neighbor, neighbor ▸ fraser minten
PAIRING ▸ fraser minten fm93 x reader
GENRES ▸ fluff, neighbors, mutual crush, meet cute, fraser is just sooo cutie
SUMMARY ▸ moving to boston means figuring out the t system, over crowded bars, and moving furniture. you soon realize it also means midnight elevator rides with your cute mysterious neighbor.
WORD COUNT ▸ 2.7k words
AUTHOR’S NOTE ▸ first fic for fraser!!!!!!!! tbh before i like really really got into hockey i first saw him in a tiktok edit and i was like who is this cutie with glasses (literally my weakness), so i need fraser to wear his glasses more please and thank you :) also bruins win today!!! (and gabe perreault point / rangers win but thats besides the point i guess LOL i do wanna write a very self indulgent fic for gabo soon) - but enjoy!!
the first time you notice your neighbor is in the elevator.
it’s late. like unreasonably late. the kind of late where the building is silent and the hallway lights feel a little too bright after a long day.
and a long day you've had. it was only your first week after moving to boston and between moving furniture, settling in, and getting extremely lost on the T (for the third time, mind you), there was nothing more you wanted to do than lay in your bed that you're pretty sure you overpaid for only a day before.
you step inside the apartment's elevator, press your floor, and just as the doors start to close, a hand stops them.
the doors slide open again.
a tall guy steps in: dark hoodie, sweats, dark curly hair still damp like he just showered. he smells faintly like cold boston air and something sharp you can’t place. and he's wearing glasses.
he smiles and nods politely. “hey.”
“hi.” you manage to get out like you aren't going to collapse out of exhaustion any second.
the elevator starts moving.
he’s quiet. not awkward quiet, just… quiet, which in your tired state, you definitely appreciate. small talk over the weather sounded like your worst nightmare when your pillows and the real housewives were calling your name, cute neighbor or not. comfortable silence fills the ride between you two.
you just assume he’s another neighbor coming home from work. but, the next night it happens again.
same elevator. same tall guy. same tired late hour.
“hey again,” he says, surprise lining his light eyes as he smiles. he's cute, you notice.
seemingly built, gorgeous eyes, and an adorable smile? if he was setting the bar for boston men, you think you would be sticking around for a little bit.
so after staring at him for maybe a second too long, you get out a “hi!” and nearly tumble into the elevator as he moves aside for you. real smooth, y/n, real smooth.
after the ride, though, as he lets you step out first the gentleman he is, you assume that is the extent of your relationship. relegated to late-night tired elevator pleasantries and to never go any further. but the third night?
same thing.
you start to think the two of you must have the exact same schedule, because somehow you always end up in the elevator together around midnight.
and so far, you can catalog a few things about him, sure and slowly. for one, he always carries a duffel bag. two, he’s always a little tired (much like you usually are) and sometimes, refer to night two and night three, sometimes he’s a little bruised.
but you’re a polite neighbor. so you don’t ask, as much as you want to. curiosity does get to the best of you though, and some nights before you sleep, your mysterious neighbor creeps into your thoughts.
maybe he's a boston mob gangster? it would explain why he's always in dark clothes. or maybe some sort of boston batman vigilante? also possible.
until one night, a few days later, the elevator doors open and he steps inside like usual,
and this time you can’t help it.
because to you, he looks like he just walked out of a bar fight. taking inventory, you notice there’s a small cut near his eyebrow, his red knuckles are taped, and there’s a bruise blooming along his cheek.
you stare after wincing a bit, and he notices immediately. definitely a mobster. his shoulders drop a little like he already knows the question is coming.
you open your mouth. do i ask? close it. maybe shouldn't. open it again. well, fuck it.
you're a little unsure what to say, so you start with “…are you okay?”
he exhales through his nose, rubbing the back of his neck like he isn't sure how much to explain to you. “before you ask…”
he gestures vaguely at his hurt face. “…hockey.”
you blink. oh. “…hockey?”
“yeah.” he says it like that should make perfect sense.
the elevator dings softly as it passes another floor. you look at his knuckles again. “…you fight people? in…hockey?”
he shrugs. “sometimes.”
you stare at him for a second longer, then you nod slowly. “oh, okay.”
he glances at you sideways, surprised.“…that’s it?”
you shrug. “i mean… i guess that explains the bruises. i honestly thought for the last few days you were some sort of mob gangster but this seems like a much better explanation.”
he lets out a quiet laugh. the first one you’ve heard from him since the elevator rides started. and in that moment, you decide you want to hear it a lot more.
“definitely not as cool as that.”
the elevator reaches your floor. the doors slide open. you step out first, then pause when you realize he’s stepping out too.
“…you live on this floor?”
he nods toward the apartment two doors down. “yep.”
you blink. in your tired daze the last few nights you must've never realized he left the elevator behind you every time.
“…you’re my neighbor. like my neighbor, neighbor.” wow, y/n, absolutely killing it with the social cues tonight.
“looks like it, neighbor.”
he shifts his duffel bag on his shoulder, and you think he might end the conversation and immediately leave but he continues, “fraser, by the way.”
you blink, and realize your cute neighbor is introducing himself to you. right. names. that's a normal thing people exchange when they meet.
“y/n,” you say quickly, gesturing vaguely toward yourself like that wasn’t already obvious. “by the way.”
fraser nods once and smiles, like he’s filing the information away somewhere.
“nice to meet you, y/n.” he glances toward your door.
“so,” he says, nodding at it slightly. “new to the building?”
you follow his gaze. “is it that obvious?”
he smiles again a little. “you got lost in the elevator that very first night.”
your mouth falls open. “hey, i did not get lost.”
“if you recall, you pressed the wrong floor twice.”
you groan, covering your face with one hand. “okay in my defense-”
“i did note there was a lot of button staring involved.”
“i just moved here!” you protest. “the T already tried to kill me three times that day, i didn’t need the elevator betraying me too.”
fraser laughs again, softer this time. “boston learning curve.”
you sigh dramatically. “oh trust me, i know."
you both smile at each other for a second, and you let it linger, before you gesture lightly toward the hallway.
“goodnight, fraser.”
“night, y/n.”
he heads toward his apartment two doors down, unlocking the door and disappearing inside a second later.
you stand there for another moment, a little flustered from the interaction. then you unlock your own door and step inside, dropping your bag onto the floor with a sigh.
your neighbor plays hockey.
scratch that, your neighbor, fraser, plays hockey.
your neighbor, fraser, who is also very cute.
you shake your head and collapse onto the couch. boston might actually be growing on you.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
the next time you see fraser, it’s not in the elevator.
it’s a random saturday night, and you’re sitting in a loud bar somewhere in fenway with your friend across from you, half-listening to her complain about a coworker while you nurse a drink that’s basically melted ice at this point. not any fault to her, but you were just a little overstimulated.
the place is absolutely crowded, packed with the kind of weekend energy that only seems to exist in cities like boston: people yelling over music, bartenders sliding glasses across the counter, the faint smell of beer and fried food hanging in the air. not too much of your scene.
you’re nodding along to whatever story she’s telling, scanning the wall of televisions in front of your in pure boredom, when you suddenly cut her off mid-sentence, recognition filling your body.
“…wait.”
she glances up. “what?”
you squint harder at the screen, double checking, no triple checking, for confirmation. another angle change of the camera and - there he is, on the tv.
bright arena lights in the garden, helmet on, jersey tucked under his pads, and a 93 visible on his sleeve as he glides across the ice. you're more sure than anything.
it's fraser. your neighbor fraser. your neighbor fraser who apparently plays professional hockey and is currently on national television. playing. for the bruins.
you stare. “…oh my god. it's him. my neighbor.”
your friend swivels toward you immediately. “THAT’S him??? your mysterious hockey elevator boyfriend?”
you’re still staring at the screen, watching as he skates into frame again, helmet tilted slightly, curls poking out underneath that you usually see in their damp form. definitely him.
you ignore your friends description. “…that’s him.”
she looks between you and the tv like she’s just been handed the most unbelievable gossip of her life. “you told me he was like… a tall guy with a duffel bag!”
“he IS a guy with a duffel bag. i thought he like played hockey with his friends, not like in the nhl!”
“he is also on television.”
you take another slow sip of your drink, still watching the game, but also extremely disoriented with this new information. “yeah…that explains the bruises.”
on the screen, fraser gets bumped along the boards and shoves someone back before skating away. your friend leans across the table. “y/n.”
“…yeah.”
“you’re neighbors with a professional hockey player.”
you shrug, trying to play it cool. “i guess? …apparently.”
she groans dramatically. “this is the best thing that’s happened since you moved here. i've lived here all my life and i've never had anything remotely this interesting happen to me.”
you roll your eyes and try to continue the conversation, but you don’t miss the way your gaze keeps drifting back toward the screen every few seconds.
every once in a while the camera cuts to him again. and each time you catch yourself smiling a little.
₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊
much later that night, once you are able to escape your friend and the atrocities at the bar, you step into your building’s elevator again, a little tipsier and a little messier than usual.
the doors start to close, and then a hand stops them. you already know who it is. the doors slide open.
fraser steps inside.
hair still damp again, clad in a t-shirt, duffel bag slung over one shoulder like always.
he looks up, and then he pauses. you notice how his eyes rake over you in your going out outfit, the traditional "boston uniform" of jeans and a black top.
“y/n.”
you tilt your head slightly. “hey.”
a small smile pulls at his mouth. “late night?”
you lean back casually against the elevator wall, needing the support of the cold wall, and suddenly very aware that you just watched him on national television about an hour ago. “…something like that.”
he nods once, like he’s heard that answer a million times before.
the elevator doors close and the car starts moving. for a second neither of you says anything. then you glance at him, and your tipsy mouth moves faster than your mind does.
“…so.”
he raises an eyebrow slightly, curiosity pulling at his face. “so?”
you gesture vaguely at him. “…saw you earlier on tv.”
fraser exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, like this conversation was inevitable. he looks amused now.
“you were watching?”
you immediately regret bringing it up. “i mean…it was on at the bar.”
“right.”
“but, to clarify, i was not specifically watching you.”
he laughs, the delightful sound coming up again. “sure.”
you squint at him a little, grinning. “wow. professional hockey player and already super humble about it.”
that makes him laugh softly, a little sheepish. “i didn’t say that.”
“you implied it.”
he shakes his head, pushing his curls back slightly like he’s embarrassed you caught him. “i just meant… it happens sometimes.”
the elevator hums quietly as it climbs another floor. you fold your arms loosely across your chest, looking at him again like you’re reassessing something. “…so you play in the nhl. like as your job.”
he glances over at you, almost cautious. “yeah.”
there’s no bragging in it. if anything, he looks like he’s trying not to make it a whole thing.
you gesture vaguely toward him. “and you didn’t think to mention that while we’ve been sharing midnight elevator rides all week?”
he shrugs a little, shifting the duffel bag higher on his shoulder. “didn’t really come up.”
you stare at him. “…you showed up with bruised knuckles and a cut on your face.”
“fair point.”
“and you said ‘hockey.’”
he smiles again, smaller this time. “technically not a lie.”
the elevator dings softly as it reaches your floor. the doors slide open and you both step out into the quiet hallway again.
you both walk side to side, while you fish your keys out of your bag. when you reach your apartment, you lean back lightly against your door, studying him again.
“…so.”
he smiles faintly. “you do say that a lot.”
you point at him. “don’t make fun of me.”
“i’m not,” he says quickly, a little amused. “just noticing.”
you shake your head.“…still kind of processing the whole ‘my neighbor is secretly an nhl player’ thing.”
he rubs the back of his neck, sheepish again. “wasn’t really trying to keep it a secret.”
“you kind of succeeded.”
“fair.”
a quiet moment settles between you again. then he clears his throat a little, shifting his weight like he’s deciding something.
“hey.”
you look up. “yeah?”
“…if you’re going to keep watching the games at bars,” he says carefully, “you could just come to one.”
you blink. “…what.”
he nods toward you. “like. actually come. to the garden, i get a few tickets for each game.”
you stare at him for a second, trying to process. “you’re inviting me to a hockey game.”
“technically i’m inviting you to watch my hockey game,” he corrects gently.
“a game that you’re playing in. a bruins game?”
“minor detail.”
you laugh, a little incredulous. “fraser.”
“yeah?”
“that seems like a conflict of interest.”
“how?”
you smile. “what if i accidentally become your biggest fan.”
his mouth twitches. “i think i could handle that.”
he laughs again, softer this time. “i just figured,” he says, shrugging a little, “it might be a little more fun seeing each other not just in an elevator.”
you narrow your eyes playfully. another quiet second passes before you finally nod.
“…okay.”
his eyebrows lift slightly. “okay?”
“i’ll come to a game.”
something bright flashes across his face. “cool! i mean yeah, good, good.”
you bite back a smile. he shifts his weight again, like he’s about to leave, then stops. “…and, um—”
you look back up. “yeah?”
he gestures vaguely with his free hand, like he’s trying to play it off but also very clearly overthinking it. “we could- after, i mean- if you wanted-”
you tilt your head, watching him struggle a little.
he exhales, a small laugh slipping out. “there’s a place a few blocks from the garden,” he says, a little more straightforward now. “we usually go there sometimes. after games.”
you wait. he glances at you again, hope and fear both in his eyes . “i could take you. if you’re already there.”
your smile softens, just a little. “oh i see, so this is like… a two-part invitation.”
he huffs a quiet laugh. “i didn’t plan it like that.”
you pretend to think about it for a second, tapping your keys lightly against your palm. “…does this place have good food?”
he shrugs playfully. “debatable.”
“how honest.”
“but the fries are good.”
you nod, satisfied. “…okay.”
his eyebrows lift again. “okay?”
“i’ll accept your two part invitation. for the fries. and for you.”
he smiles, that same soft, slightly relieved expression. “good.”
you unlock your door but pause before stepping inside. “…but if i end up on the jumbotron looking confused,” you warn, “i’m blaming you.”
he grins. “i’ll gladly take that risk.”
you shake your head, smiling as you step inside your apartment. “…goodnight, fraser.”
“goodnight, y/n.”
your door clicks shut behind you, and in perfect rom com fashion, you sink back against it. suddenly, living two doors down from fraser minten feels like the best decision you’ve made since moving to boston.
