to-do’s. You understood that they had their own issues to worry about and it never seemed like a good time. You didn’t want to seem inconsiderate by flaunting your happiness in front of them.
Fast forward to now, your junior year of college has come and you were currently still seeing your boyfriend. It had been over a year at this point but Beau didn’t seem to mind as long as he got to be with you. He would rather be with you in secret than not be in your life at all.
It wasn’t like you were a secret to everyone, after all, you had met each others parents/guardians (and extended family) and made it clear that you were serious about each other. Dean also knew because Beau couldn’t really keep anything from him even if he tried. The two men knew each other too well.
“Are we still on for girls night?” You had curiously asked Friday morning knowing that the three of you had always planned a night of movies, dinner, and drinks. Especially since Hannah only drank in privacy.
Hannah sighed, “I can’t tonight. I have practice for the showcase and then I have a tutoring session with Garrett.” She gave you an apologetic smile. “Rain check?”
You nodded, “sure. No problem.” You assured giving her a reassuring smile before moving your gaze to a guilty looking Allie. “Let me guess? You’ve got a date with Sean?”
Allie gave a soft smile, “I’m staying at his tonight.” She replied softly. “But I can cancel if you still wanted to have our girls night…”
You shook your head, “No, don’t cancel your plans for me.” You assured. “We have a girls night once a week. I’ll find something to do.”
Allie gave you a knowing look as a smirk grew on her face, “you’ll be here alone… so maybe you should find someone to do.” She suggested.
Hannah let out a little laugh but nodded her head anyways in agreement, “it’s been what? Freshman year since you’ve hooked up with someone?”
You didn’t say anything, but ‘If you two only knew’ was repeating in your head. It hadn’t been freshman year (obviously) but Beau just happened to wonder in your life not to long after your last hook-up. “I’m happy right now.” You admitted honestly to your girls. “I really don’t need to hook-up with anyone.”
Allie huffed, “everyone needs to have good sex once in a while.” She spoke confidently, “it’s only natural.”
“Aren’t you friends with one of Garrett’s groupies?” Hannah spoke up and you slightly nodded. “They’re all good looking so why not him?”
You cringed internally at the thought of screwing Beau’s best friend. You loved Dean but not in any type of romantic or sexual manner. He was someone you could trust and lean on for anything, and a part of you would forever thank Beau for introducing you to that part of Dean.
You shook your head at Hannah’s suggestion once you broke out of your thoughts, “Never going to happen.”
Allie’s face looked like she was lost in a thought for a moment before she looked from you to Hannah and back again, “who was that dude in your ethics class?” She asked trying to think.
“The one who hangs out with Garrett and the hockey team?” Hannah asked, slinging her back over her shoulder. “If you’re talking about him it’s probably—I think Garrett said his name is Beau.”
Allie turned back to you, “how about him?” She asked. “You two are insufferable.” You muttered before grabbing your bag and heading towards the door so you could get to class.
🫧
Half of your school day was over and you had yet to see your friends or Beau for most of the day. Which it was a given because you had a few different classes and everyone had their own lives outside of the friend group. You were currently grabbing lunch since you had a decent break between classes.
“Hey beautiful.” A soft voice whispered close to your ear before you noticed your boyfriend walk around the table and sit across from you.
A smile grew on your face causing you to bite your lip to keep it from stretching into a grin. “Hey,” you replied softly. “How’s your day been so far?” You asked knowing some of his schedule.
He shrugged acting nonchalant; “as boring as usual.” He muttered before mentioning something that had happened in conditioning earlier. “You wanna swing by the house before your girls night?”
You huffed a laugh, “about that… there’s no girls night anymore.” You replied. “Allie is staying with Sean and Hannah is tutoring Garrett.”
Beau’s eyebrows shot up, “they bailed?”
You shrugged, “we have them often so it’s not like it’s too important.” You assured while giving him a smile. “That also means that I have the dorm to myself…. So I was thinking that you could swing by for a bit? Hannah won’t be back until late and it gives us time to hang in my space.”
He smiled, “sounds like a plan, baby.” He agreed leaning back in his chair.
You hesitated for a moment before meeting his gaze again, “you don’t have to be in a rush either.”
That grabbed his full undivided attention (not like you didn’t have it anyway) as a look of shock seemed to cross his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t care to finally be semi-public?” A teasing tone could be heard in his voice making you roll your eyes.
“It’s long over due, isn’t it?” You asked softly.
Beau’s eyes softened as they looked over you, “what changed your mind?”
You shrugged and thought about it for a moment, “you know I love you, right?”
“Yeah, and you know that I love you.” He assured softly but also watching you carefully.
“Maybe they’ll understand more than I think.” You mutter as you feel him grab your hand easily from across the table. “and it would be nice if they quit trying to suggest people for me to hook-up with.”
His eyebrows furrowed, “who are they suggesting?”
You pursed your lips, “well the last one they mentioned was you.”
“Can’t argue with that.” He teased causing a scoff and an eye roll to come from you.
“Yeah and the other one was Dean.” You huffed. “But I’m pretty sure she was hinting at me being with anyone in the hockey house.”
“Dean? Really?” He asked and you nodded thinking back to what Hannah had told you.
Before you could say anything a mop of blonde hair plopped himself down beside your boyfriend, “what about me?” He asked flashing his dimpled smile.
You shook your head not wanting to mention what Hannah had said, but apparently Beau didn’t mind. “Her roommate mentioned her hooking up with you.” Your boyfriend muttered.
Dean’s eyes glistened with a teasing in them, “As much as I would love too. I think bro-code out weighs that.” His reply earned a glare from Beau causing him to joking put his hands up in surrender. “Let me guess, Wellsy thinks your lonely?”
You sighed, “something like that.” You muttered; “my roommates think everyone needs good sex at least once a week.”
Dean nodded, “they aren’t wrong.” He agreed with Allie which wasn’t surprising to you.
You rolled your eyes before throwing a fry off your to-go basket at the blonde’s face. “I have plenty of that.” You assured not missing the smirk that grew on Beau’s face.
Dean snorted, “I don’t doubt it.” The teasing tone was still very prominent in his voice. “You got Beau Maxwell to be in a committed relationship…. You deserve a cookie.” He joked.
Beau rolled his eyes, “seriously dude?”
Dean sent the couple a smirk, “what? You know how many girls want to be in her place right now?” He then turned his attention solely on Beau, “you know how many men want to be in your place right now?” He added.
“I know I’m lucky she chose me.” Beau replied his eyes narrowed at his best friend.
“Damn straight.” Dean replied with a teasing smirk.
You let out a breath, “on that note… I’m leaving.” You muttered and stood up from your seat. “I’ll see you tonight.”
“I love you.” Beau called softly after you.
Dean snorted, “you’re so pussy whipped.”
🫧🫧 You sat at the kitchen table three cases of markers laying on the table. Some would say coloring was for children, but it was a stress reliever for you when you wanted something that was simple. Snacks were also lying along the table as well as drinks and your own custom cocktail. Beau was to be over after football practice was concluded.
Allie🌺 Did you find someone? You: I’m not hooking up with anyone. I’m a relationship girlie now. You know that. Allie🌺 Hooking up might be the start of something more 🤷♀️
You sighed laying your phone down. You loved Allie and you knew your friends wanted you happy, but sometimes they need to leave things alone. It’s partly your fault as well, since they don’t know you and Beau are together.
A knock on the door tore you out of your thoughts. You laid your marker down and went to open the door to see Beau looking as attractive as ever. His hair was still wet from his shower in the locker room.
“Hey, baby.” Beau greeted once you opened the door. He walked forward and placed a kiss on your forehead before walking into your dorm.
You smiled softly at the man you were in love with, “hey.” You greeted back while shutting your dorm door.
Beau stopped when he noticed the coloring book, markers, snacks, and drinks laid out on the kitchen table. “Doing a coloring date, are we?” He asked teasingly.
You huffed a laugh, “No. I was just stressed about midterms and I wanted something to calm my nerves.” You explained before going over and starting to clean up the markers.
Beau was right behind you, stopping you from cleaning up the markers. Without saying a word, he sat down in the chair beside your pulled out one and picked a page from your pile. “If my girl’s stressed, then I’m here to help her forget about it.” He spoke softly taking the markers out of your hand.
You felt a blush creep up if the heat radiating from your face was any indication. “You don’t have to color.” You assured as your boyfriend took the lid off a green marker and started coloring a tree that was on his page. “Beau, really it’s fine. You always make everything better anyways…”
Beau huffed playfully moving his gaze to you, “shut up and sit down with me.” He demanded yet his tone was still as soft as it had been.
You smiled to yourself with your heart full of love before sitting down beside him. You were back in your original spot and coloring the page. You two sat quietly, with Beau stealing drinks of your cocktail you had made every once in awhile.
You loved Beau. You truly did because what type of man would willingly sit and color with you. Letting you know that he only cared about being in your presence. Your heart was so full just thinking of him and all the ways that he proved to you that he loved you. Ways that were silent and caring, and not loud or overly sexual.
These are the days that you would remember and reminisce on when you two were old and gray. You smiled thinking about that, even though you and Beau hadn’t exactly mentioned getting married you both knew that you were in each other’s futures.
“What’s got you all smiley?” Beau spoke after a while of silence. Your eyes met his gaze, both of your eyes were filled with love.
You shook your head, “you’re literally perfect.” You mumbled feeling shy suddenly. You dropped your gaze back to your page.
Beau shook his head, “I’m not perfect.” He promised. “I’m far from it, honestly, but you on the other hand? Definitely perfect.” He replied with a cheeky grin on his face.
“I’m serious.” You defended your compliment. “I’d marry you right now if you’d ask because you’re so…” you trailed trying to find the right word to describe him.
Beau looked away for a moment before moving his eyes back over to you. You finally raised your gaze back up to meet his, “you’d marry me?”
Your brows furrowed, “Yes! Is that shocking or something?”
Beau bit his own lip for a moment to stop a grin from forming, “I’m holding you to that.”
You grinned, “is that your way of saying we’re going to get married?” You asked playfully.
Beau nodded, “oh, totally.” He promised and his voice held seriousness. “We’ll get married and have at least two babies… I mean, only if you want children.” He assured
“You sound so sure of yourself.”
“Baby, I’ve had my life planned out with you since I saw you crying in the library freshmen year.” Beau mumbled as he went back to coloring his page. You knew he was using it as a distraction for dropping his truth-bomb on you.
Your eyebrows creased again, “freshman year? But that’s….” You trailed.
“The first time we met and you told me that your first college crush broke your heart.” Beau whispered letting you know that he remembered.
You looked at your boyfriend shocked, “Beau Maxwell, are you telling me that you were pining after me all of freshmen year?”
“Why are you so shocked?” His voice raised slightly but not in anger. It sounded like disbelief.
“Maybe because that’s a truth bomb I wasn’t expecting?” You explained with your hands waving around frantically seeing as you were shocked. “You’re Beau Maxwell.” You elaborated.
“So?”
“So—how can you say so? You’re the quarterback of the football team.” You explained more in depth. “You have had girls falling at your feet since high school and you just tell me that you were harboring a crush for almost a year prior to us sleeping together.”
Beau pursed his lips while nodding, “We’re together now… so why does it matter?”
You huffed, “what would you have done if us having sex didn’t turn into anything?”
His eyebrows furrowed at that because he honestly didn’t know. He had just been lucky and the plan him and Dean had come up with worked. Which now that he thought back may not have been the best idea.
“I don’t know but it did work so I’m not thinking about it.” He shrugged and turned his full attention back to the picture in front of him.
🫧🫧🫧
It was now 9pm and Hannah was still tutoring Garrett and you hadn’t heard from Allie in a moment. You and Beau had finished coloring and you had picked up the pages and markers while Beau helped clean up the snacks and drinks.
You two had moved to the couch as a movie played on your laptop that sat on the coffee table. You weren’t really paying attention to what was happening on your laptop. Your mind kept going over the conversation you two had talked about earlier.
It was definitely more of a glimpse of the future than what either of you had previously admitted. It didn’t scare you or anything, but you just wondered if there was anything that could change his though process. You honestly didn’t think that there was, because like you had stated earlier, he was the perfect boyfriend.
“I’m so in love with you.” You spoke softly as you broke the silence that had settled over your cuddling figures as the movie played. You moved your head to where you could look up at him and see him.
He wore a soft smile on his face, “where’d that come from?”
You shrugged slightly, “I just—I’m lucky to have you.” You settled for that even though it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.
His hand softly came up and rested on your jaw and neck, “I’m in love with you too.” He replied softly and leaned his head down just a bit to capture your lips with his.
The kiss had been soft and full of love, something that you were use to Beau doing. It didn’t take long for things to heat up, especially not with how the two of you were talking and feeling.
You blamed your hormones for not being able to hear your phone buzz on the kitchen table. And twenty minutes after your phone went off, You blamed yourself for not hearing the door unlock or open at first either.
“So I know we bailed on girls night, but I was thinking—OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed before quickly turning around.
You shoved Beau away with more force than you meant too and quickly stood up to find your shirt that said man how thrown across the room. You huffed and rolled your eyes knowing that Hannah was a bit dramatic because neither of you were naked. You both were just shirtless and making out, so it wasn’t like she had walked in on anything.
“You can turn around now.” You sighed as you handed Beau his shirt.
Hannah slowly turned around and faced the two of you before giving an awkward smile, “so you took Allie’s advice on…” she trailed as her eyes flickered to Beau and then back to you.
You gave her a small smile, “not exactly.” You replied before Beau pulled you into him. Hannah’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between the two of you. “We’ve been dating for over a year…”
A flicker of hurt passed through Hannah’s eyes, “and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”
You shook your head quickly, “no. It’s not like that. I trust you and Allie completely.” You assured as you finally relaxed against your boyfriend.
“Then why not tell us?”
You shrugged, “it never felt like a good time.” You mumbled knowing that wasn’t an excuse. “Allie and Sean kept breaking up and I didn’t want to flaunt my relationship in front of her, and then you were worried and busy with the showcase and your scholarship list that I didn’t want to seem like I only cared about my relationship.” You explained hoping that she understood where you were coming from.
Hannah was silent for a moment before she finally nodded. “Okay, I understand why you hid it.” She accepted. “But don’t put your happiness in the closet all because you’re worried about us.”
You gave her a smile and nodded, “okay. No more secrets.” You promised and grinned when you felt Beau kiss the top of your head.
Hannah smiled back, “now I’m going to my room and I’ll put my headphones on as loud as the go and close the door.” She assured and shot you a wink as she walked off to her room.
You smiled turning back towards Beau and pulled him towards your room.
“That went better than you thought?” He asked causing you to nod in response. “Way better.” 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧
You hated the idea of getting out of bed. Beau had finally spent the night without worrying about sneaking out the next morning. Which means you woke up in his embrace for the first time in weeks. It was something that always made your mornings feel complete and it made your heart swell with love.
You could’ve stayed in bed for hours, but you were hungry from not having a full dinner last night. So, reluctantly you got out of Beau’s embrace and found some clothes to slip on before making your way to the small kitchen. You started the coffee maker before pulling out some (protein) pancake mix and getting the add-ins.
“Are those pancakes?” Allie’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned and watched her walk out of her room and towards you before hopping up on the counter.
“It is.” You nodded and turned back to the pan on the stove. “I thought you were at Sean’s?”
Allie sighed, “we got into a fight late last night—or early this morning—it doesn’t matter. I just came straight home.” She muttered placing her head in her hands. “I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”
You turned and gave her an apologetic smile, “we’re always available for you.” You promised causing her to send you a small smile.
The kitchen settled into a comfortable quietness for a bit before Hannah came out of her room. She joined you two with a smile on her face which dropped as soon as she noticed Allie’s face. You listened to the two girls quietly as you finished making breakfast. You had listened to Allie’s story about Sean, which always was the same, but you couldn’t convince her she deserved better. She had to figure that out for herself.
You had cooked a few sides to go with the pancakes while Allie had went on-and-on about Sean and Hannah had put her input in every once in a while. You didn’t know what to say, mainly because you had a great boyfriend. Someone who truly loved you and you never had to guess or wonder if he did.
Once breakfast was done you told the girls and the three of you made plates and sat at the kitchen table together.
“We seriously need a girls trip away from this place.” Allie groaned taking a sip of her drink.
You nodded, “I’m down.” To which Hannah agreed too.
You three were talking and making plans to take a trip together eventually, until Allie went quiet mid sentence causing you to look her way. Her fork was frozen mid-way to her mouth and her eyes wide. You followed her line of sight to see her staring at Beau casually padding out of your room and into the small kitchen and living area.
“Morning baby,” he greeted softly as he walked over and gave you a kiss on the head. “Ladies.” He nodded in recognition.
You smiled, “morning. There’s breakfast I fixed a few minutes ago.” You offered
He sent you a thankful smile and gave you a soft “thank you, babe.” before going to fix himself some food as well. You turned your attention back towards Allie who had closed her mouth now but was still looking at you.
“What the hell is Beau Maxwell doing in our dorm and why the hell did he call you baby?”
garrett graham ❄︎ house law.
pairing – garrett graham x reader summary – dean’s ex was meant to be off-limits. garrett has several problems with that. warnings – suggestive content, heated kissing, sexual references, situationship tension, arguing, strong language, dean being possessive-ish, party/alcohol setting notes from me – loosely based on this ask!! thank u for sending it through babe! xx word count – 8.9k
navigation – masterlist | taglist
The first time she realises Garrett Graham might actually be a problem, he’s sitting on the players’ bench after practice with damp curls, flushed cheeks, and a towel slung around the back of his neck, talking about leadership like he hasn’t spent the last forty minutes making half the men on the ice look mildly unemployable.
The rink has that post-practice emptiness to it now, all scraped-up ice and cold metal and fluorescent light, the air still carrying the sharp wet smell of snow, rubber, and boy sweat no amount of ventilation has ever fully defeated.
The rest of the team has already filtered out in waves of noise, sticks clattering, showers starting somewhere down the hall, somebody yelling something obscene about Logan’s tape job from the locker room. Garrett had stayed behind because she’d asked for a few more minutes, and because being captain also meant being professionally accommodating to journalism majors with deadlines and a possibly self-destructive interest in his forearms.
Sports journalism was, allegedly, her actual academic focus. This was supposed to be clean. Useful. A feature piece on Briar hockey culture through the lens of the captain everyone on campus already had some opinion about.
Garrett Graham, projected pro prospect, Bruins interest, team leader, annoyingly handsome campus fixture with a smile that had almost certainly caused several GPA drops across the student body.
She had come prepared with questions. She had her recorder running on the bench between them, her notebook open across one thigh, her pen uncapped and ready in her hand like a woman with purpose and professional integrity.
Then Garrett started answering properly, and that had become its own issue. He was good at being smug, obviously. That part was easy. Garrett carried arrogance like some men carried cologne, lightly applied but immediately noticeable.
But when she asked him about being captain, about what it felt like to have younger guys looking to him, about whether the Bruins pressure changed the way he saw the rest of the season, he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, one hand turning a roll of tape between his fingers.
He spoke with this unexpected care that made it annoyingly difficult to remember she was meant to be extracting quotes and not just sitting there watching his mouth form words.
“I don’t know,” he says, eyes moving briefly to the rink like the ice might have an answer written somewhere under all the skate marks. “People act like captain means you’re the guy with the loudest voice in the room. Sometimes it is, sure. Sometimes you gotta call shit out. But most of it’s just… paying attention. Knowing which freshman needs to get his ass kicked in practice and which one needs you to pretend not to notice he’s about to puke from nerves before a game.”
Her pen hovers.
Garrett huffs a little laugh, looking down at the tape. “That makes me sound nicer than I am.”
“It really does,” she says, without thinking.
His eyes flick back to her, amused. “Wow.”
“No, I mean–” She laughs, because his grin has gone sharp now, pleased and teasing and very aware he’s caught her somewhere. “I mean, it’s a good answer. Annoyingly good. Like, I’m going to have to cut some of it down or people will start thinking you’re emotionally intelligent.”
He presses a hand dramatically to the centre of his chest. “That would ruin me.”
“Completely. Your whole brand gone overnight.”
“My brand is very layered, actually.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Is it?”
“Yeah. Hot, talented, emotionally unavailable but, like, in a charming way.”
She snorts before she can stop herself, and Garrett’s grin widens like her laugh is something he’s earned and plans to be unbearable about.
The thing is, he keeps doing this. Slipping between real and ridiculous so smoothly she never has time to brace for either version. One second he’s making some dumb comment about Logan being held together by athletic tape and poor decision-making, the next he’s talking about pressure in a voice low enough that the empty rink seems to lean in around them.
He talks about the Bruins carefully, not like a boy pretending not to care, but like someone who cares so much he’s had to teach himself not to flinch every time someone says the word future near him.
“It’s there,” he says, after she asks whether the scouting attention ever messes with his head. His hand stills around the tape. “Even when I’m trying not to think about it. It’s there. People talk like going pro is this finish line, right? Like once somebody wants you, you’re supposed to just be grateful and shut up. But it’s weird. It’s a lot of people having plans for your body before you’ve even finished using it where you are.”
She forgets, for a second, to breathe normally. There’s no tragic little performance, no athlete pretending vulnerability because it looks good in a profile. Simply Garrett, sweat drying at his temples, towel loose around his neck, saying something true because she asked the right question and he trusted her enough to answer it.
Her pen hasn’t moved in at least thirty seconds. Garrett notices. His eyes drop to her notebook, then lift again slowly to her face, one brow rising. “Are you supposed to be writing this down?”
For one horrible second, she just blinks at him. Then she looks down at the blank stretch of page beneath her last half-written sentence and makes a sound so undignified it bounces off the empty seats. “Oh, fuck. Yes. Shit. Sorry.”
Garrett bursts out laughing.
“Don’t laugh,” she says, already scribbling so fast the words are barely forming. “You said something good and I got distracted.”
“You got distracted?”
She gives him a look without lifting her head, though the effect is slightly ruined by the fact that she is smiling like an idiot. “By the quote. The quote was good.”
“Sure.”
“It was.”
He shrugs. “I believe you.”
“You’re being smug.”
He laughs again, softer this time, and when she glances up, he’s already watching her. His elbows are still on his knees, shoulders rounded forward, the tape forgotten between his hands. His smile’s faded into something smaller, warmer, almost private, and the look of it moves through her body in a way that makes the cold rink air feel suddenly useless.
Her fingers tighten around the pen. Garrett’s gaze drops, briefly, to her mouth.
The silence shifts. Loud in all the places neither of them is touching. She can hear someone in the locker room bark out a laugh, distant and echoing, but it might as well be happening in another building.
Then Garrett clears his throat and looks away first, jaw flexing once like he’s physically pulled himself back from the edge of something. “So,” he says, voice just rough enough to betray him. “You need more captain wisdom or can I go shower before I become part of the rink?”
She looks down at her notebook because it is safer than his face. “I think I’ve got enough wisdom for one day.”
“Smart. Too much and you’ll fall in love with me.”
Her laugh comes out too quick. Too exposed. “Yeah, God forbid.”
He stands, and even that’s irritating: the size of him unfolding beside the bench, broad shoulders, hockey thighs, damp curls, all that casual physical confidence men get when they’ve never once had to question whether their body works in their favour. He grabs his gloves and stick, then pauses at the gate.
“Same time Thursday?”
She nods. “For the follow-up.”
“Right,” he says, and his mouth does that slow, dangerous little curve. “The follow-up.”
Then he walks away before she can decide whether to throw her pen at him or herself.
By the time Garrett drops into the chair beside her in the cafeteria two days later, she has one hand buried in a bag of chips, half a sandwich abandoned on a napkin, and fourteen open tabs on her laptop because higher education is mostly just creating new and inventive ways to make Google Docs feel judgmental.
“Jesus,” Garrett says, leaning sideways to peer at her screen. “You writing an article or hacking the Pentagon?”
She doesn’t look up immediately. “Both. Don’t tell anyone.”
“Hot.”
That gets her eyes off the screen. Garrett’s already grinning, backwards cap low over his curls, hoodie sleeves shoved up to his forearms. He has a tray in front of him loaded with the deeply alarming quantity of food hockey players treat as a casual lunch, and he looks far too pleased with himself for a man who has interrupted her academic suffering with one word and too much eye contact.
She fights the smile. Loses. “Do you just sit wherever you want?”
“Yeah.”
“That tracks.”
“This seat taken?”
“You’re already sitting in it.”
“Great. Love when stuff works out.”
She rolls her eyes and reaches for her iced coffee, mostly so her hands have something to do that isn’t immediately stupid, like touching the bit of hair curling out from under his cap. “Don’t you have captain things to do?”
“I am doing captain things.”
“You’re eating fries next to me.”
“Team morale starts with carbs.”
“You’re such an inspiration.”
“I get that a lot.”
He steals one of her chips without asking, which should be annoying but is somehow just familiar now, another one of those tiny domestic trespasses they’ve started building between them without ever discussing it.
He asks about her other assignment, some feature for a media ethics class that has made her want to walk calmly into a pond, and then actually listens while she talks. He leans back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully, asking questions that are annoying only because they’re good.
“So basically,” he says after she explains the whole thing, “your professor wants you to prove journalists shouldn’t be assholes.”
“My tuition dollars at work.”
“Could’ve saved you a semester. Don’t be an asshole. Boom. Done.”
She points a fry at him. “That’s a devastatingly Briar hockey interpretation of media ethics.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I’m not thanking you.”
“You’re thinking about it.”
She laughs, and it happens too easily now. Garrett makes laughing feel like slipping. Like she can brace all she wants and still end up somewhere warmer than where she started. He keeps looking at her like he’s delighted by the exact shape of her thoughts, like he wants to be around for whatever she says next, even when what she says next is technically an insult.
Across the cafeteria, someone calls his name. Garrett doesn’t look away from her. That does something embarrassing to the back of her neck.
“So,” he says, picking up his drink. “You gonna quote me in this ethics thing too?”
“Only if I need a source on moral decline.”
He grins, biting softly at the inside of his lip. “Mean.”
“Accurate.”
He opens his mouth, probably to say something unbearable, when Dean’s voice cuts across the cafeteria with the clean sharpness of a puck hitting glass.
“G.”
Garrett’s expression changes so quickly she almost misses it. The humour doesn’t disappear, but it gets filed away. His shoulders tense by half an inch. He turns, and she follows his gaze to where Dean and Logan have just come through the cafeteria entrance, Logan with a smoothie in one hand and the relaxed posture of a man who’s wandered accidentally into tension he fully intends to enjoy.
Dean, on the other hand, looks pissed. He stands there in a jacket that probably costs more than her laptop, blond hair messy, jaw tight, eyes moving from Garrett to her and back again with something sharp underneath.
Garrett exhales through his nose. “I’ll talk to you later,” he says, already pushing his chair back.
She looks between them, trying to keep her face normal. “Yeah. Sounds good.”
He grabs his tray, then hesitates, turning back like he’s remembered something he very much doesn’t want to leave unsaid. “Hey,” he says. “You going to Beau’s mask thing?”
“The masquerade party?” She feels Dean’s stare from across the room like a physical object, which is absurd and irritating and makes her sit a little straighter. “It’s after the game, right? Yeah, I’ll be there.”
Garrett’s grin comes back just enough to make her stomach dip. “Sweet. See you there.”
She tilts her head, trying to sound light even though the air has gone weird around them. “Yeah. Or not. Because of the masks.”
He nods solemnly. “No, totally. Could be anyone. Real mystery.”
“Very mysterious.”
“Guess I’ll have to use my detective skills.”
“You have those?”
“No,” he says. “But I’m hot, so people help me.”
She laughs, and he smiles like he’s taking that with him.
Then Dean says, louder, “Garrett.”
Garrett’s jaw moves once. “Yeah, man, I’m coming.”
He walks away from her table and over to them, and for a few seconds she tries very hard to return to her laptop like she hasn’t just become fascinated by the world’s stupidest male summit happening beside the salad bar. It doesn’t work. Her eyes keep cutting over, catching pieces.
Dean talking low and fast, one hand moving once in a sharp, irritated gesture. Garrett looking away, then back at him, expression shut down into something stubborn. Logan standing just behind them, eyebrows slightly raised, smoothie straw at his mouth, looking like he would pay actual money for popcorn if the cafeteria stocked it.
Dean’s gaze flicks back to her. She looks down too late.
The whole thing sits strangely under her skin after that, a small ugly pebble in the shoe of an otherwise normal afternoon. Dean has no reason to look at her like that. Dean has no reason to chew Garrett out over sitting with her at lunch, unless Garrett has told him something, unless she’s misread the last few weeks completely, unless the reason Garrett keeps getting close and then stopping is not because he doesn’t want her, but because Dean somehow still thinks he gets a vote.
The thought irritates her enough that she closes three tabs too hard, as if her laptop deserves consequences.
“You’re kidding.”
She looks up from where she’s sitting on the bench near the rink entrance, one skate half-laced, the other sitting on the floor like a weapon designed by sadists. “I’m not kidding.”
Garrett stares at her. “You’ve never skated?”
“No.”
“Ever?”
“No.”
Garrett gestures loosely. “Like, not even badly at a birthday party when you were twelve?”
“I grew up near tennis courts, not ice rinks, Garrett. We had other hobbies.”
He makes a wounded sound. “You’re writing a piece on hockey.”
“I’ve watched hockey.”
“That’s not the same.”
She tilts her head. “I’ve also interviewed hockey players.”
“Still not the same.”
“I watched you practice for three weeks.”
“Still,” he says, pointing at her with his stick, “not the same.”
She bends back over the skate, tugging at the lace with the kind of aggression that suggests the boot has personally wronged her. “If this is about journalistic integrity, I’ll put a disclosure at the bottom. The author has never voluntarily placed herself on a knife shoe.”
Garrett laughs, then crouches in front of her before she can fully process the movement. One second he’s standing there, being tall and smug and irritatingly warm in a Briar hoodie, and the next he’s on one knee between her feet, taking the laces out of her hands like this is a thing his body has decided is allowed.
“Here,” he says. “You’re doing it wrong.”
Her mouth goes dry in a way that feels deeply inconvenient. “I’m tying shoes wrong?”
“You’re tying skates wrong.”
“Different sacred art?”
“Very different.” His head’s bent, curls falling forward as he works the laces with quick, practiced hands. “You want them tight through the ankle or you’re gonna fold like a lawn chair.”
“Comforting.”
“I’m a great teacher.”
“You just compared me to outdoor furniture.”
“A beloved piece of outdoor furniture.”
She bites her lip around a smile and watches his hands instead of his face because his face is worse. His fingers are broad and nicked in little places, tape residue near one knuckle, nails cut short.
He tightens the skate with firm, efficient pulls, one hand briefly wrapping around the back of her ankle to hold her steady, and the touch is so normal, so practical, that her body has absolutely no business reacting to it like he’s slid his palm under her shirt.
Garrett glances up. She looks away immediately, which is subtle in the way a car alarm is subtle. He says nothing, because he’s learned mercy in one or two isolated categories, and finishes tying the second skate.
Getting onto the ice is an act of public humiliation, except there’s no public, thank God, just Garrett, which might actually be worse. He steps on first with the careless ease of a person whose body understands frozen water as a workplace, then turns and offers both hands.
She grips them immediately. “If I die, I’m haunting you.”
“You’re not gonna die.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I kinda do.”
“You’re too confident.”
He laughs, pulling her gently forward. “Okay. One foot.”
The first skate touches the ice and immediately slides an inch in a direction she did not approve. “Nope.”
“Yes.”
She frowns. “No, Garrett.”
“You’re fine. Both feet, come on.”
She gets both feet onto the ice and grabs his hands so tightly he huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t tease her as much as he could. That’s another thing about Garrett, one she hates more than the smugness because it’s harder to protect against. He knows exactly when to push and when not to.
He grins, sure, but his hands stay steady around hers, thumbs warm over the backs of her fingers, his skates braced wide enough that she knows without question he could hold her up if she fully lost it.
“There you go,” he says, softer. “See? You’re doing it.”
“I’m standing.”
“Standing is part of skating.”
She grips his hands tighter. “I’m incredible.”
“Generational talent.”
She laughs, then immediately squeals because the laugh disrupts whatever fragile treaty her ankles had formed with physics. Her legs straighten wrong, the skates slip, and she pitches forward straight into him.
Garrett catches her like it’s nothing. She hits his chest with a breathless little sound, hands landing on his biceps, his hands coming to her waist fast and firm. The impact knocks a laugh out of both of them, and for a second they’re just there, tangled and stupid, her skates sliding uselessly while Garrett holds her upright with the kind of casual strength that makes several parts of her brain quietly resign.
“Hi,” he says.
She looks up at him. His face is close. Too close for any version of this that’s still pretending to be about skating. His cheeks are pink from the cold, curls messy under the rink lights, grin fading as his eyes move over her face.
His hands are still at her waist. Hers are still wrapped around his arms, and holy fuck, his arms. Solid under her fingers, warm through his hoodie, steady in a way that makes leaning into him feel less like a choice and more like gravity having a point for once.
“Hi,” she says back, and it comes out smaller than she intended.
His throat moves. The rink is quiet around them. Huge and cold and empty, boards rising white around the ice, old skate cuts beneath their feet, one distant machine hum somewhere behind the walls.
She can feel his breath against her cheek now. She can feel the tiny adjustment of his fingers at her waist, like he’s reminding himself not to pull her closer and doing a bad job of it.
She tilts her face up. A question more than a move, her mouth parted slightly, her eyes dropping to his lips because she’s tired of pretending not to want the thing they’ve both been standing too close to for weeks. Garrett goes still. Completely still, except for the rise of his chest under her hands.
Her eyes flutter shut. His hands tighten once at her waist. Then he pulls back.
It’s not far, barely an inch. But it’s enough to let cold air rush between them, enough to make her eyes open and her stomach drop with the ugly, immediate heat of embarrassment.
“I can’t,” Garrett says, voice low.
She blinks at him. “What?”
His jaw works. He looks genuinely pained, which would be more flattering if she didn’t currently want to throw him into the boards. “I can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because–” He glances away, breath coming out through his nose in a hard little huff. “Because of Dean.”
The name lands wrong. Wrong in her body, sour and metallic. She loosens her grip on his arms. “What about Dean?”
Garrett’s eyes cut back to hers. “Come on.”
“No, don’t come on me.” She shifts back on the skates, immediately wobbles, and grabs the boards beside them with one hand because anger, while energising, isn’t an adequate substitute for balance. “What about Dean?”
“You guys dated.”
“We barely dated.”
“You were together for, what, three months?”
“We hooked up for three months,” she says, sharper now. “Sometimes. When we were both free. It wasn’t a great tragic love story. We hung out at parties and occasionally made out in laundry rooms.”
Garrett winces. “I really don’t need the visual.”
“Then don’t bring him up while I’m trying to kiss you.”
His eyes flash at that, heat cutting through the restraint for half a second before he shuts it down again. “You think I want to be bringing him up?”
“I don’t know what you want, Garrett, because every time I think you’re finally about to do something about the fact that you keep looking at me like that, you suddenly remember friendship law.”
“Friendship law?”
“Bro code, house code, whatever the fuck you guys call the sacred little pact where nobody is allowed to touch anyone someone else once had mediocre sex with.”
His mouth twitches despite himself, then immediately flattens. “I’m trying not to be a dick to my friend.”
Her eyes flash. “You’re doing a great job being a dick to me instead.”
“I’m not trying to be a dick to you,” he says.
“No? Because it feels pretty dick-ish from here.”
He drags a hand through his hair, turning away for half a second like he needs the rink to help him survive the conversation. His skates shift on the ice with a clean scrape. “Jesus Christ.”
“What?”
“Dean put a rule down, okay?”
The whole world narrows. Her fingers tighten around the top of the boards. “What rule?”
Garrett looks back at her and immediately seems to realise, too late, that he’s opened the wrong door.
She steps toward him, or tries to. The skates slide. She catches herself, furious enough that fear of the ice has temporarily become background noise. “Garrett. What rule?”
His shoulders sink. “He said you were hands off.”
For a second, she just stares at him. The rink noise fades into a thin ringing at the edge of her ears. Her face goes hot first, then her chest, then the backs of her hands, a spreading flush of disbelief so sharp it feels almost cold underneath. “He said I was what?”
Garrett rubs a hand over his mouth. “Hockey house is hands off. That’s what he said.”
“Hockey house is hands off,” she repeats, slowly, because maybe if she says it back, the words might become less insane. They do not. They get worse. They sit there between them, stupid and male and possessive in a way that makes her want to start swinging one of his sticks around until something expensive breaks.
“It’s not–” Garrett starts.
“No.”
He stops.
“No, don’t do that. Don’t soften it. Don’t try to translate asshole into something prettier.” Her laugh comes out once, bright and humourless. “Dean put a no touching rule on me?”
Garrett’s face has gone sheepish now, which, unfortunately for him, only makes him look guilty by association. “I didn’t make the rule.”
“But you followed it.”
His jaw tightens. “He’s my teammate. He’s my friend.”
“And I’m a couch he called dibs on?”
Garrett flinches. “That’s not how I see you.”
“But it’s how he talked about me, and you all just what? Nodded? Took minutes? Filed it under house law?”
“No.” He skates closer, hands half-lifted like he wants to steady her and knows better than to touch. “No, it wasn’t like that.”
“Then what was it like?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it.
She gives a short, furious nod. “Right.”
Then she turns toward the exit. Badly. The skates immediately betray her.
Garrett moves on instinct, catching her elbow before she can eat shit in the middle of the ice. “Hey–”
“Do not hey me!”
“I’m just trying to stop you from breaking your ass.”
“My ass and I are leaving.”
“You can’t storm off in skates.”
She huffs. “Watch me.”
“You physically cannot.”
“I will crawl.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, skating backward as she clings angrily to the boards and inches toward the gate with all the dignity of a newborn deer seeking vengeance. “Can I at least help you?”
“No.”
“You’re going the wrong way.”
She shoots him a look. “I know where I’m going.”
“You’re heading toward the penalty box.”
“Maybe I belong there.”
He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh and immediately thinks better of it when she looks at him.
By the time they get her off the ice and out of the skates, her anger has focused into something clean and bright. Garrett follows her out of the rink with her bag over one shoulder and the expression of a man walking behind an active bomb he’s personally helped assemble.
“You don’t have to do this right now,” he says as she shoves her feet into her boots.
“Yes, I do.”
“Maybe cool off first.”
She looks at him. “You think I’m going to cool off about being declared untouchable by a guy who once texted me you up? at one in the morning with a typo?”
Garrett’s mouth presses together.
“Don’t laugh.”
He shakes his head. “I’m not.”
“You want to.”
“I really don’t.”
“You do. You’re just scared of me right now.”
“A little,” he admits.
“Good.”
The hockey house door swings open before Garrett’s even finished taking his keys out of the door, because God wants Logan to have front-row seats. Logan looks from her face to Garrett’s face to the fact that Garrett is holding her skate bag like a guilty chauffeur, and his eyebrows go up with immediate, delighted dread. “Oh, this feels like something I should not be in the doorway for.”
“Where’s Dean?” she asks.
Logan’s eyes widen slightly. “Kitchen.”
“Great.”
She steps past him.
Garrett follows. “Maybe we don’t–”
“No, you’re coming too.”
“Yeah,” Logan says, shutting the door behind them with the dazed cheerfulness of a man blessed by entertainment. “You’re definitely coming too.”
The house smells like takeout, laundry detergent, and whatever tragic candle Tucker keeps lighting in a hopeless attempt to make four athletes living together seem less like a public health concern.
Somewhere upstairs, music thumps faintly. The living room is half-clean in the deeply male way, meaning there’s no visible trash on the floor but several cups have been abandoned on flat surfaces with the confidence of people who believe dishes migrate naturally.
Dean’s in the kitchen with Tucker, leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal at nearly six in the evening because money, talent, and good bone structure haven’t made him any less fundamentally ridiculous.
He looks up when she walks in. Then he sees Garrett behind her. Then he sees her face.
“Oh,” Tucker says quietly from beside the fridge. “Shit.”
Dean straightens. “What?”
She stops on the other side of the island, hands flat on the counter because otherwise she might start pointing and never stop. “Did you tell the entire hockey house I was hands off?”
Dean’s eyes cut to Garrett. “Seriously, man?”
Garrett lifts one hand. “Don’t look at me like that. I didn’t issue a royal decree over her body.”
“Thank you,” she snaps, then points at Dean. “You. Answer.”
Dean sets the cereal bowl down slowly. “It wasn’t the entire hockey house.”
Logan, arriving behind Garrett with exactly the expression of someone entering a theatre late but thrilled, says, “It was kind of the entire hockey house.”
“Logan,” Dean warns.
“What? I’m pro-transparency.”
She stares at Dean. “You put a rule on me.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Oh my God, does every man in this house get issued that sentence at orientation?”
Tucker coughs into his fist. Garrett looks at the floor.
Dean’s face flushes, irritation rising fast now that he has an audience and no graceful exit. “I told them not to mess with you.”
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Because what?”
“Because I didn’t want them to.”
She laughs once, so sharp Tucker actually looks toward the sink like he might find somewhere safer to stand. “That’s not an answer. That is something a toddler says about a toy truck.”
Dean’s mouth opens, then closes. He drags a hand through his hair, annoyed and cornered and visibly trying to decide how much honesty he can survive in front of Logan, Tucker, and Garrett. Not much, judging by the colour in his face.
“You and I had a thing,” he says.
“We hooked up.”
“We hung out.”
“Yes, Dean, that’s generally how hooking up more than once works. Sometimes there’s a couch involved. Maybe a movie nobody watches.”
Logan murmurs, “Educational.”
Dean points at him without looking. “Shut up.”
She leans forward over the counter. “We were casual.”
“Maybe to you.”
Dean’s face changes as soon as he says it, like the words have come out uglier and more vulnerable than he planned. Garrett stills behind her. Tucker’s expression softens by a fraction. Logan stops smiling quite so much.
Dean swallows hard, then doubles down because vulnerability has made him defensive. “I liked you.”
Her grip on the counter loosens, then tightens again. “Dean.”
“No, don’t Dean me. I did. I liked you, and you didn’t like me back.”
“I liked you fine.”
“You liked me fine,” he repeats, voice going high with disbelief. “Great. Awesome. That’s exactly what every guy wants to hear.”
“We weren’t in love.”
“I didn’t say we were in love.”
“You’re acting like I left you at the altar.”
“I’m acting like maybe it sucked watching you giggle with my best friend for three weeks after you decided you were too busy to text me back.”
Garrett winces. “Okay, let’s not–”
She turns her head. “You stay quiet.”
Garrett shuts his mouth.
Dean lets out a humourless laugh. “Yeah, good luck with that, G.”
She points back at Dean immediately. “Don’t redirect because you’re embarrassed.”
Dean shrugs. “I’m not embarrassed.”
“You should be. You made a house rule about me like I’m a disputed parking space.”
Dean’s face twists. “I didn’t want to watch my friends go after you.”
“Then say that to me like an adult.”
“I didn’t think I owed you a fucking press release.”
She smacks her hand down on the counter. “You owed me basic dignity.”
Dean’s mouth shuts, and for one tiny second he looks less like Briar’s rich blond menace and more like a twenty-one-year-old guy who handled hurt feelings with the political structure of a frat basement.
Then, because he’s still Dean, he recovers poorly. “Well, sorry I didn’t want Garrett’s tongue down your throat two months after mine.”
Garrett’s head snaps up. “Hey.”
“Oh, fuck off,” she says, loud enough that even Logan’s eyebrows jump. “You don’t get to act wounded and crude in the same breath like that makes you honest.”
Dean’s eyes flash. “You think I’m making it up? You two have been doing this little interview foreplay thing all over campus like everybody doesn’t see it.”
Garrett mutters, “Jesus Christ.”
She feels heat hit her face but refuses to look away. “Maybe if you had an issue, you could’ve talked to me instead of telling half the hockey team they needed permission to touch me.”
Dean scoffs. “I knew you liked him.”
“Yes, Dean. Congratulations. Your powers of observation survived your personality.”
Logan makes a strangled sound behind his smoothie. Dean points at her, the hurt cracking fully into the argument now, messy and oddly sincere under all the stupidity. “You didn’t look at me like that.”
“No, because you hooked up with someone else the same night you hooked up with me.”
Dean throws both hands out. “But I liked you more!”
The entire kitchen goes silent. Tucker closes his eyes. Garrett’s lips part in actual disbelief. Logan whispers, “That is an insane defence.”
She stares at Dean for one long second, then says, “Are you medically okay?”
Dean groans, dragging both hands down his face. “That came out wrong.”
“Did it?”
“Yes.”
“Because from here, it sounded like you were asking for emotional credit for ranking me first in a rotation.”
Garrett mutters, “Holy shit,” under his breath, and she cannot tell whether it’s horror or admiration.
Dean drops his hands. His face is red now, properly red. “I know I was shitty. I didn’t handle it right. You were… I don’t know. You were cool, and fun, and you didn’t need anything from me, and then you were gone. And I was a dick about it.”
She watches him for a second, her pulse still hot in her wrists. Dean looks back at her with more honesty than he probably meant to bring into the kitchen, and that makes it harder to stay perfectly furious.
“You don’t get to be a dick by making rules about me,” she says.
His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know.”
“No, I don’t think you do.” She steps around the island, close enough now that Dean’s eyes drop briefly like he’s checking whether she plans to slap him. She doesn’t. She wants to, a little, but personal growth and witness presence both intervene. “You can feel weird. You can be hurt. You can tell Garrett you don’t love it. You can even privately sulk like a blond little prince in your room if that’s what your healing journey requires.”
Logan whispers, “Blond little prince.”
Dean says, “Shut the fuck up.”
“But you do not get to decide what I’m allowed to do because your feelings arrived late and badly dressed.”
Tucker nods once, like this is fair. Dean looks at her, then at Garrett, then back at her. His mouth twists. “Fine.”
“Take the rule off.”
He stiffens. “No.”
Her eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“No.”
She glares at him. “Dean.”
“I said I know it was shitty. I didn’t say I wanted to watch it happen.”
Garrett rubs the back of his neck. “Man–”
Dean points at him. “Do not man me. You’ve been waiting for this vote.”
He scoffs. “I have not.” She turns slowly to Garrett. He pauses. “Not… exactly.”
“Oh my God.”
Garrett winces. “Bad timing?”
“Terrible timing.”
Dean crosses his arms. “See? This is why the rule exists.”
She whips back around. “Dean Di Laurentis, take the fucking rule off.”
“No.”
“Take it off.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
He looks at her stubbornly. “What?”
“Take. It. Off.”
The kitchen holds its breath. Dean’s jaw works. For a second she thinks he might keep arguing, might dig himself even deeper because male pride is a tragic renewable resource. Then his gaze flicks past her to Garrett, and whatever he sees there makes his shoulders drop slightly.
Garrett’s not smiling now. He looks uncomfortable, yes, and guilty, and still maybe like part of him wants to put his head through a wall. But there’s also something earnest in his face, something quiet and clear and not even aimed at Dean, not really. It’s aimed at her. Like he’s waiting for permission he doesn’t want to need, and hating that he’s needed it anyway.
Dean sees it. She knows he does, because his mouth tightens with the final little pinch of someone losing a fight he probably should have surrendered ten minutes ago.
“Fine,” Dean says.
She points at him. “Say it.”
He stares. “Seriously?”
“Yes. Make it official.”
Logan perks up. “I can witness.”
“Nobody asked you,” Dean says.
“I’m witnessing anyway.”
Dean exhales hard, looking at the ceiling like he has been personally victimised by consequences. Then he drops his gaze back to her. “The rule is off.”
She waits.
Dean’s eyes narrow. “What else?”
“It’s decreed or whatever.”
Tucker presses his lips together.
Dean’s face goes flat. “You want me to say decreed?”
“Yes.”
“No.”
“Dean.”
He stares at her. She stares back. Finally, with the exhausted dignity of a man being executed in his own kitchen, Dean says, “It’s decreed.”
Logan lifts his smoothie. “House law.”
Tucker nods solemnly. “House law.”
Garrett looks like he wants to laugh and die at the same time.
She smiles without warmth. “Good.”
Then she turns and walks out of the kitchen, past Garrett, past Logan, through the living room, and out the front door without looking back.
She hears Garrett say her name once behind her, but she keeps going, because if she turns around too soon, she might either kiss him in the driveway or scream again, and neither feels like a strategic exit.
Beau’s holiday house is the kind of place that makes absolutely no sense as a college party venue unless someone’s parents have too much money and not enough concern about upholstery.
It sits just outside town, all big windows and pale stone and a deck wrapped around the back like the architect had been asked to design somewhere specifically for rich kids to make terrible decisions under flattering lighting.
By the time she arrives after the game, the whole place is glowing gold from inside, music spilling out every time someone opens the front door, the lawn packed with cars, the porch crawling with people in masks and party dresses and button-downs worn by men who think rolling their sleeves up counts as formalwear.
The masquerade part has been loosely interpreted, obviously. Half the masks look expensive and intentional, feathered or black satin or glittering at the edges; the other half look like they were purchased from a party store by someone already drunk.
Someone near the stairs has a full plastic wolf mask pushed onto the top of his head. Someone else is wearing sunglasses and insisting it counts. Briar, as an institution, remains deeply unserious.
She finds Garrett in less than five minutes. Which is ridiculous, given the whole point of masks, but Garrett Graham is impossible to misplace. He’s standing near the back doors with Logan and Tucker, broad shoulders under a black button-down, sleeves rolled to his forearms, dark mask cutting across the upper half of his face in a way that should look stupid and instead makes him look like someone’s bad decision dressed up as a theme.
His curls are still a little damp from the post-game shower. There’s a tiny mark near his jaw from the game, a scrape or bruise starting to come up, and he looks unfairly alive, flushed from the win and the noise and whatever arrogant chemical floods the bloodstream of men who score in the third period.
He sees her at almost the exact same time. She knows because his body goes still. A pause in the middle of whatever Tucker is saying, drink half-lifted, head turning. His gaze moves over her once, fast and then slower, from the tiny silk halter dress skimming high on her thighs to the ribbon of her mask tied at the back of her head, to the heels she had worn with the full awareness that they weren’t practical and the private satisfaction that she would not need them to be for long.
The look hits her low in the stomach. There are no rules now. The thought should feel silly. They’re adults, technically. No one should need Dean Di Laurentis to revoke a house decree before two people can act like they’ve been wanting to act for weeks. But her body doesn’t care about the politics of it. Her body only knows that Garrett is looking at her like he’s run out of reasons not to.
She walks toward him, weaving through a cluster of girls by the kitchen island and one guy arguing loudly with someone about whether masks are classist, actually. Garrett says something to Logan without looking away from her, and Logan turns, notices her, then immediately smiles like an asshole.
“Tucker,” Logan says, patting him once on the chest. “We’re needed elsewhere.”
Tucker glances over, sees her, then gives Garrett a look that is equal parts warning and amusement. “Try not to start another legal dispute.”
Garrett doesn’t even look at him. “Go away.”
“Romantic,” she says when she reaches him.
His mouth curves. “You like it.”
“I like a man with manners.”
“Bullshit.”
She laughs, and his gaze drops to her mouth. It lingers there, and the noise of the party seems to press in behind her, warm and muffled and irrelevant.
“Good game,” she says, because some part of her brain’s still committed to sports journalism even while the rest of her is busy mentally dragging him upstairs.
Garrett’s smile deepens. “Yeah?”
“Mhm. That assist in the second was disgusting.”
His brows lift behind the mask. “Disgusting?”
“Complimentary.”
“Good.” He leans a fraction closer, voice lowering just enough that she feels it under the music. “Because I was trying to impress you.”
Her breath catches. Just a little. “You were?”
“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his drink, casual in the way men only are when they’re doing it on purpose. “Had to. Big sports journalist in the stands.”
She tilts her head. “Is that what you were thinking about during the game?”
“Among other things.”
“Like what?”
His eyes move over her again, slower this time, and his jaw shifts like he’s physically stopping himself from saying the first answer. “You sure you want that list?”
Her skin warms under the dress. The party keeps happening around them. Someone screams laughing near the stairs. A bottle drops in the kitchen and shatters, followed by a chorus of deeply unhelpful cheering. The music changes to something louder, bass shaking faintly through the floorboards. Garrett doesn’t look away from her once.
She steps closer, because she can. Because Dean said decreed. Because Garrett’s hand is flexing at his side like he wants to touch her and is still, idiotically, waiting to be invited.
“So,” she says, looking up at him through the mask, “does house law have anything else to say tonight?”
Garrett’s grin comes slowly. “House law can go fuck itself.”
She pouts. “That’s very disrespectful to the institution.”
“The institution caused me a lot of personal suffering.”
“Poor thing.”
“Yeah,” he says, and his voice drops again, rougher now. “You have no idea.”
For a second neither of them moves. She can feel her pulse under the thin straps of her dress, in her throat, behind her knees, all of her suddenly aware of the distance between his hand and her waist like it’s a measurable failure of the room.
Garrett’s eyes hold hers, dark behind the mask, the smile fading into something hungrier. Want, clean and badly restrained, finally allowed to exist in the open.
He sets his drink down on the nearest table without looking. “Upstairs,” he says.
She nods once. Garrett’s hand comes to the small of her back immediately, warm and broad and sure, guiding her through the crowd with a kind of focus that makes people move before they consciously decide to. They pass Dean near the bottom of the stairs, because the universe has comedic timing and a cruel streak.
Dean sees them. Sees Garrett’s hand. Sees her dress. Sees the direction. His mouth tightens for half a second. She lifts her eyebrows at him.
Dean looks at Garrett, then at her, then rolls his eyes toward the ceiling with the suffering grandeur of a man who’s made peace with a lawless society. “Use a room with a lock,” he says.
Garrett points at him without stopping. “That was almost mature.”
“Don’t make me regret personal growth.”
“Too late,” she says sweetly, passing him.
Dean mutters something that sounds like unbelievable, but there’s no real heat in it now. Not enough to stop anything. Not enough to matter.
The upstairs hallway is darker, warmer, the party noise blurring as Garrett leads her past a bathroom with a line outside it and a half-open door where two people are already making a terrible attempt at discretion. He finds an empty bedroom near the end of the hall, pushes the door open, checks once, then pulls her inside.
The door shuts. For half a second, they just stare at each other.
It should be funny, maybe. All that build-up and now a quiet guest room with somebody’s aunt’s decorative pillows on the bed and a framed beach print on the wall. It should break the tension, but it does the opposite.
The sudden privacy makes the weeks behind them arrive all at once: the rink bench, the cafeteria, his hands tying her skates, the almost-kiss, the kitchen argument, every look he swallowed because someone else had written a rule neither of them agreed to.
Garrett steps toward her. She steps toward him at the same time, and they meet in the middle with no grace at all.
His mouth is on hers hard and immediate, one hand at her jaw, the other at her waist, walking her back against the door with enough force to make the wood thud behind her shoulders.
She gasps into him, and he takes it like he’s been waiting weeks for the sound, kissing her deeper, hotter, his body crowding hers until there’s no space left to manage. Her hands go straight into his hair, knocking the mask slightly crooked, and Garrett groans low in his throat when her nails scrape over his scalp.
“Finally,” she breathes against his mouth.
He laughs, but it sounds wrecked. “Yeah, no shit.”
He kisses her again, and it goes messy fast. Garrett kisses like he knows exactly what he’s doing and is still a little pissed he had to wait to do it, mouth confident, tongue sliding against hers, teeth catching lightly at her bottom lip until her fingers tighten in his hair. His hand slides from her waist to her thigh, finding bare skin under the hem of the dress, and she makes a small sound that seems to go straight through him.
“Fuck,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to look at her. His thumb moves once along her jaw, like he needs to see her face properly and cannot tolerate the mask hiding any of it. “Take this off.”
“You take yours off.”
“Gladly.”
He reaches behind her head for the ribbon, but she gets impatient and pushes his hand away, tugging at his mask first. It catches briefly in his curls, and he hisses.
“Jesus, easy.”
“Sorry,” she says, not sounding sorry at all.
“You’re violent.”
“You like it.”
“I really do,” he says, and then her mask is gone too, Garrett pulling it free and dropping both onto the floor like they have personally offended him.
The next kiss feels different with their faces bare. Hotter somehow, more exposed. His hand cups her cheek for one strangely tender second, thumb brushing near the corner of her mouth, and that small softness nearly undoes her more than the door had.
His eyes flick over her face, the cocky edge shifting into something warmer, more careful, before she drags him down by the front of his shirt because tenderness is lovely but she has limits.
He laughs into her mouth and lifts her. Hands under her thighs, her legs wrapping around his waist automatically, the movement so easy for him it makes her stomach flip. He carries her toward the bed while still kissing her, which is both impressive and deeply obnoxious, and when her back hits the mattress she pulls him down with her by the collar.
The bed bounces. Somewhere downstairs, the party roars at something completely unrelated. Garrett settles over her, one knee between her thighs, forearm braced beside her head, his other hand sliding up her side over the silk of her dress. His eyes are dark, mouth swollen, curls a mess from her hands.
“You good?” he asks.
It’s low, almost rough, but there’s no performance in it. The little practical care tucked inside all that heat. It makes something in her chest go soft and aching before the rest of her body can vote against it.
She nods. “Very good.”
His grin returns, slow and devastating. “Very?”
“Don’t get smug.”
“Too late.”
She pulls him down again, and his laugh disappears into the kiss. His weight settles more fully over her, warm and heavy in a way that makes her whole body go bright beneath him. The silk of her dress rides higher under his hand.
Her fingers work at the buttons of his shirt with increasingly poor coordination, and Garrett lifts enough to help, grinning against her lips when she huffs in frustration. “Journalism major can’t handle buttons?”
“Shut up. I’m under pressure.”
“Performance issue?”
She bites his bottom lip. Garrett’s sound is immediate, low and pleased and a little startled. “Okay.”
“Still want to be annoying?”
“If you do that again? Kind of.”
She laughs, breathless, and he kisses the laugh right out of her, mouth moving down to her jaw, then the side of her neck, slow enough to make her squirm and deliberate enough to make her understand he notices.
His hand slides down her thigh, thumb pressing into the soft skin there, and she arches into him before she can pretend to be composed.
“Garrett,” she says, half warning, half something else.
He lifts his head, eyes on hers. “Yeah?”
For a second, all the stupid jokes fall away. The room narrows to his face above hers and the warmth of his hand on her thigh and the fact that there’s no rule anymore, no Dean in the doorway, no rink air between them, no cafeteria table, no almost.
Only Garrett looking at her like he’s still checking that she’s here with him, not because someone decreed it, not because he’s finally been allowed, but because she wants this too.
She reaches up and smooths her thumb over the little mark near his jaw from the game. “You really were trying to impress me?”
His smile softens around one edge. “Baby, I’ve been trying to impress you for weeks.”
Her stomach turns over. “Yeah?” she says, quieter.
“Yeah.” His thumb moves once on her thigh. “It’s been brutal. I had to talk about my feelings and everything.”
A laugh breaks out of her, warm and helpless, and Garrett’s face does something unbearably pleased at the sound. “That must’ve been so hard for you.”
“You have no idea.” He dips down, brushing his mouth over hers once, twice, not quite kissing properly yet. “I almost quoted a book.”
“You read?”
“Occasionally. Under supervision.”
She smiles against his mouth. “Hot.”
“Yeah?”
“Mhm.”
He kisses her again, slower this time, and it turns heated almost immediately because slow with Garrett isn’t gentle so much as dangerous in a different direction. His mouth drags over hers like he has all night and not nearly enough patience for it.
Her hands slide beneath his open shirt, over warm skin and hard muscle, and Garrett exhales sharply against her cheek when her nails trail down his ribs. “Fuck,” he says softly. “You’re killing me.”
“Good.”
“Mean.”
“You like mean too.”
He lifts his head and looks down at her, grin gone lazy and bright and so Garrett it makes her want to laugh and bite him at the same time. “I’m learning a lot about myself tonight.”
She hooks one leg higher around his hip. “Glad I could contribute to your education.”
His eyes drop, tracking the movement, and the humour in his face goes darker. “Yeah,” he says, voice rough. “I’m feeling very academically supported.”
She laughs again, but it thins into a breath when his mouth returns to her neck and his hand slides higher under the edge of her dress, all warm palm and careful pressure and that infuriating confidence he’s earned.
Outside the room, the party keeps going, loud and bright and masked and stupid, but inside the guest room everything has shrunk to the bed, the silk twisted at her hips, Garrett’s open shirt under her hands, his mouth at her throat, the low sounds he keeps making like every inch of her is something he has been denied on principle and now plans to appreciate with interest. Someone starts chanting for reasons that almost certainly involve alcohol.
Garrett pauses with his mouth against her jaw. “You think that’s about us?”
She snorts. “If it is, I’m transferring.”
“Can’t,” he says, kissing the corner of her mouth. “Article’s not done.”
“Oh, right. My journalistic duty.”
“Mhm. Very important piece.”
“On Briar hockey.”
“And its captain.”
She looks up at him, pretending to consider this while his thumb moves distractingly over the bare skin above her hip. “I might need another interview.”
Garrett’s grin spreads, slow and wicked and warm enough to make her toes curl against the sheets.
“Yeah?” he says.
“Extensive follow-up.”
His mouth brushes hers. “Baby, I’m available whenever you need me.”
❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎
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call it what you want
summary: the public tries to make sense of the relationship you and max share with oscar. some say you’re cheating on max with oscar, others say max is the one cheating with him. you say let the world keep guessing. the only people who deserve to know the truth about the special relationship you three have with each other are those closest to you.
pairing: max verstappen x reader x oscar piastri
fc: madelyn cline
request: Can I order a byob (established relationship) and a host special with Maxcar + reader poly?? Maybe with guilty as sin playing in the background 👀 - @prozacandprosecco
warnings: cheating allegations • misunderstandings • fluff • attempts at humor • likely a mistake or two • time skips • bending the f1 schedule to my will for shits & giggles
vicious speaks: how do i join someone else’s relationship? on a more serious note, i completely fell in love with this couple and it is going to be so hard letting them go 🥲 who knows, maybe i’ll come back to them again in the future, expand on The Great War™️ if anyone wants that 👀
tea party masterlist | main masterlist | read on ao3
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri and others
yn you do not wanna know what i had to promise in order to get these two out of their team kits and into normal clothes 🥲
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maxverstappen1 😏 ♥︎ by author
oscarpiastri and we will be cashing in on said promise!
⤷ yn oh, i bet 😉
⤷ ynmaxcar 🤨
fan oh ynmaxcar i will never be able to form a solid opinion on you
fan this friendship will always feel so random to me lmao
fan my faaaaves
f1gossip 👀
fan yn: this is my boyfriend max and his boyfriend oscar ♥︎ by author
⤷ fan NOT HER LIKING THIS HELLO
fan was that promise a threesom-
⤷ fan SCREAM
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
texts from the love triangle (but better) gc
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by f1wagsoffical and others
f1gossip Excuse me, sir? Who has you looking like that? 👀
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fan no cause i could’ve sworn i heard a woman laughing
fan is he hiding a girlfriend???
fan i’d pass out if i was on the receiving end of that look 😮💨
fan whoever it is has him so blushy omg
fan is this the beginning of his soft launch era?
fan where is deuxmoi when you need her
⤷ fan 🙄🙄🙄
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
yn has added to their story
♫ The Blue Nile ・The Downtown Lights
caption: trying to sweat off our hangovers 🥲
likes and replies
maxverstappen1 liked your story
maxverstappen1 can’t wait to see you guys tonight ❤️
⤷ yn we’re so excited!!
nicolepiastri liked your story
fan i’m here for it 😌
victoriaverstappen liked your story
fan did you mean to post this to your close friends? 😭
alexandrasaintmleux liked your story
fan bring back shame
logansargeant liked your story
fan odd way to get caught cheating
flavy.barla liked your story
fan hot.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
maxverstappen1 has added to their story
caption: home ❤️ oscarpiastri yn
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oscarpiastri liked maxverstappen1’s story
oscarpiastri finally ❤️ ♥︎ by author
yn liked maxverstappen1’s story
yn missed you sooo much 😚
⤷ maxverstappen1 missed you more, baby ❤️
ediepiastri liked maxverstappen1’s story
fan umm…😭
charles_leclerc liked maxverstappen1’s story
fan do you not know that they’re having an affair or do you just not care?
sophiekumpen liked maxverstappen1’s story
fan OH. i think i get it. and i’m obsessed 😌
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
race weekend
liked by yn and others
redbullracing Did someone say something about heart eyes? 😍
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fan haha that’s funn-REDBULL RACING?!
fan what do you guys know…
fan admin i hope you don’t lose your job for this
fan cheating with his girl and then smiling in his face is CRAZY
fan plot twist: oscar’s cheating with both of them
⤷ ynmaxcar double plot twist: they’re a throuple
⤷ fan yeah, sure 🙄
fan they way he looks at him omg <3
fan ynmaxcar would make a hot couple why lie
fan yn in the likes…so shameless
fan oscar ‘heart eyes’ piastri strikes again
fan i want whatever tf they’ve got going on
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
texts from the love triangle (but better) gc
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by f1gossip and others
f1wagsofficial Yn has made it to the paddock!
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fan is she there for max or oscar lol
fan SHE’S SO HOT
fan she’s so unbothered
fan there are rumors she’s cheating with oscar, rumors MAX is the one cheating with him, and rumors that all three are dating each other and she doesn’t gaf about any of it 😭 #myqueen
fan this weekend is gonna be so entertaining
fan who invited the cheater 🫠
fan looking good 😍
fan i might not know what’s going on but i do know she looks good
fan guys have we considered the fact that whatever’s currently going on with her, max, and oscar is none of our business?
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by redbullracing and others
yn belgium, you were real 🖤❤️💛
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oscarpiastri best part was having you with us 🧡
⤷ maxverstappen1 what he said ❤️
⤷ yn ilysm 🫰🏼
fan gorgeous girl 💞
fan love when hot ppl date each other
fan i’m sorry for thinking you were crazy ynmaxcar
⤷ ynmaxcar forgiven
fan ya’ll got room for one more? asking for a friend 👀
hattiepiastri had so much fun judging oscar’s outfit with you
⤷ yn no cause wtf was that monstrosity 😭
⤷ oscarpiastri it’s called fashion!
⤷ yn osc…
f1wagsofficial this is the closest to a confirmation we’re gonna get i fear
fan i guess you guys are kinda cute…
⤷ maxverstappen1 we’re really cute ♥︎ by author, oscarpiastri
⤷ fwagsofficial OR MAYBE NOT??? 😭
angel on the walls of versailles
oscar piastri x yn!singer | request — here | masterlist |
"One night I was bored in bed, And stalked you on the internet" in which a popstar's crush on a f1 driver turns into a front page story...
note — (all manips made by me!!) i love this fic soooooo much, like it's very dear me.... hope you all enjoy it (not proofread ignore any mistakes) <3 !! likes, reblog's and comments are really appreciated ❤
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♬ Y/n L/n ‧ obsessed
Liked by yourinstagram, user1 and 772,256 others
oscarpiastri 💪
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user1 new song to add to the playlist
user2 thirst trap on main???
user3 y/n is holding her self back by not commenting
->user4 ik she's remembering her pr training right now ->user5 wait why???? ->user4 it's a known thing among fans that she has a crush on oscar... ->user5 HUH!??!?!? how haven’t i heard about this??!???
user6 You got this 🏎️
user7 okay can mclaren invite y/n to a race please
user8 listening to obsessed?? why does oscar know ball
user9 need to see all his playlists
user10 Future world champion💪🔥🧡
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Liked by user1, user2 and 385,924 others
tmz Y/nL/n seen arriving in Melbourne, Australia today.
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user1 love her <3
user2 wait..... the australian gp is this weekend
->user3 and mclaren recently followed her.... ->user4 are we thinking they invited her to oscar's home race!?!??! ->user3 YESSS
user5 this could be so major...
user6 winona hat is so cute
user7 she's going to find her a aussie man anyway she can
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Liked by user1, user2 and 645,758 others
YnLnNews Y/N IN AUSTRALIA!!!!! Y/n sat with Oscar Piastri prior to qualifying, Y/n cheered on Oscar as he qualified P2.
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user1 EVERYONE STAY CALM
user2 very important things happening right now
user3 who else was with them???? do we know how long they hung out..?
->user4 i saw a video of them talking and the poster said they were talking alone for about 15+ mins until someone on the team wanted to meet y/n ->user4 he sat with them for 5 mins and they kept talking for around 30 more minutes and hugged goodbye ->user3 omg ty sm user4 !!
user5 her SMILEEEE
user6 already loving them AIWLUHDFLUIAWG
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 2,748,362 others
yourinstagram never finished that beer 🍻
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user1 summer maxing
user2 everywhere but that damn studio
oscarpiastri 🌹🍻
->user3 alright man... we get it ->user4 no im not jealous at all
user5 you r my inspo
user6 mclaren girllll
->user7 **oscar piastri girl ->user8 she's truly only there for the race and oscar
user9 gorgeous girl
user10 what dat mean???
->user11 idk maybe she never finished her beer???? ->user10 okay 😐
user12 does the piano mean we're getting music?!!?!
user13 the last slide and the koala.... taking notes
user14 can you get any more perfect
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yourinstagram story !
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oscarpiastri It was great to finally meet you in person!
yourinstagram a pleasure to meet you as well!!! yourinstagram ik you have a busy schedule so ty for sparing the time!
oscarpiastri SPARING?? I would've skipped qualifying just to keep talking to you oscarpiastri I wanted to meet you! So the schedule was cleared just for you! oscarpiastri It obviously wasn't the race I would've liked for you to have been present for....
yourinstagram at least you didn't finish last!!! yourinstagram hopefully the next race i go to will have a better outcome 🤞
oscarpiastri Speaking of you going to another race have you been to China? 👀
yourinstagram no…. but i’ve always wanted to go!!
oscarpiastri Well there is a race coming up in China if your up for that…?
yourinstagram mhmmmm that does sound like something i’d enjoy yourinstagram and if i were to go…
oscarpiastri Mhm hmm 🤔
yourinstagram id like to find a place for us to get dinner, since you picked last time 😁
oscarpiastri You drive a hard bargain.. but i think we have a deal
yourinstagram good doing business with you 🤝
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enews Brewing Romance? Y/n L/n and Formula One Driver Oscar Piastri have been causing a stir as of late.
While the pair have been linked to each other since late 2024, the two hadn't met in person till March 15th 2025. Piastri said after meeting L/n "We've talk prior to meeting, so it was nice to finally meet in person. She's lovely." With L/n's recent presence in China for the Chinese Grand Prix, people are starting to wonder if there's a couple in the making...
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user1 they're so cute! im here for it
user2 enews doesn't even know about their crushes on each other
->user3 i was fully expecting to see them mention that but was glad they didn't ->user4 truly don't know how i would react if there were articles written about my crush
user5 i've been rooting for them since she liked an edit of him on tiktok
user6 her with an athlete is scary but he seems chill
user7 not my favs being on the jumbotron wth
user8 i feel like ppl are going to say it's PR but i think they're dating honestly
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oscarpiastri First win of the year 🏆
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user1 wait is that y/n????
user2 LETS GOOOOOO
yourinstagram and to many more!!
->oscarpiastri 😉 ->user3 okay they're cute i guess...
user4 Y/N MADE THE POST!!!!!
user5 mini goat 🐐
user6 keep on pushing oscar we love you!
user7 he knew to add that y/n pic iktr
user8 power couple omg?!
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deuxmoi While we do enjoy seeing young love, we can't help but wonder is it real... or is it PR?
Comment your thoughts below ⬇
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user1 it's not like they're two young attractive people dating they HAVE to be doing pr??? y'all are so bored, let them live
user2 no shade to oscar but there are much more famous guys she could've gotten with to "up" her image
->user3 LITERALLY ->user4 an actor would've made waves... like it's not about the perception
user5 they had crushes on each other and then started dating it's not rocket science
user6 no one likes you guys, please don't speak on the queen
user7 this is family business.. why are you here??
user8 they're happy.... why does it matter ?
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♬ The Cure ‧ Just like Heaven
Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 4,842,584 others
oscarpiastri 💙🏝🌞
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user1 My parents omg
yourinstagram 🐢🌊🐠 Liked by oscarpiastri !
user2 she is a real life princess
user3 1st slide is my roman empire
user4 you two are adorbs
user5 does he know this is his instagram...? bro only posted 1 pic of his face 😭
->user6 because he knows we're here for y/n ->user5 fairs
user7 he knew to post her on main
user8 that picture being first is so iconic
user9 okay we need about 50 more pics of you 2 cuties
user10 ugh he matches her energy so well <333
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enews Y/n L/n teases new music in Vogue Interview!
"Everything that I've been writing has been written in this notebook and I feel like my last two albums are very angsty and heartbroken and just as a creative endeavor and also because I'm experiencing so much joy in my life, I've wanted to figure out how to like inject that into the songs that I'm making. And I'm really proud of it so far!”
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user1 we are about to get such a lover girl song
user2 she could never make a bad song... im so ready
user3 not related but her face card is so insane in that picture wow
user4 i just know she has a hit song on the way
user5 "y/n to grace us with new music" i can't wait
user6 oooo i need it NOWWW
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Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 4,563,642 others
yourinstagram <3 !!!
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user1 oh mama is in loveeee
user2 posting her man on main wow
oscarpiastri = ❤♾ Liked by yourinstagram !
->user3 EXACTLYYYY ->user4 need them to get married
user5 it so SERIOUSSSS
user6 "I'm experiencing so much joy in my life" MY SHAYLAS
user7 holy hard launch
user8 and when u + me = <3 is a song title THEN WHAT????
user9 a WHOLE post dedicated to being in love... that love song is going to change my life
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yourinstagram drop dead is out now!!!! I was lucky enough to film the music video at the palace of Versailles a few months ago and I’m so stoked with how it turned out. I hope you guys love it as much as I do xoxo
more soon to come <3
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user1 Can’t stop listening!!!❤️
user2 obsessed is an understatement...
rachelzegler MY GIRLLLL Liked by yourinstagram !
user3 ALREADY LISTENED ATLEAST 100 times
user4 best song of all time
user5 might drop dead over this music video 😭
user6 literally changed my life
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Liked by yourinstagram, alex_albon and 3,842,584 others
oscarpiastri "drop dead (taken that eurostar to france)" music video filmed by me out now on y/n's youtube!
so proud of my girl ❤
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user1 HE FILMED IT????
yourinstagram thank you angel boy <3 Liked by oscarpiastri !
->user2 im so parasocial about them ->user3 OSCAR PLEASE TEACH ME YOUR WAYS ->user4 "angel boy" and "my girl" I LOVE THEMMMM
user5 this is so cute i can't
user6 OMGGGG THEY'RE SO ADORABLE
user7 she’s looking like an angel on the walls of versailles
user8 you can hear him say "perfect" at the VERY end of the video
->user9 I knew i heard something !! ->user10 very cute that she kept it in 🥺
user11 this is cooler than any race win lowkey
user12 the way the video is actually beautifully shot too, oscar you have a backup career in photography
user13 "my girl" someone hold me please i can’t take it
user14 PARENTSSS
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✎…… hope you all enjoyed as much i did!!! i adored making this fic <3
using the same profile picture for the tweets made finishing this go 99% faster... probably going to be doing that from now on 😭
hey i saw you were taking requests for off campus! i fear i need more john logan on this app, maybe something like garrett’s sister!reader
but whatever you write is amazing
Tried to keep with like the sibling trope. Hot take but I actually like Jules. Word count: 0.6k
“How the hell am I supposed to even post anything from tonight? You’re playing is shit.”
“It wasn’t just my playing okay. Everyone was off.”
“Embarrassed to say I’m even related to you.”
“If we weren’t in public I’d beat the shit outta you.”
“I’d like to see you try, loser.”
At this point John’s and Jules bickering was just another noise amongst others. In the background along with footsteps on cement and the truck unlocking.
Really the only reason to come to a hockey game anymore was for the free popcorn. Eating the very last buttery kernels while walking in the parking lot to john’s truck. He insists on buying you a treat every game you go to, and also every game you don’t come to, and also he just likes buying you treats in general.
“I thought I got at least one or two good shots in didn’t i baby?”
John stops in the parking lot to wait for your lagging behind figure, throwing an arm around your shoulder while your hand is still halfway In the paper bag of popcorn.
“M’not getting involved.”
“She’s not getting involved because she knows you played like shit.” Jules nods like they just won the whole argument and then finally opened up the door to the truck.
John opened up the door for you too and you slide into the middle. A barrier formed to stop the two siblings from killing each other.
There’s sounds of the seats getting buckled and then the engine turning. It’s a big truck, but you’re glad your knees can be touching right next to John’s.
“Why are you so mean to me?”
Jules blurts out of nowhere over their phone, it’s a common phrase in this household and you almost want to laugh.
John spares a glance over you and then at Jules before driving further into the open rode.
“I haven’t even said anything?”
“You don’t have to. If it was me you would have thrown that bag of popcorn out the window already.”
You look down. Knowing some people are extremely specific about how to treat there vehicles, you don’t want to intrude or break any of john’s truck laws so you feel a little guilty he didn’t say anything.
“Sorry, I can throw it out.”
“No— no. Baby it’s alright. Here, gimme some.”
John opens his mouth while trying to keep his eyes on the rode. He’s cute so you share one of the last bites with him.
“See! That’s why I’m saying. She gets special girlfriend privileges now?”
“Uh, yeah.”
John shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world and shifts in his seat, driving just a little faster thanks to his over eager beating heart. “She doesn’t spill all over the place like someone I know.”
“I do not spill!” Jules protests.
“You’re like a little raccoon leaving a crumb trail wherever you eat.” John complains.
“I am not a raccoon.”
“With that make up you look like one.”
Jules sucks in a breath like they can’t believe he just said that, but softly backing down.
“You’re so lucky you’re driving or I would have clawed your face off.”
“Okay raccoon. Mind your manners around the lady.”
You look down in your lap; it never ends with these two. Chattering in one side of your ear and out the other. Eating the very last bit of popcorn you fold the bag neatly and shove the paper in your pocket to throw away later.
A realization dawns on you that if you were going to be a Logan. (No wedding was official but it’s a silly thought you like to dream about at night getting married to John.) you’d have to listen to this for the rest of your life.
And really it suddenly doesn’t sound that bad.
chef - cl16
summary: mclaren hires a new chef and a certain ferrari driver can't seem to stay away from their garage now
folkie radio: HI GUYS IM BACK !! life is finally giving me a break and i can finally get back on track with writing !! this is short but a way for me to get the creative juices flowing again. remember that my requests are open. hope you like this ! MASTERLIST | MY PATREON
liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 15,836 others <
yourinstagram Finally can share the news! Your girl is officially feeding the fastest team on the grid 🧡 Started my journey as @mclaren’s new team chef and still can't believe I'm cooking for these legends. From 4AM breakfast preps to late night recovery meals - every bite fuels these incredible humans.
Special thanks to @lando and @oscarpiastri for trusting my experimental papaya-inspired dishes 😂 (Yes, that orange smoothie bowl was a bit too much, sorry boys!)
Still getting used to cooking in different countries every other week, but loving every second of it!
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username1 OMG SO COOL !
username2 congratulations girlll
lando finally some proper food in the garage! but pls no more orange food experiments 💀
oscarpiastri that pre-quali pasta hit different mate. also can we get those tim tam brownies again? asking for a friend 👀
username3 LIVING FOR THIS ERA!!! Show us more behind the scenes pleaseee
username4 The way Lando's performance improved after getting a proper chef... we see you YN
username5 okay but drop that smoothie recipe tho???
username6 not me crying because the team finally has good catering 😭 take care of our boys!!
username7 Anyone else notice she used to be RB's pastry chef? 👀 McLaren really said yoink
└ lando oi leave her alone, we stole her fair and square 😤
liked by yourinstagram, maxverstappen1 and 876,925 others
lando we're baaaack in the papaya kitchen with chef @yourinstagram making sure we don't starve 🧡
ngl might've gained 2kg just looking at these banana protein pancakes but chef says they're "performance fuel" so who am I to argue 🤷♂️ also my mum wants your shepherd's pie recipe btw
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username1 AWEEE THEY LOVE HER
username2 best chef ever
charles_leclerc when can I visit the catering? asking for... research purposes 🧐
└ oscarpiastri mate there's a waiting list now 💀
yourinstagram those were FOR AFTER QUALI 😤 also your mum already dmed me for the recipe x
username3 CHARLES I SEE YOU IN THIS COMMENT SECTION
usermame4 yn keeping the champions fed
username5 chef yn looks so pretty and cool i love her already
username6 NOT A WAITLIST FOR THE MCLAREN CATERING
usermame7 is she single?? asking for science
liked by charles_leclerc, yourinstagram and 198,339 others
f1 Meet The Crew: Behind every fast lap, there's a full stomach 🍳
Meet YN, @mclaren's head chef who's revolutionizing the team's nutrition game. From 15-hour race days to dawn testing sessions, she keeps the entire garage fueled and ready.
Fun fact: She can prep 60 personalized meals in under 3 hours and travels with her own set of lucky knives that have been to more GP tracks than some drivers
"Every team member gets a tailored menu - drivers, mechanics, engineers. Different roles need different fuel!" - YN
Swipe for a day in her life ➡️
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username1 THIS IS COOOOOL
username2 i love when they show the crew behind the scenes
lando she threatened to feed me only kale if I binned the car
oscarpiastri fun fact: she stress bakes before races. ask me how I know 😂 (thanks for the 3am cookies in Singapore )
yourinstagram THANK YOU FOR THIS AMAZING OPPORTUNITY, job of my dreams
username3 CHARLES WHY ARE YOU LIKINGGGG
username4 i bet all the other teams are dying to taste her food
username5 she's so prettyyyyyyy
username6 this is such a cool job. feeding the champions
username7 I WANT TO BE HER
username8 i bet charles is dying to try those pastries
liked by username1, username2 and 2,986 others
f1updates Charles Leclerc was asked about paddock life and casually dropped: "The food at McLaren is really good actually... really good. I heard they have fresh croissants every morning. I mean, Ferrari's food is good too of course" 👀
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username1 THE WAY HE SMILED WHEN TALKING ABOUT THE FOOD???? HELLO???
username2 CHARLES LECLERC YOU ARE A FERRARI DRIVER STOP SIMPING FOR THE MCLAREN CHEF 😭
username3 not charles finding excuses to visit mclaren garage
username4 okay but did you see how he lit up talking about the croissants??
username5 Charles baby what is you doing
username6 THE AWKWARD PAUSE WHEN HE REALIZED WHAT HE SAID 💀
username7 someone tell charles that being a food critic isn't part of his ferrari contract
username8 lewis in the background looking betrayed bc charles keeps sneaking to mclaren's breakfast 😂
username9 PROTECT YN AT ALL COSTS! Our girl got Charles Leclerc stuttering about pastries
username10 I SO SHIP THIS
liked by yourinstagram, lando and 895,922 others
charles_leclerc Mission accomplished: Successful invasion of McLaren garage These tacos from @yourinstagram might be worth the penalty points from @fia...
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username1 CHARLESSSSS OMG
username2 he finally did it
yourinstagram I literally gave them to you Charles 😭 you didn't have to pretend to "steal" them
lando oi those were for US mate 🤨 also you dropped your dignity on the way out
oscarpiastri man really showed up during strategy meeting just to "check something"
arthur_leclerc maman wants the recipe btw
username3 charles leclerc stealing tacos from mclaren like he's in a heist movie is my new personality
username4 SOMEONE COUNTED AND THIS IS HIS 8TH "VISIT" TO MCLAREN THIS MONTH 👀
username5 charles baby what is this behavior
username6 OK BUT CAN WE TALK ABOUT HOW YN JUST EXPOSED HIM IN THE COMMENTS 💀
username7 someone tell him there are easier ways to get the girl's attention than pretending to steal tacos😭
username8 tag yourself i'm fred vasseur being done with charles' antics
username9 LANDO'S COMMENT HELP-
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 49,685 others
yourinstagram For this race week we have victory brownies! Still finding papaya sprinkles everywhere but worth it 🧡 And to a certain red-suited someone who keeps "accidentally" ending up in our garage during meal times - next time just ask, I'll save you a plate 😉
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username1 AHHH LOVE HER
username2 she really is the coolest ever
lando caught in 4k but those cookies helped me get fastest lap so...
charles_leclerc ...I don't know what you're talking about 👀
username3 the way everyone knows exactly who that "certain red-suited someone" is 😭
username4 THE WAY SHE CALLED HIM OUT I'M SCREAMING
username5 not charles liking this post within 0.001 seconds of it being uploaded
username6 petition to keep yn forever, our cars got faster and apparently we're collecting ferrari drivers now 😌
mclaren Our favorite yes chef !
zak_brown Whatever you're doing in that kitchen, keep doing it (but maybe stop feeding the competition 😅)
username7 THE PEOPLE'S PRINCESS FOR REAL
username8 such an icon she should date charles already
liked by notlando, notmax and 67 others
notcharles guys how do you ask someone out when:
1. they work for rival team
2. entire paddock is watching
3. you've been caught stealing their food multiple times
4. pierre won't stop texting "down bad" every time i mention her
5. carlos keeps sending me gordon ramsay memes
6. fred threatened to make me eat only protein shakes if i visit mclaren again
7. lando recorded me tripping over equipment trying to "casually" walk by
asking for scientific purposes obviously.
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the_superior_leclerc mum says to just invite her for dinner already 🙄
notpierre down BAD down BAD down BAD
notcarlos remember when you said you'd never date anyone from another team? good times 😌
notalbono you've got it bad 😂
notmax bro you literally drive f1 cars at 300km/h but can't ask someone on a date?
notlewis why are you using memes of yourself
notoscar you know she already knows right? whole paddock's taking bets
notgeorge glad I'm not the only one who sneaks into mclaren for food anymore
liked by username1, username2 and 5,484 others
f1gossip SPOTTED: Charles Leclerc and McLaren's chef YN having dinner in Monaco! 👀
Sources say HE was the one cooking for HER this time... brave man cooking for a professional chef
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username1 THE WAY THIS WHOLE TIME WE THOUGHT HE WAS JUST AFTER THE COOKIES 😭
username2 EVERYONE STAY CALM IT'S HAPPENING
username3 why does it look like they're inside of his house wtf
username4 i forget how little privacy drivers have in monaco
username5 charles trying to impress a professional chef with his cooking is actually the cutest thing help-
username6 man really pulled up with homemade pasta... he's SERIOUS serious
username7 THE WAY WE'VE BEEN WATCHING THIS SLOWBURN FOR MONTHS 😭
username8 All those "accidental" visits to McLaren finally making sense
username9 lando somewhere: my plan worked perfectly 😌
username10 GET IT GIRL!! (but pls keep feeding mclaren we're winning races)
username11 not charles booking the most visible terrace in monaco... he said y'all gonna SEE this
username12 this is better than my netflix shows help-
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 67,098 others
yourinstagram Not often someone cooks for me... even rarer that it's actually good Plus points for not burning down the kitchen (unlike some McLaren drivers I know 👀) ps: whoever taught him to make pasta, good job
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username1 OMFG
username2 SO HE DID COOK
charles_leclerc My nonna says you're welcome for the recipe 🤌 (she wants you over for sunday lunch btw)
lando exposed but in my defense that fire was ONE TIME
pierregasly look who's not "down bad" anymore 😌
leclerc_pascale ❤️❤️❤️
username3 GIRL THE WAY HIS MOM AND NONNA ARE ALREADY CLAIMING YOU 😭😭😭
username4 not charles' mom dropping the lunch invite in the comments i'm CRYING
username5 THE WAY HE LEARNED TO COOK JUST TO IMPRESS HER????? HELLO?????
username6 remember when we thought bros just wanted free cookies 💀
username7 we really watched this man go from stealing cookies to cooking pasta i'm emotional
username8 HELP WHY IS THIS THE CUTEST THING EVER????????
username9 ok but can we talk about how his mom commented with hearts IMMEDIATELY
username10 YALL THE WAY HE GOT HIS NONNAS RECIPE.... THIS IS SERIOUS
username11 the way the entire paddock was just waiting for this to happen i'm screaming
liked by notmax, notalex and 76 others
notcharles ok so:
nonna gave her secret recipes
maman invited her to 3 family dinners
she laughs at my bad jokes
fred stopped threatening me about mclaren visits
i learned to cook (kind of)
haven't crashed trying to impress her (yet)
...can i ask her to be my girlfriend now? 😅 (also where tf do i hide all these cooking practice videos before she finds them)
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the_superior_leclerc bro she already has our nonna's secret recipes... pretty sure that means you're married 💀
notpierre i started typing "down bad" but honestly... you got this
notlando my guy you literally learned to cook italian food from scratch... just do it
notmax half the grid lost money betting you'd ask by japan btw
notalex bro she let you cook for her and didn't run away... that's true love right there
notoscar better do it before DTS makes a whole season about this
liked by charles_leclerc, lando and 71,298 others
yourinstagram turns out stealing cookies was just his way of stealing my heart 🤍 (yes, this is exactly what you think it is)
ps: @scuderiaferrari your boy makes really good pasta now pps: @mclaren don't worry, still feeding our guys too 🧡
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username1 OMFH
username2 OH I LOVE THIS
carlossainz55 Finally i can delete all those videos of him practicing "casual" walking past mclaren
lando about TIME also please keep feeding us we're finally winning races
leclerc_pascale Bellissima ❤️ Sunday lunch at 1pm as always
mclaren Happiness and good food, win-win 🧡❤️ (but seriously keep feeding our guys)
username3 NOT THE COOKIE STEALING WORKING OUT IN THE END 😭😭😭
username4 BRO WENT FROM STEALING SNACKS TO STEALING HEARTS IM SOBBING
username5 THE WAY THE WHOLE PADDOCK IS IN THE COMMENTS LIKE PROUD PARENTS
username6 nah bc his mom dropping the sunday lunch reminder in the comments is sending me 💀
username7 everyone acting like they weren't watching this slowburn for months 🤡
username8 THE WAY THIS WHOLE THING STARTED WITH HIM SNEAKING INTO MCLAREN FOR SNACKS I'M-
username9 okay but why is this the cutest hard launch in f1 history???
caught on thanksgiving | dean di laurentis ✶
summary: in which beau walks in on his younger sister tangled up in dean’s lap moments before thanksgiving dinner, forcing the entire hockey house to endure one painfully awkward meal filled with knowing looks, relentless chirping, and dean very seriously considering transferring schools.
pairing: dean di laurentis x maxwell!reader
note: hello! i hope you're all well. i've got a few exciting things planned so make sure you stay tuned! i hope you enjoy!! <3
ꪆৎ
the late afternoon sunlight filters softly through the thin blinds of dean's bedroom, casting warm golden stripes across it.
dean appreciated the moments he spent over thanksgiving with his friends more than anything. there were times however, when all he wanted was to spend time alone, in the presence of just you.
now, was one of those times.
dean's hand slides slowly along your waist as he shifts closer toward you on the bed, guiding you naturally into his lap without breaking the kiss.
you swiftly reposition yourself so that you're straddling him, your arms wrapped loosely around his neck while his hands remain on either sides of your waist, keeping you steady.
“dean,” you laugh quietly against his mouth.
“hm?”
“everyone’s downstairs.”
“guess we'll just have to be quiet then.”
you pull back slightly, your cheeks turning a crimson red from his words.
“tucker will literally come looking for us.”
dean's lips find your collarbone, lingering at a spot he had learned was your weakness, smiling faintly to himself when he feels you react beneath him.
“tucker’s got bigger priorities right now, most of them involving food.”
you laugh softly again before his face moves closer towards yours, closing the very minimal distance that had been separating the two of you. he cups your cheek before planting a soft, chaste kiss to your lips.
his lips were warm and soft, familiar in a way that made your chest loosen instantly. your lips parted slightly as you smiled into the kiss, and he took the opening to deepen it for a brief moment before gently pulling back. his hand stayed cradling your cheek, thumb lingering there as if he wasn’t quite ready to let go.
"still think it's an issue that everyone's home?" he questions teasingly, watching as you shake your head in response.
the room feels warmer now.
smaller somehow.
your fingers slide through the hair at the nape of his neck and dean lets out the softest exhale against your lips, the sound nearly making your brain stop functioning entirely.
“you have no idea what you do to me, y/n” he murmurs quietly.
your cheeks flush instantly.
“dean.”
“what?” he asks innocently, though the grin tugging at the corners of his mouth ruins the act completely.
you shake your head, trying to hide your smile while he watches you with obvious amusement.
god, he loved flustering you.
his hands pause briefly at the hem of your top, his gaze flicking up toward yours.
“is this okay?”
there’s something almost unfair about how gentle he sounds when he says it. you nod immediately, fingers curling lightly into the front of his sweater.
“yeah.”
his expression softens slightly at your answer before he slowly lifts your top upwards, careful not to rush you.
the cool air hits your skin instantly once the fabric disappears over your head, leaving you suddenly far more aware of the way dean is looking at you now.
like you’ve completely stolen every coherent thought from his brain.
his eyes drift slowly over you before he exhales quietly through his nose, almost like he forgot how to breathe properly for a second.
“you're beautiful, baby” he murmurs softly.
your cheeks warm immediately.
“stop it,” you laugh quietly, suddenly embarrassed beneath the intensity of his attention.
“what?” he asks innocently, though the awe in his voice is impossible to miss.
“just appreciating my girlfriend.”
his hands settle carefully against your waist again, thumbs brushing lightly against your skin while he leans forward to kiss you once more.
the kiss turns deeper almost instantly.
slower.
warmer.
dean’s fingers slide gently along your back before stopping against the clasp of your bra.
you feel him hesitate slightly.
not nervous exactly.
just careful.
like he always was with you.
“this still okay?” he asks quietly against your lips.
you nod softly, your forehead resting briefly against his.
“yes.”
his lips curve upwards faintly before he presses another soft kiss against your mouth, one hand still resting securely at your waist while the other awkwardly attempts to undo the clasp behind your back.
you feel his fingers fumble slightly before he exhales dramatically.
“who invented these things?” he mutters under his breath.
you laugh softly against his lips.
“struggling there?”
“i’m being set up for failure.”
his fingers brush clumsily against your skin again before he narrows his eyes in concentration.
“seriously,” he mumbles.
"i spend six days a week throwing around hundreds of pounds in the gym, and a tiny clasp is what humbles me."
you grin, shifting slightly to help him.
“maybe because you’re rushing.”
his cheeks flush immediately while a crooked smile appears across his face.
“can you blame me?”
your stomach flips embarrassingly fast at the tone in his voice.
a second later there’s finally a soft click as dean succeeds.
“holy shit,” he breathes quietly, sounding genuinely relieved.
you laugh harder this time as he shakes his head once in disbelief at himself.
“don’t laugh at me,” he says, though he’s smiling too.
his hands slide carefully along your sides afterwards, touch soft and warm as he presses a trail of kisses beneath your jaw again.
“i love you,” he murmurs quietly against your skin.
your heart melts instantly. dean was always like this with you, sweet and gentle in all the ways that mattered most. beneath the confidence, the teasing grin, and the easy charm he showed everyone else, there was this softer side reserved just for you.
your fingers drift beneath the hem of his sweater, tracing lightly along the defined muscles of his stomach and dean exhales quietly at the feeling.
his forehead rests briefly against yours afterwards, cheeks flushed, hair messy beneath your hands. he was completely gone for you.
“you’re staring again,” you whisper teasingly.
“can you blame me?”
his words linger between you before he leans in again, pressing another kiss just beneath your jaw. you close your eyes for a moment, letting yourself sink into the warmth of it, quietly savouring the feeling.
“you’re trouble, di laurentis.”
“yeah", he responds easily, lips brushing your skin again, “but you love me for it.”
before you can respond, the bedroom door suddenly swings open and everything freezes instantly.
“yo tucker said-”
beau stops mid sentence, his jaw falling agape.
silence.
absolute silence.
your eyes widen immediately as you turn toward the doorway while dean goes completely still beneath you. beau stands there holding his phone in one hand, his expression blank with horror.
pure horror.
his eyes flick between you sitting in dean’s lap, dean’s hands still very obviously around your waist, and the fact that neither of you had moved fast enough to make the situation look any better.
your discarded top is somewhere on the other side of the room, leaving you painfully aware that you're still only wearing your bra.
before you can even think of what to say, dean's arm tightens around you, pulling you closer against his chest. one hand slides up between your shoulder blades as he angles his body in front of yours, shielding you from beau's line of sight.
the movement is instinctive.
“oh my god,” beau says flatly.
dean immediately drops his forehead against your shoulder, keeping you tucked against him.
“please leave," dean murmurs, his voice coming out slightly muffled.
"i just watched my best friend practically inhale my sister."
you let out a horrified noise while dean groans louder, his grip on your waist tightening
"beau-" dean says into your shoulder, sounding like he's reconsidering every life choice that led to this moment.
“jesus christ, no-”
beau cuts him off instantly, physically pointing at both of you now.
“absolutely not. don’t talk to me right now.”
you feel your face burning with embarrassment while beau physically turns his head toward the hallway ceiling like he’s asking god for strength.
“i’m actually sick. this is why i don't come over here often” he mutters, more to himself and under his breath than to the both of you.
“you knocked for half a second!” dean argues weakly.
beau looks offended. “because i didn't expect to walk into this!"
"that sounds like a personal mistake" dean taunts.
you bury your face in your hands immediately, unable to face your brother who is still stood in the doorway of your boyfriends room.
dean leans back against the bedhead, dragging a hand down his face dramatically.
“i’m transferring schools.”
“good,” beau replies immediately. “do that.”
despite the awkwardness of the situation, a laugh slips out.
beau looks personally betrayed.
“y/n.”
“i’m sorry!”
“no you’re not.”
beau shakes his head once before backing toward the hallway again.
“dinner’s ready in ten,” he says flatly. “and if either of you make this weird downstairs, i’m telling tucker exactly what i walked in on.”
dean’s eyes widen slightly.
“you wouldn’t.”
beau stares at him.
“watch me.”
then he disappears back into the hallway, pulling the door shut behind him. silence settles over the room again and dean drops his head back against the wall with a groan.
“we’re never recovering from that.”
you burst into laughter immediately, the awkwardness and humour of the situation finally setting in.
dean points at you accusingly. “this isn’t funny.”
“him saying you inhaled me absolutely was.”
he narrows his eyes before suddenly pulling you closer towards him. you laugh softly as his hands settle back against your waist, familiar and warm.
“still worth it,” he murmurs quietly.
your heart melts embarrassingly fast.
“you’re ridiculous.”
a giddy grin slowly spreads across dean’s face before he shakes his head once.
“your brother is a goddamn cockblock.”
you gasp softly in mock offence before playfully slapping his chest, causing a quiet laugh to fall from his lips.
“dean!”
“what?” he grins. “am i wrong?”
you attempt to slide off his lap again, already knowing if you stayed there any longer you’d never actually make it downstairs, but dean’s hands tighten immediately around your hips, keeping you firmly where you are.
your eyebrows raise slightly at him in confusion before you suddenly feel him shift beneath you.
your breath catches instantly.
dean’s cheeks flush almost immediately as your mouth falls open slightly in realisation.
“dean heyward-di laurentis,” you whisper, horrified and amused all at once. his eyes squeeze shut briefly as he lets out another groan.
“don’t say my full name like that,” he mutters miserably.
“makes me sound guilty.”
“you are guilty.”
“yeah,” he sighs dramatically, glancing up at you again.
“but in my defence, look at you.”
your face warms instantly at the sincerity hidden beneath his teasing tone but before you can respond, a loud voice echoes up from downstairs.
“if you idiots don't get down here right now i'm starting dinner without you.”
tucker.
immediately, your eyes widen.
“shit.”
dean drops his forehead against your shoulder dramatically. “ignore him.”
“dean.”
“five more minutes.”
“absolutely not.”
he sends you the most painfully pleading look imaginable, his hands still secure against your waist like he thinks physically holding onto you will somehow convince you to stay.
when it very unfortunately almost works, dean notices instantly. his lips twitch upwards slightly, excitement taking over his features.
“baby,” he says softly, voice lower now, “c’mon.”
you narrow your eyes at him immediately. “don’t baby me right now.”
“that sounded way meaner than i think you intended.”
you laugh quietly and dean realises immediately that you aren’t giving in. he places both hands over his face before tilting his head back against his bed dramatically, letting out the most exaggerated groan imaginable.
you laugh harder at the sight in front of you.
“i’m glad one of us finds this funny,” he mutters, though there’s obvious amusement hidden beneath his embarrassment. he stands up slowly, still holding onto your waist as he pulls you up with him.
your hands naturally slide around the back of his neck while dean rests his forehead lightly against yours.
“i’ll tell them you’re in the bathroom and coming down in a few minutes,” you hum softly before leaning up to place a quick kiss against his cheek.
dean exhales quietly at the feeling before narrowing his eyes slightly.
“you’re so gonna pay for this one day, y/n.”
you smirk immediately. “is that a threat?”
“a promise.”
you laugh softly before turning toward the bedroom door. you barely make it two steps before dean’s hand lands sharply against your ass.
you gasp audibly, spinning around immediately.
“di laurentis!”
he shrugs innocently despite the smirk painted all over his face.
“sorry. couldn’t help myself.”
you roll your eyes, trying and failing not to smile.
“don’t be too long or tucker will rip into you,” you warn teasingly before slipping out into the hallway.
the noise downstairs grows louder the second you descend the staircase. thanksgiving at the hockey house was always chaos in the best possible way.
the kitchen smells overwhelmingly like garlic, rosemary and whatever tucker accidentally burned earlier, despite promising he was following his mother's recipe book, step by step. music plays faintly somewhere near the living room while everyone talks over each other.
logan notices you first, which is unfortunate.
he’s leaning back in one of the dining chairs beside grace when his eyes flick toward you coming down the stairs. immediately, his eyebrows lift knowingly.
oh no.
you suddenly become very aware of the fact that you hadn’t checked yourself in the mirror before leaving dean’s room. you feel your cheeks warm instantly as you quickly move toward the table, silently praying dean hadn’t left any visible marks on your neck.
logan watches you the entire way down, very amused.
you slide into your seat beside hannah while trying your hardest to look normal. logan leans back slightly in his chair across from you, arms folded casually.
“where’s dean?” he asks, feigning innocence.
your eyes narrow immediately.
he knows something...or at least suspects something.
“bathroom,” you answer casually, reaching for your water glass. “he’ll be down in a minute.”
“hm,” logan hums thoughtfully, clearly entertained. beside him, garrett glances between the two of you with immediate suspicion.
“why are you both acting weird?”
“we’re not,” you answer far too quickly.
logan snorts. grace lowers her drink slowly, eyes widening slightly as realisation dawns across her face.
“oh my god.”
your heart drops.
“what?” hannah asks immediately, now invested in the conversation before her.
logan grins lazily. “nothing.”
“logan,” grace says, already laughing slightly, “you totally know something.”
before he can answer, beau walks back into the kitchen holding a drink. the second his eyes land on you sitting at the table, he physically pauses before narrowing his eyes.
oh, absolutely not.
logan catches it instantly.
“why do you look traumatised?” he asks him.
beau grabs a roll off the table aggressively.
“don’t worry about it.”
his response of course only makes everyone more interested.
tucker emerges from the kitchen carrying a tray dramatically. “why does it feel like i missed gossip?”
“you did,” beau mutters darkly.
your face burns immediately.
logan’s grin grows wider.
“oh my god,” hannah says slowly, eyes flicking toward you. “did something happen?”
“nothing happened,” you say quickly.
you hear a laugh from across the table, and garrett points directly at you, “that sounded guilty.”
beau lets out a humourless laugh from across the table. “you have no idea.” before anyone can interrogate him further, dean finally appears at the top of the stairs.
slightly flushed.
sweater sleeves pushed up messily.
hair completely ruined.
logan notices instantly and nearly chokes on his drink.
“holy shit,” he laughs.
dean stops halfway down the stairs. “what?”
“you look insane.”
dean flips him off automatically continuing downstairs. the second he reaches the table, beau looks at him in complete disbelief.
“you came down looking like that voluntarily?”
dean freezes briefly, too briefly.
everyone notices.
tucker’s eyes widen dramatically. “wait.”
“don’t,” dean warns immediately.
“wait,” tucker repeats louder, pointing between the both of you now.
“oh my god.”
“tucker,” you say quickly, your cheeks beginning to flush a deep shade of crimson red.
“no wonder you two disappeared.”
dean drags a hand down his face while logan loses his mind laughing beside grace.
“i hate this house,” dean mutters
“you should,” beau replies immediately. “after what i witnessed.”
silence
then-
hannah gasps loudly and garrett chokes on his drink.
grace physically grabs allie’s arm and tucker slams both hands dramatically against the table.
“YOU WALKED IN ON THEM?”
yours, still
Dean Di Laurentis x childhood best friend!Reader
Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”
“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”
“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”
“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”
“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully.
“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.
“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.
That’s when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.
But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face.
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”
“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.
“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.
“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.
Dean drops his coffee.
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.
“Y/N?” Dean breathes.
He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen.
“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
“Y/N!”
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.
Then, your eyes land on him.
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.
The entire courtyard seems to stop.
“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”
“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”
“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.
“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”
“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”
“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”
“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”
“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”
“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”
“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed.
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.
“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.
“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”
“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”
Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.
“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.
“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.
“Where are you living?” Dean asks.
“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”
Dean makes a split-second decision.
“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively.
You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”
“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”
“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”
“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”
“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”
“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.
“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.
He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains.
Dean shoots him a dark look.
“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.
Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.
“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”
“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently.
Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”
“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”
“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
“I took pity on you,” you reply primly.
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans.
“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”
“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”
“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”
“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.
“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.
You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.
“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.
“Is this everything?” Dean asks.
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”
“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.
“I know,” you whisper.
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”
“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”
“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”
“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”
“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.
“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.
“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside.
“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”
“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”
He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.
“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”
You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
“Look at me,” he commands gently.
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.
“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.
“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.
“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”
“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.
“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”
“I love pepperoni,” you say softly.
“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house.
“Welcome home, Y/N.”
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound.
For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid.
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.
Then he spots you.
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.
“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.
“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”
“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”
“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite.
“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”
Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”
You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”
“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.
“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.
“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”
“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”
Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”
“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.
“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”
“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”
“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.
“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
“Y/N. Come here.”
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.
“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”
“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”
“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.
“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”
“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.
“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.
“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.
There is simply no other logical explanation.
“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”
“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”
“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists.
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.
“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”
“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”
“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus.
“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”
“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.
“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”
“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.
“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.
“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.
“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.
But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.
“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.
“Are you okay?”
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.
“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”
“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”
“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you.
“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.
“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this.
But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid.
“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”
“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.
“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”
“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand.
“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest.
“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London.
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.
“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you.
“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully.
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.
“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”
“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”
“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”
“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly.
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.
“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”
The puck drops, and the game begins.
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.
But Dean is a revelation.
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.
But he doesn’t stop at the bench.
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you.
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.
“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.
“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly.
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.
“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.
“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.
“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.
“Dean,” you whisper.
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.
You press your lips to his.
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.
It lasts only three seconds.
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.
When you finally open them, you gasp.
Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated.
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.
“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”
“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning.
“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.
“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely.
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.
It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”
“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”
“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.
“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”
The transformation is instantaneous.
The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.
“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.
“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”
“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.
You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying.
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to.
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.
“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.
“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently.
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …”
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.
“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”
“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.
“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.
“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”
That is all it takes.
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.
“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”
“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”
“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.
You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter.
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.
“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out.
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide.
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.
But Dean knows the truth.
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.
“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.
“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”
“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”
“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”
“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.
“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.
“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”
Dean’s words cut off abruptly.
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.
“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.
“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.
You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”
“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.
“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”
“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly.
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.
“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”
Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”
“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.
“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”
“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.
“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”
“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.
“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.
The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.
He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.
You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl.
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.
“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.
Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”
“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”
“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face.
“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”
It isn’t a request.
Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.
He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.
Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you.
“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”
“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”
“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.
“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”
Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”
It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.
“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
But your father doesn’t look angry.
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.
“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”
“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.
“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”
You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”
“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”
Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”
“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”
Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”
“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”
“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”
Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.
He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today.
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.
But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore.
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.
“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.
“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.
“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.
“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air.
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.
“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline.
“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”
“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”
Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.
“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”
Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.
Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover.
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.
“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans.
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.
“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”
“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.
“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”
“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.
“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.
Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums.
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.
“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”
You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.
Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover.
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.
“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.
“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.
“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”
“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”
“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”
Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.
“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.
“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”
“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
Hii I love and appreciate your work so much!! I was wondering if you’d be interested in writing an idea for Will or Macklin where he is a really physically affectionate person with reader, not like gross levels of PDA, but always wanting to be touching you in someway - a hand around your waist or shoulder, fingers interlocked, sitting close enough to be brushing shoulders and legs kind of thing. Just casual, but still intimate touches that show he’s unconsciously or consciously looking for you, wants you to be close. Gets picked on for it by the team and your guys’s family and friends, but it’s truly so wholesome. I’m picturing it as reader and whoever you pick to write about having been in a relationship for a while, but go wherever you want with it!
Thank you for this!! It’s so sweet 🥹 - 2.4k words Happy reading ☺️
The second you step through the front door of Tyler and Cat’s house, Will’s hand settles against your lower back. When he does it it’s never dramatic or possessive, it’s just something that he finds comfort in, and you’ve grown to find comfort in it too.
“Hey, guys!” Cat calls from the kitchen, wine glass in hand as she walks over to greet you both. You barely get out a hello before Will’s fingers slide from your back to your waist so he can pull you a little closer while you kick your shoes off by the door.
Tyler notices immediately. He looks down at Will’s hand, then up at him with a grin. “Y’know she’s not gonna run away, right?”
Will doesn’t even blink, “Debatable.”
You laugh quietly as Tyler groans, already turning toward the kitchen. “Unbelievable. He’s been like this all season. They’re attached at the hip”
Will just shrugs, completely unashamed, and leans down near your ear. “You want something to drink?”
You nod, “Just a water, please.”
He squeezes your waist once before walking toward the kitchen, his fingertips dragging along your side until the very last second before he can't reach you anymore. Every little thing with him feels like that. Casual, like taking care of you and keeping you close are things he does without thinking anymore, they’re always at the front of his mind.
Cat watches the whole thing with a knowing smile. “Oh,” she says lightly.
“What?” you question, not knowing where she’s going with this.
“He is obsessed with you.”
Your face immediately warms, “He is not.”
Cat just laughs. “He walked in the door less than thirty seconds ago and already can't keep his hands to himself.”
“That is not true.”
“It definitely is.”
You open your mouth to defend him, but Will comes back into the room holding your water bottle already opened for you, and before handing it over he presses a quick kiss against the side of your head.
“Thank you,” you say to him quietly, before he heads off to the kitchen again to say hi to the rest of the team.
Cat just gives you a look over the rim of her wine glass.
You sigh once he’s out of earshot, “Okay, maybe a little.”
⊰══════════════════════⊱
The night settles easily after that. Music plays quietly through the house while everyone moves between the kitchen and living room. Conversations are overlapping comfortably. It’s loud not in an overwhelming way, but a comforting way, all your favorite people in the same place, enjoying one another's company.
To no one’s surprise, Will is attached to you through all of it.
When you’re standing in the kitchen talking to Cat and a couple of the other player’s girlfriends, he’s beside you with his hand resting absentmindedly on your hip while he talks hockey with the guys facing the other direction.
When everyone crowds around the island for food, his thigh presses against yours the entire time. Later when you’re sitting on the couch, he drops down beside you and pulls your legs directly next to his, one arm stretched across the back of the couch behind you.
It’s so constant you almost stop noticing it. Almost.
Until Macklin walks by, pauses dramatically and goes, “Holy shit, are you two physically capable of existing separately for more than ten seconds?”
Will doesn’t even look away from the conversation he’s having, and answers dryly, “No.”
The room bursts into laughter. “See?” Tyler points out, “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Will finally looks over, completely relaxed. “What?”
“You’re clingy,” Tyler says.
“I’m not clingy,” Will argues lightly.
“You’ve touched her literally this entire night.”
Will frowns slightly then glances down at where his fingers are now loosely hooked around yours in his lap, like he genuinely didn’t realize he was doing it.
Then he just looks back up, “Okay?”
More laughter from everyone, and you can’t help smiling into your drink.
Because the thing is, none of it feels forced. He’s never draped all over you or trying to put on some kind of show, he just always reaches for you like it’s second nature to him. It's like he’s just more comfortable when you’re close.
At some point while dessert is being passed around, you get up to help Cat in the kitchen. The second you step away from the couch, Will’s eyes follow you automatically.
Tyler notices immediately, “Oh my god,” he says loudly. “Look at him.”
Will tears his attention away from you. “What?”
“You tracked her across the room like a puppy.”
“I was not—”
“You absolutely were,” Macklin cuts in.
“He’s got separation anxiety,” Tyler adds.
Will rolls his eyes, but there’s the faintest hint of embarrassment creeping into his expression now, “You guys are annoying.”
Meanwhile in the kitchen you’re hearing all of it. “You love it though,” Cat says quietly beside you while drying off a plate.
“Yeah,” you admit softly. “I really do. It’s comforting in a way, knowing he’s always there.”
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Hours later, once people start heading out, Will helps finish cleaning up without being asked. Even then he keeps gravitating back toward you every few minutes. A hand brushing your back as he passes by, or his fingers squeezing your shoulder. Your favorite are the quick kisses against your temple while you’re putting dishes away.
Tyler catches one of those kisses and immediately points across the kitchen. “There,” he says dramatically. “Again.”
“Oh my god,” Will mutters under his breath.
You laugh quietly, dropping the dish towel on the counter and leaning into his side, “Leave him alone.”
“We would,” Macklin says from the living room, “if he stopped acting like your emotional support.”
Will just shakes his head, moving around you to put another dish in the dishwasher. As he passes, his hand slides across your lower back, like despite all the teasing, he genuinely doesn’t realize he’s doing it anymore.
Tyler watches the whole thing happen and bursts out laughing again.
“He did it again!” he says loudly.
This time Will finally looks mildly offended. “What do you want from me?”
“Space,” Tyler says. “Personal space. Independence. Growth.”
Will deadpans immediately, “Sounds awful. We get enough of that when I’m on a road trip.”
Everyone laughs again, including you, and he glances over at you with the smallest smile tugging at his mouth, like hearing you laugh is worth all the teasing. You just move closer to him, and wrap your arms around his waist.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
Eventually the night finally starts winding down for real. Goodbyes are exchanged at the door, leftovers get packed up and distributed to everyone, and promises to do this again soon thrown around casually.
The second you grab your coat from the couch, Will appears beside you like he was waiting for it. He takes it from your hands before you can put it on yourself, holding it open behind you automatically.
“Thank you,” you mumble, smiling softly as you put your arms through the sleeves.
“Mhmm.”
His hands settle briefly on your shoulders after helping you into it, lingering there for just a second before sliding down your arms, holding your forearms lightly as you both say goodbye.
⊰══════════════════════⊱
The drive home is quieter than the rest of the night, comfortable in that easy way it always is with him. His hand still rests on your thigh the entire drive anyway, his thumb brushing against the fabric of your jeans.
When you finally get back to your apartment, you’re halfway through kicking your shoes off when he says, “Am I actually that bad?”
You glance up immediately, “What are you talking about?”
“With the touching thing,” he says, leaning back against the closed front door now, “I didn’t realize I did it that much until everyone kept pointing it out.”
You stare at him for a second because he sounds genuinely unsure now. “You know none of them actually care, right?” you ask softly, “They were just poking fun at you.” It’s not the time to debate whether that was right or wrong, but all in all you know they didn’t mean anything bad by any of it, and now you’re making sure he knows that too.
“I know,” he says quickly. “I just…” He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, “I don’t know. I don’t wanna make you feel smothered or something.”
You walk back over to him without thinking, sliding your arms around his waist and propping your chin up on his chest to look up at him. Predictably, his hands settle against your hips almost immediately. Reflex.
“You don’t smother me,” you say quietly.
His eyes search yours carefully, like he’s trying to decide whether you’re just saying that to make him feel better.
Something in his face softens at that. You continue before he can brush it off. “I mean it. I think if you stopped now I’d actually hate that you stopped.”
A small smile finally pulls at his mouth, “You’d miss me being clingy?”
“You’re not clingy,” you correct softly. “You just like being close to me, and I like it too.”
His expression changes a little at that. Warmer somehow. “Can you blame me?”
Your chest aches a bit at how genuine he sounds. “No,” you say quietly, “Not really.”
“Good,” he says quietly. “Cause I don’t really think I know how to not do it.”
You laugh softly, “I know.”
He smiles then, properly this time, and leans down to press a slow kiss against your forehead. Even after the teasing, after the entire team spent hours pointing it out, his hands never leave you once.
He exhales a laugh through his nose before pulling you fully against him, arms wrapping around you tighter this time like now he’s allowed to. You sink into him immediately.
For a minute neither of you moves. The apartment is quiet in contrast to how the rest of your night had sounded, and now that you’re standing here wrapped up in him, you realize how natural this is too. The constant touching never feels heavy with him, it’s not demanding on either part, it never feels possessive, it’s just comforting.
His chin now rests on top of your head while his thumbs move against your sides. Even in the middle of this conversation about how much he touches you, he’s still doing it without thinking.
“You know what the funny part is?” you mumble into his chest.
“What?”
“I don’t even notice half the time anymore.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, “I’m that bad, huh?”
“No,” you correct immediately, pulling back just enough to look up at him. “Not bad, I think my body just expects you to be there now. Like when we’re sitting somewhere and you’re not touching me, I notice that more,” you admit quietly. “It feels weird.”
A smile pulls slowly at the corner of his mouth, “Seriously?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
His eyes stay on yours for a second longer before he leans down and presses another kiss to your forehead, but this time slower. His arms tighten around you again afterward, like your words are the final piece of reassurance he needs after questioning himself.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Cause honestly? I think if I had to sit next to you and not touch you for an entire night I’d lose my mind.”
You laugh, your face tucking back into his chest, “Tyler would probably call that a breakthrough.”
Will scoffs, smiling, “He can deal with it.”
You can hear the smile in his voice now, the uncertainty from earlier finally gone. One of his hands slides up your back slowly to rest against the base of your neck. His hand is warm and familiar, and you melt into him even more without even thinking about it.
It’s that instinctive reaching for each other, like no matter where you are, a crowded house full of teammates or a quiet apartment at midnight, both of you are always unconsciously trying to close the distance.
requests are open 💕 To be honest, I'm not a huge PDA girly myself, but part of me loves this kind of thing. Not over-the-top “look at us” behavior, but the subtle stuff? Love.
if there’s one thing dean loves more than sex, it’s calling you his wife despite the fact you were clearly not even dating.
any chance he had, there was a high likelihood he was throwing on a "my wife!" at the end of every greeting or defense in your name.
it happened the first time at a party. he was clearly drunk, you were tipsy, the entire house had a buzz going through it that could only come from the hockey boys playing another fantastic game against their rivals. it was brutal, mean, and downright unfair playing. but none of them seemed to care because they won 4-2. that alone called for a celebration.
you were in the kitchen throwing back another shot that dean had convinced you and the boys to take. the numbers of shots that had been consumed was already a high enough number that your tipsy brain couldn't even count to if you had the concentration required to do so.
"my wife is insane, you guys," dean cheered, grabbing your wrist and throwing it over your heads in celebration of the shots that everyone had just consumed. but to him, you had taken it better than any of the boys. "did you see that?"
"she's not your wife," garrett reminded like the only sensible one around, a cough coming out with his discretion as the back of his hand wiped away the remaining shot on his drunkenly swollen lips.
"she's not even your girlfriend," logan interjected.
all you could do was laugh, the alcohol in your brain not even arguing with the fact that were definitely not his wife..
the next time was at malone's.
the fundraiser that logan had thrown together last minute had been a hit. there was karaoke, drinks, fundraisers, raffles, everything they needed to get the college kids out and sponsors donating to the local youth hockey.
tucker was somewhere up front entertainment with a very drunken rendition of save a horse (ride a cowboy) unashamed. garrett, hannah, allie, and logan were cheering him on front row.
you were at the bar with dean ordering drinks for the group. that's when you had heard a girl come up to dean and started flirting without a care in the world. you'd gotten used to it over the years, the girls throwing themselves at him. usually he reciprocated - like eighty percent of the time - but times like tonight, when he was fully at your attention and mercy without you even having to say anything, he gently pushed them away.
two drinks in his hand that the girl always tried to accept for herself before he placed them on the counter before she could even touch them.
"sorry, that ones for my wife."
you heard him say it as the employee handed you the half a dozen drinks for your table, then you heard and even louder scoff come from the girl at the mere thought of being rejected by dean di laurentis of all people.
"y'know," you started, carefully picking up a few of the drinks and leaving the rest for dean as you started the crowded trek back to the table, "you've gotta stop telling people i'm your wife."
"why?"
"they might start believing it," you choked on a laugh.
dean looked genuinely concerned. like the mere thought of not calling you his wife hadn't ever occurred to him.
"why's that a bad thing?"
"we're not even together. so yes, people assuming we're married when we've never even had sex might start confusing some people."
"a man tried to treat his wife right and he gets killed for it," he shook his head around his glass. "unbelievable."
"you're unbelievable," you laughed. "why are you calling me that anyways? you want me to start going around calling you my husband to everyone?" you leaned against the table playfully as he relaxed into his. his arm resting against the bench and his foot resting on his knee carefully.
"depends."
"on what?"
"you gonna start putting your name as di laurentis on everything? cause then yeah, be my guest," he smiled.
"i already wear your shirt to hockey games? that ain't enough for your ego?"
"never."
"i'm gonna start wearing logan's then. heard the girls are going crazy for him these days."
"you wouldn't," he placed his glass down on the table, eyes challenging like he was daring you to even try wearing a jersey with Logan's name splattered along the back. "i will burn any jersey you have that doesn't have di laurentis on the back of it. because mrs. di laurentis doesn't love anyone more than her loving, boding, gorgeously handsome husband."
"i think mr. di laurentis has lost his mind," you joked.
guardian angel
Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader
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.”
“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.
“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.
Grateful for second chances.
For all of it.
couple of rings and two i dos
summary: you and max spontaneously get married in las vegas. the kicker? you guys aren’t even dating.
pairing: max verstappen x reader
fc: camila morrone
request: Hi id love to attend the tea party with max verstappen and have a pink lemonade with a marmalade sandwich and paper rings by Taylor swift playing - @amelia098765
warnings:
vicious speaks: surprise, the first fic for the tea party is here!! i had a blast working on this, and i really hope you enjoy it 💓 thank you so much for attending!! (PS the twitter thread got too long so i had to get a little creative with the format, hopefully it's easy to read!)
tea party masterlist | max masterlist | read on ao3
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by maxverstappen1 and others
yn forever proud of you 💙
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maxverstappen1 couldn’t do this without your support, schatje 💙
⤷ yn on my way to your drivers room to hug the shit out of you!!
⤷ maxverstappen1 looking forward to it 🙂
⤷ fan they're so cute 🥹
fan my fave besties!!
fan he needs to wife you up already!!
⤷ fan maxverstappen1 get on it before someone else does!!
fan ugh i love how supportive they are of each other 🥹
fan cuties 🥰
fan i love them sm 🫶
fan i swear this is basically a max fan account 😭
⤷ yn lmao yeah basically
redbullracing Always love when we get to have max’s lucky charm in our garage 💙 don’t stay away for too long!!
⤷ yn lysm admin 😚
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
the next day
non-british bias gc
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
winx club gc
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
liked by pierregasly and others
kikagomes much to celebrate this nye 🤍🥂
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yn grateful to ring in a new year with you guys by my side ♡
⤷ kikagomes love u forever 🥹 ♥︎ by yn
fan hey why does this kinda look like-
⤷ fan right. thinking thoughts...
alexandrasaintmleux 🤍🤍🤍 ♥︎ by author
fan yn looked so good, kika had to post her twice
⤷ fan me 🤝 kika 🤝 being in love with yn ♥︎ by author
lilyzneimer a night to remember!!
⤷ kikagomes for sure 🤭
fan bets on who max is looking at in that pic?
⤷ fan yn for sure
⤷ fan his wife
⤷ fan so...yn.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫ .
♫ taylor swift ・paper rings
ynverstappen and maxverstappen1
liked by maxverstappen1 and others
ynverstappen 11/22/2025 💍
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maxverstappen1 🤍
fan did you two get married in fucking VEGAS?!
danielricciardo still bitter i wasn't invited
⤷ ynverstappen first of all, it was spur of the moment. second of all, we more than made up for it on nye
⤷ danielricciardo ...true.
⤷ fan I KNEW KIKA'S PICS FROM THAT NIGHT GAVE WEDDING VIBES
⤷ fan spur of the moment marriage is crazy
fan i didn't even know you guys were dating 😭
⤷ maxverstappen1 we weren't
⤷ fan lmfao???
victoriaverstappen so happy he finally got his head out his ass and locked you down 💞
⤷ fan pls everyone was tired of them
⤷ victoriaverstappen i've had a front row seat to them being desperately in love since we were kids
⤷ ynverstappen can't even defend ourselves cause it's true 😭
fan omg??? congrats!!!
lilymhe cuties 💓 ♥︎ by author
fan when it wasn't brought up again, i truly thought osc and max were just joking about him being married 💀 very happy that it's true!! wishing you two a happy marriage <3 ♥︎ by author
#OP81 — Opposites attract.
👤♥︎ 👤 Oscar Piastri + Family friend!yn — childhood friend and lovers.
synopsis: they call themselves.. friends.. childhood friends..
Yn face claim: maggie lindemann. you can imagine yourself or whoever you want :)
ghostlyn posted.
liked by hattiepiastri, oscarpiastri and 1.000 other people
ghostlyn: bring your friend to work but it’s her brother’s job not hers
accounts tagged: @ hattiepiastri
hattiepiastri: the coolest girl in the paddock actually 🖤 ♥︎ liked by the author
ghostlyn: that’s you my princess :)
user1: yn at a race never knew she was into formula 1 this is crazy
user2: she went to other races before! mostly when oscar was in f2, she is a family close friend
user3: wow i never knew that.. this being her first official race and oscar winning it it’s so cute actually 🥺
oscarpiastri: it’s nice having you here :) ♥︎ liked by the author
ghostlyn: osc!! so happy to be there and see you win
user4: the nicknames aweeee
user5: here after seeing her at the paddock with hattie lord she really is the coolest ever
oscarpiastri posted.
liked by hattiepiastri, landonorris, ghostlyn and 90.000 other people
oscarpiastri: What a weekend
ghostlyn: 🏆🏆🏆🐐🐐🐐 ♥︎ liked by the author
oscar piastri: ☺️🧡
user1: YESSSSSS SO PROUD OSCAR
user2: that’s my favourite driver y’all ugh
user3: did you guys saw the way he hugged yn and his sister omg 😭😭😭 proud family (and friend)
user4: the hand around yn’s waist tho
user5: there you go lord this man cant even have a friend now
hattiepiastri: so proud of you brother <3 ♥︎ liked by the author
ghostlyn posted.
📍Australia • End of Beginning - Djo
liked by hattiepiastri, oscarpiastri, alexandramalenaleclerc and 20.000 other people
ghostlyn: back home 🇦🇺
hattiepiastri: we are so back.
ghostlyn: most than ever.
user1: i’m actually so obsessed with her thank you hattie for taking her to the gp
user2: the lizard pic jumpscare
ghostlyn: respect oliver
user3: NOT THE NAME @ olliebearman this might be shade
user4: her getting this much attention now i’m shocked she used to be my indie style inspo wow
user5: same here she is literally on my pinterest board and now she is friends with my fav driver..
f1news posted
liked by user1, user7, user10 and 10.000 other people
f1news: Oscar Piastri and Yn, his sister’s best friend, have been spotted on the streets of Australia yesterday night!
Apparently they were having dinner together and they also took the same uber back home.
Do we have a new wag?
user1: there we go 🙄
user2: This guys can’t catch a break you post this kind of notice about him every time he is near a girl it’s getting boring
user3: and why do you care so much like 😭
user4: the real opposites attract actually..
user5: wait that’s so true.. she is so black cat emo style he is so golden retriever soft boy..
user6: BRO I LOVE THIS
ghostlyn posted.
liked by hattiepiastri, landonorris, mclarenf1team and 30.000 other people
ghostlyn: i kinda (really) like you @ oscarpiastri :)
oscarpiastri: i really fucking like you yn :) ♥︎ liked by the author
ghostlyn: i think im going to throw up i want to kiss you
user1: THIS HARD LAUNCH
user2: took them a silly rumor really im crying 😭
hattiepiastri: i love you both 🖤 ♥︎ liked by the author
mclarenf1team: welcome to the papaya fam 🧡🥺 ♥︎ liked by the author
ghostlyn: stop i love y’all 😭<33
user3: did she really acted as if she wasn’t dating him this whole time “i only went to one f1 race” my ass girl
ghostlyn: 🤫
user4: BYE HER REPLY YAYSYAYAYQYQUWJ
user5: how long have they been dating omg
ghostlyn: since he was in prema racing :)
user6: THESE FORLIFERS WHAT
oscarpiastri posted.
liked by hattiepiastri, landonorris, mclarenf1team and 90.000 other people
oscarpiastri: i love my hot girlfriend hi hot girlfriend @ ghostlyn
ghostlyn: hi hot boyfriend 🖤 ♥︎ liked by the author
user1: THE LAST PIC DONT SAVE HER!!!!!!
ghostlyn: i don’t want to be saved..
user2: oh these freaks
user3: the whole different aesthetics im head over heels i need what they have
landonorris: so does your sister have more friends
oscarpiastri: No.
user4: DAMN OSCAR 😭😭😭😭
eddiepiastri: i officially have the coolest hottest prettiest sister in law 🖤🖤🖤 and you are there oscar.. ig ♥︎ liked by ghostlyn
ghostlyn: i’m going to give you the biggest hug ever.
oscarpiastri: are you going to ignore that
ghostly: who is you ?
user5: these two are so chaotic i can’t wait to see them together at the paddock
────────
author’s note: hello <3 again with another smau im actually enjoying this so much.. i hope you are too! any likes and reblogs are welcomed loves 🪽



