Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
“Surrender Donald” – Gay activists rally outside Trump Tower in New York, protesting the city’s tax breaks for luxury real estate developers while thousands of people with AIDS sleep in the streets. Oct. 31, 1989
from an irritated "oh, fuck!" to a confident "fuck it", your entire relationship with John Logan can be mapped out in seven specific exclamations of his favorite four-letter word.
word count : 6.1k (sorry) — enemies to lovers, kind of — logan is moody — SMUT, minors DNI — Enjoy and please tell me what you think !
One — "Oh, fuck!"
The music wasn’t just loud; it was vibrating through the old floorboards and thumping directly against your ribs. You’d only been there for twenty minutes, entirely dragged along by Hannah, who was currently tucked under Garrett’s arm near the doorway. Watching them was sweet—almost nauseatingly so—but it left you feeling like a ghost drifting through a sea of oversized jerseys, loud hockey players, and the thick scent of cheap beer. For the most part, the rest of the boys were incredibly welcoming; even though you'd just met them tonight, they were already loud, inherently kind and easy to be around.
Except for John Logan.
You hadn’t actually been introduced to him yet, but you’d felt his suffocating vibe the moment he walked through the door. He looked like absolute thunder. Briar had dropped a frustrating, tight game that evening, and while Garrett was channeling his nervous energy into playing the charismatic host, Logan was wearing his irritation like armor. Leaning against the kitchen counter with a dark scowl that practically screamed at people to stay away, his knuckles were white around his glass, his eyes scanning the room as if looking for a reason to snap.
Navigating that crowded, chaotic kitchen with a brim-filled, sticky mixed drink was your first mistake. Your second was catching the rubber toe of your sneaker on the lifting edge of a rogue anti-fatigue mat near the sink.
You stumbled forward, your arms flailing wildly in a desperate, ungraceful bid for balance. You didn’t fall, but your cup did a violent, mid-air flip, slipping from your fingers. A torrential wave of sticky, dark rum and cola splashed directly across the pristine gray fabric of Logan’s Henley shirt, soaking through the chest, darkening the material instantly and dripping down the front of his dark jeans.
Logan froze. His head snapped down slowly, looking at the huge, dark stain spreading across his clothes, and then his gaze lifted to yours. His eyes were blazing, a dangerous brown, entirely unamused and dripping with venom. "Oh, fuck!" he snapped, his voice cutting right through the ambient noise like a knife. He pulled the wet, heavy fabric away from his skin with two fingers, a look of pure annoyance twisting his features. "Are you serious right now? Watch where the hell you're going."
The sheer aggression in his tone caught you completely off guard, instantly sparking your own deeply ingrained, stubborn nature. You had been about to apologize profusely, the words of remorse already forming on your tongue, but the bite in his words choked them right out of your throat. You squared your shoulders, refusing to back down under his glare. "It was an accident," you retorted, pulling a few crumpled, napkins from the counter and shoving them toward his chest. "You don't have to be a complete dick about it. It’s just a shirt, I'm pretty sure you'll survive."
"It's a wet, sticky shirt at the end of a terrible, exhausting fucking day," he growled, his voice dropping an octave as he batted your hand away with a harsh flick of his wrist. He didn't take the napkins; they fluttered uselessly to the floor. Instead, he leaned down slightly, giving you a long, icy glare that made you feel about two inches tall, his jaw clenching so hard you could see the muscle tick. "Next time, look up from your feet." Without waiting for a response, he turned on his heel and storming down the hallway toward the stairs, muttering curses under his breath.
You stood there rooted to the spot, your cheeks burning with a toxic mixture of intense embarrassment and sudden, deep-seated dislike. Garrett materialized at your side a split second later, a sympathetic, slightly apologetic grimace on his face as he patted your shoulder gently. "Hey, don't sweat it," Garrett reassured you quietly, glancing warily toward the stairs where Logan had disappeared. "Logan’s just in a brutal mood because of the game, and he hates losing more than anyone. He's usually a great guy, I swear. He’ll have forgotten all about it by tomorrow morning."
You forced a tight, fake smile and nodded, but as you looked down at your empty, sticky hands, a bitter taste lingered in your mouth. Spoiler alert: he wouldn't forget. and neither would you.
Two — "Fuck you"
A few weeks later, the initial friction hadn’t dissolved; it had hardened into a permanent, icy chill. You tried your best to play nice for the sake of Hannah and Allie, but Logan made it incredibly difficult. You saw how he was with the rest of their circle—fiercely loyal, easygoing, and warm. He was the kind of guy who quietly made sure Allie and Hannah got home safe from their late shifts and spent his free afternoons helping Jules with media stuff. He was patient with the entire world. But the exact millisecond you walked into a room, his posture stiffened and his jaw set. You hated being the sole exception to his good nature, so you simply stayed out of his way.
The breaking point came on a gray, rainy Tuesday afternoon. You and Hannah had walked over to the hockey house to help Tucker untangle a massive, soul-crushing history assignment he was drowning in. The three of you were spread across the dining table, surrounded by a chaotic mess of highlighters, laptop cords, and heavy library textbooks.
The back door clicked open, and Logan walked in. He was wearing his Briar athletic gear, a damp towel slung over his shoulders from a post-practice shower, his hair messy and wet. He looked exhausted, his shoulders tense, carrying the unmistakable hangover of a brutal morning practice. Instead of walking past to the kitchen, he paused by the table, leaning over Tucker’s shoulder to scan the open pages. He let out a heavy, deliberate sigh. "You’re using the wrong primary sources for that era, Tuck," Logan said, his voice dropping into that effortless, uninvited authority. "You need the economic logs from the eastern front, not these political manifestos. You’re going to tank your thesis statement with those."
Tucker blinked up, looking miserable. "Wait, really? I thought—"
"We checked those, Logan," you interrupted, keeping your voice level and calm as you kept your eyes on your notebook. "We've got it handled," you smiled, trying to remain polite.
Logan didn't move. His eyes slid slowly down to the side of your face, unamused. "Right. Because you're an expert on 20th-century economic trade?"
"No," you said, your pen pausing on the page. "But I can read a syllabus. If you're so worried about Tucker's academic results, you could have sat down and helped him yourself already."
Logan’s jaw tightened, a sharp spike of tension instantly replacing his usual easygoing demeanor. He took his hands out of his pockets and leaned forward, bracing his palms on the edge of the table, firmly invading your space. Tucker shot Hannah a wide-eyed, panicked look across the textbooks, both of them suddenly bracing for impact.
"I gave him my old notes weeks ago," Logan shot back, his voice dropping into something smaller, tighter. "But sure, ignore the guy who actually passed the class because you're too stubborn to take a note from me."
"I'm not being stubborn, you're just being a patronizing prick," you retorted, leaning back in your chair. "You’ve been hovering over this table for five minutes just looking for a problem because you had a bad day and want to take it out on someone."
Logan let out a harsh, dry laugh, though there was a flicker of genuine frustration in his eyes—the look of a good guy who couldn't understand why he kept letting you bait him. "Take it out on someone? Trust me, if I wanted to take anything out on someone, I wouldn't waste my time on you. I'm trying to keep my friend from bombing a midterm because he made the mistake of letting you organize his thoughts."
"My thoughts are perfectly fine, Logan," Tucker muttered quietly under his breath, his eyes glued to his laptop screen, desperately trying to dissolve into the background.
"They're fine when you're left alone, Tuck," Logan said, keeping his eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring his teammate's plea. "Not when you're letting someone drag their own contrarian agenda into your coursework."
"A contrarian agenda?" You stood up, your chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. Hannah flinched at the sharp noise, withdrawing her hands from the table and motioning for Tucker to leave the potential future crime scene. They both complied quickly, knowing you both well enough to understand that trying to reason with you in that moment would be pointless. "Are you actually insane? I'm sorry that anyone else having a brain in this house threatens your need to micromanage every single thing that happens under this roof."
"It doesn't threaten me at all," Logan said, standing up straight and towering over you, using his height to crowd your space until his shadow completely blocked out the light from the window. The sheer, uncharacteristic anger rolling off him was suffocating; Tucker actually slid his chair back a few inches, completely done with trying to intervene at this point. "It annoys me. You annoy me, actually. I'm not going to walk on eggshells in my own dining room because you can't handle a basic correction."
"I can handle a correction if it's respectful," you shot back, your heart hammering against your ribs, but you refused to take a step away from him. "You don't want to help Tucker. You just want to feel like the smartest guy in the room and that is annoying."
"I dont—," Logan started, a nervous scoff escaping his lips. "You don't know anything about me. Please let's keep it this way, since you clearly can't stand me anyway."
"You're the one who treats me like an absolute inconvenience the second I breathe in your direction!" you yelled, the weeks of being ignored, brushed off, and glared at finally boiling over into raw, unadulterated anger. "If you hate me being here so much, just say it. But stop acting like I'm the one bringing the venom into this house when you're the one dripping it."
The air between you turned completely volatile, thick enough to choke on. A strange, angry electricity snapped between you, the argument completely detached from history or homework now, exposed and raw. Logan stared down at you, his breathing heavy and uneven as he tried to swallow down the sheer frustration rolling off him in waves. He leaned down slightly, bringing his face inches from yours, his jaw clenching so hard a muscle violently ticked in his cheek.
"Fuck you," he whispered.
The words hit with a cold, deliberate weight that vibrated in the dead-silent room. Before you could fire back, Tucker's voice boomed from the kitchen archway, stern and completely done with both of you. "Enough! Both of you, cut it the hell out."
But the damage was done. The look in Logan's eyes made something tight and painful twist in your chest. You refused to sit there and breathe the same air as him for another second. Blindly turning around, you grabbed your laptop and notebook, shoving them into your backpack with rigid, uncooperative hands.
"I'm leaving," you muttered, keeping your eyes glued firmly to the floor as you pushed past Hannah’s reaching hand on the way out. You grabbed your jacket from the hook and left through the front door, slamming it hard enough to rattle the frame, stepping out into the pouring, cold rain with the echo of his voice looping in your head like a curse.
Three — "Fuck off"
For the next month, you became an absolute expert at avoiding John Logan. You turned it into an art form. If he was at a crowded house party, you stayed firmly in the kitchen or on the opposite porch. If the entire group gathered at Malone's, you ensured you sat on the exact opposite end of the long table, hidden behind Dean's loud gestures.
Because of this, you never saw the way his eyes silently followed you when you entered a room, or the almost guilty look that crossed his face whenever your name came up in conversation. He knew he'd crossed a line by cursing at you like that—but your unbreakable silence gave him absolutely no room to apologize, and his own stubborn pride kept him from forcing the issue.
There were small signs of his guilt, though. One random Thursday afternoon, he showed up at the place you shared with Hannah and Allie, claiming he was just dropping off a spare hockey hoodie Garrett had left in his truck. You had stayed in your room with the door cracked just an inch, watching through the tiny gap as he lingered by the entrance, his eyes constantly drifting toward your door, silently checking to see if you'd come out. You hadn't moved an inch, holding your breath until he finally left.
Eventually, Hannah and Allie staged a full-blown intervention. A brand-new club had opened downtown, and they absolutely refused to let you stay home and rot in your room, even though they openly admitted the boys were all coming along. You finally relented, numbing your spiking anxiety by pouring yourself two heavy pre-game vodka crans before leaving the house.
The club was a massive sensory overload—flashing neon lights, artificial fog, and heavy, chest-thumping bass that made communication impossible. By midnight, everyone was comfortably, heavily drunk. You were leaning your back against the sticky mahogany bar, sipping a gin and tonic, when you finally caught sight of him through the pulsing crowd.
Logan was laughing at something Beau said, a dark red bandana tied tightly around his messy hair, looking effortlessly, devastatingly handsome in a black fitted t-shirt. As if sensing the weight of your gaze, his head turned. His dark eyes locked directly onto yours across the smoky crowded room. He didn’t look away. He held your stare for a second, then two, then three — a strange, intense, unreadable heat settling over his features before a group of dancers blocked your view.
A few minutes later, a guy from one of the campus fraternities slithered up next to you on the edge of the dance floor. He was loud, sweaty, and smelled entirely too much like cheap cologne and whiskey — but a little bit of dancing could help taking your mind off of a certain hockey player, you thought. You enjoyed it at first, moving along, focusing on the music, the stranger getting closer and closer as the playlist progressed. But then, just as you started to feel good - just the right amount of alcohol in your veins to feel lighter and relaxed - he tried to grind his hips against yours. You tried to step back, laughing it off politely at first, pushing his hands away, but he didn't take the hint. His hands came down on your waist, his fingers digging into your hips, pulling you flush against him with a grip that was far too tight and aggressive.
Before you could even raise your hands to shove his chest, a massive shadow loomed over both of you.
A now familiar hand gripped the frat guy’s shoulder, spinning him around with enough force to make his sneakers squeak on the floor.
"Fuck off," Logan snarled, his voice a low, lethal vibration that cut right through the heavy bass of the music. He leaned in until he was nose-to-nose with the guy. "Get your fucking hands off her and fuck off right now."
The guy looked at Logan and wisely raised his hands in surrender, backing away rapidly into the foggy crowd without throwing a single punch.
Logan’s breathing was heavy, his chest heaving, his fists still clenched tightly at his sides as his eyes scanned the immediate area like a wild animal looking for another threat. He looked ready to tear the entire club apart with his bare hands. Anxious that he might actually chase the guy down for a fight, you stepped directly into his line of sight, capturing his attention.
"Logan," you breathed, your voice soft and entirely stripped of its usual sarcasm. Without thinking about the consequences, you reached out, your bare fingers wrapping around his forearm.
The exact millisecond your skin met the warm, rock-hard muscle of his arm, Logan froze entirely. It was the first time the two of you had ever willingly, gently touched, and the effect was instantaneous. The blinding anger seemed to drain out of him in a single breath, replaced by a sudden, sharp intake of air. He looked down at your small hand resting on his arm, his skin tingling where you touched him, and then he slowly, deliberately lifted his gaze to your eyes.
The noisy club, the flashing strobe lights, the roaring bass, the alcohol—it all faded into irrelevant background noise. You stood face-to-face on the crowded dance floor, completely motionless, just looking into each other's eyes. Your heart was hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, not from fear of the frat guy, but from a sudden, dizzying, terrifying realization. Looking into his wide, intensely focused eyes, you realized you didn't hate him. Not even close. And from the soft, almost vulnerable parting of his lips, he didn't hate you either. You weren't close to being friends yet, but the ice had officially shattered into a million pieces.
Four — "What the fuck"
The shift between you was subtle, but it was absolutely undeniable. The sharp hostility was gone, completely replaced by a quiet, lingering, heavy awareness that neither of you knew quite what to do with.
A week later, you were sitting in a sunlit corner booth at Malone’s. You were completely, entirely absorbed in a brutal, multi-chapter study session for your finals, a pair of heavy over-ear headphones clamped securely over your ears. The sweet, nostalgic melody of American Pie was playing through the speakers, and without even realizing it, you were softly humming along to the chorus, tapping the cap of your yellow highlighter rhythmically against the open pages of your textbook.
You were so deeply focused on your notes that you didn't hear the diner's front door chime, nor did you see Logan walk in. He was there to finalize the last-minute details for the upcoming Hockey Fundraiser with Hannah and Della. But the exact moment his eyes scanned the room and spotted you sitting alone in the corner booth, he stopped dead in his tracks.
He didn’t approach right away. He just stood near the counter, watching you. A soft, genuine smile tugged at the corners of his mouth as he listened to your faint, slightly off-key humming.
Prickled by the sudden, distinct sensation of eyes on you, you blinked and lifted your head from your textbook. Logan instantly wiped the smile from his face, clearing his throat roughly and pretending to read a missing cat flyer on the bulletin board.
You pulled your headphones down, a small smirk playing on your lips. "You know, if you stare any harder, you're going to burn a hole right through my skull, Logan."
Instead of snapping back with a sarcastic, biting retort like he used to, Logan let out a soft chuckle. He walked over to your booth and, to your surprise, slid into the bench by your side, his knee almost touching yours.
"Just making sure you weren't torturing the rest of the innocent customers with your singing," he teased gently, his shoulder brushing against yours in the tight space.
You rolled your eyes, but there was no spite left in your expression. "I happen to have the voice of a literal angel, thank you very much. You're just jealous."
The playful banter slowly subsided into a comfortable silence. Logan looked at you, his expression turning a little more serious, his eyes softening as his voice dropped to a much quieter register. "Hey… are you doing okay?" Since what happened the other night, obviously implied by the way he looked at you right now, concern written all over his face.
You felt a warm flush creep up your neck and settle into your cheeks. "I'm okay, thank you" you smiled and he nodded, both silently agreeing not to discuss this unpleasant event anymore. You paused, looking down at his large hands resting on the table before forcing yourself to look back up. "How are you doing ? With the fundraiser and everything, I mean. You look like you haven't slept in a week."
He seemed genuinely surprised that you were asking about him. Really, truly asking. He leaned back against the vinyl booth, a soft sigh escaping his lips as he completely opened up to you. He talked about the immense stress of managing the team's high expectations, his constant worries about Jules’ upcoming exams, and the suffocating pressure of the NHL scouts attending the next three games. You listened intently, never interrupting, offering gentle encouragement and a few dry, sarcastic jokes that had him laughing quietly into his palms. For a full hour, the two most stubborn, argumentative people at Briar University just… talked.
"Well," you finally said, checking the diner clock and reluctantly packing your laptop into your bag. "I have to get to my shift at the library. Don't let Della bully you into paying extra for the tableware."
"I won't," Logan said, his eyes tracking your every movement, lingering on your face. "See you around?"
"See you around." You gave him a small, genuine smile—the first real one he'd ever received from you—and walked out into the crisp afternoon air, your heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.
Inside the booth, Logan sat completely still for a long, agonizing moment. He watched your retreating figure through the glass window until you turned the corner and disappeared from view. Slowly, he let out a shaky exhale, burying his face entirely in his hands. He rubbed his palms over his eyes, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
"What the fuck," he whispered into the empty diner booth, his voice laced with a mixture of absolute awe and sheer, unadulterated panic. He was screwed. He was completely, utterly, hopelessly screwed, and he knew there was no turning back.
Five — "Well, fuck"
The night of the Briar Hockey Fundraiser at Malone’s was a chaotic, high-energy, glittering success. The entire diner had been completely transformed for the evening—the regular tables had been pushed to the far perimeter to create a makeshift dance floor, strings of warm fairy lights hung across the ceiling, and a massive turnout of wealthy alumni, boosters, and students kept the bar utterly slammed.
You had dressed up significantly for the occasion, wearing a form-fitting, emerald green silk dress that Allie let you borrow from her closet - of course. You spent the first half of the night talking to Hannah near the punch bowl, but your eyes kept unconsciously tracking a certain someone across the room.
Logan was entirely in his element—charming the older donors, laughing easily with his teammates, and looking entirely too edible for your own good.
Around midnight, the formal event finally dissolved into a proper, rowdy college party. The DJ cranked up a heavy, slow, rhythmic pop song, the bass echoing through the floor, and the dance floor filled up with couples. You were navigating the edge of the sweaty crowd, trying to find Allie when a sudden, firm, yet gentle pull on your wrist guided you backward.
You spun around on your heels, your chest bumping right into Logan’s broad torso. "You've been actively dodging me all night," he murmured, his deep voice vibrating right against your skin as his large hand settled naturally around yours. The casual, unhesitating intimacy of the gesture sent a fierce, blinding jolt of electricity straight down your spine.
"I wasn't dodging you, I was letting you do your official host duties," you shot back, a wicked, playful smile spreading across your lips. The alcohol gave you a surge of confidence, and you looped your arms slowly around his neck, stepping closer into his personal space until there was absolutely no air left between you. "Besides, I didn't think you could actually handle me dancing with you."
Logan’s dark eyes lit up instantly, a dangerous, competitive challenge flaring in his pupils. He pulled you a fraction of an inch closer. "Oh, really? Try me, sweetheart."
You didn't hesitate. As the heavy beat of the music dropped, you shifted your weight, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, and sinfully against his. You leaned in close, your lips brushing the warm shell of his ear as you whispered, "You're all talk, John Logan. Let's see if you can actually keep up with me."
You pulled back just enough to look at him, your hands sliding down his chest to grip the crisp fabric of his shirt, tugging him rhythmically, tightly against your body. The friction was immediate, heavy, and intoxicating. Logan’s breath hitched audibly in his throat. A dark, intense flush crept up his neck, coloring his sharp cheekbones as his hands settled on your waist, his fingers digging firmly into your skin through the thin fabric of your dress. He swallowed hard, his eyes dropping helplessly to your parted lips, entirely overwhelmed and undone by the sudden confidence of your movements. He could feel exactly how much you were affecting him, his body reacting instantly to the touch of your hips.
A breathless, desperate laugh escaped him. He jerked his head back for a split second, fighting a losing battle for self-control. "Well, fuck," he muttered, his voice raw, completely devoid of its usual composure.
"Did I break the big, tough hockey player already?" you cooed, tilting your chin up tauntingly, your noses almost touching as you continued to sway against him.
"You wish," he groaned, his thumbs stroking the bare skin of your lower back where your dress dipped low. He didn't pull away. Instead, he pulled you even tighter against his lower body, matching your sinful rhythm perfectly, his dark eyes locked onto yours with a burning intensity that made it very clear the playful teasing was rapidly turning into something much more dangerous and inevitable. When the night finally forced you apart, it didn't feel like a goodbye — it was a promise.
Six — "Fuck"
Some things are bound to reach a breaking point, and the agonizing tension building between you for months was no exception. Three nights later, Briar won a massive game and the ensuing after-party at the boys' house was pure chaotic madness. The house was packed to maximum capacity, a sweaty, pulsing mass of drunken celebration, loud music, and screaming students.
But you and Logan weren't paying any attention to the party. For the past two hours, you had been moving around the house like two high-powered magnets — constantly drawing closer, stealing long, heated glances across the crowded rooms, the unspoken, heavy weight of the fundraiser hanging between you.
Seeking a brief moment of quiet to cool down your flushed skin, you headed down the dark back hallway toward the upstairs bathroom. Just as you reached out for the brass doorknob, the door swung open from the inside.
Logan stepped out.
You nearly crashed straight into his chest, cutting your breath short as you ground to a halt mere inches from him. The hallway was swallowed by shadows, save for the frantic strobe lights bleeding in from the living room. Logan stared down at you, wide-eyed, his chest rising and falling in sync with the thick, suffocating heat pulsing through the house.
Neither of you said a single word. The months of toxic banter, the vicious, screaming arguments, the desperate avoidance, and the agonizing teasing all converged into a single, breathless, breaking second.
Logan reached out with lightning speed, his large hand wrapping around your waist, and shoved you backward into the bathroom, slamming the heavy wooden door shut behind you and twisting the lock with a sharp, echoing click.
Before the sound of the lock could even fade, his mouth crashed onto yours.
It was an absolute explosion. The kiss was passionate, borderline feral, a violent release of pure, pent-up, crazy frustration. You let out a muffled gasp against his lips, your hands flying up to rip into his dark hair, pulling him down toward you out of sheer desperation. He groaned deep in his throat, a sound of pure hunger, pinning your body flat against the heavy wooden door, his thick thighs crowding tightly between yours. His hands were absolutely everywhere—clutching your face, tracing the line of your throat, gripping your hips with a bruising, desperate force that felt incredibly, entirely right.
"Logan," you whimpered against his mouth as he tore his lips away to kiss your jawline, your neck - his hands sliding down to frantically bunch up the silk fabric of your dress.
With a sudden burst of strengh, he hooked his large hands under your thighs and lifted you effortlessly into the air. You wrapped your legs tightly around his waist as he deposited you onto the cold marble edge of the bathroom sink counter. He didn't waste a single second. His hands slid all the way up the bare, warm skin of your thighs, finding the edge of your underwear. His fingers quickly found your slick, burning, over-sensitized core, rubbing against you through the damp fabric with a rhythm that made your head tilt back and earned a large grin from him.
You arched your back off the counter, a loud sob escaping your lips, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders.
"You like that?" Logan growled against your neck, his voice dripping with lust. His fingers moved faster, driving you up a steep, agonizing cliff. "Tell me you want it."
"Logan," you breathed out, "please," you cried out, your head tossing back against the large bathroom mirror. Your hands flew down to his waist, frantically, blindly fumbling with the button of his jeans. You shoved the denim down his hips until his length snapped free—thick, heavy, and pulsing with heat. The moment your fingers wrapped tightly around him, moving in a fast, desperate stroke, Logan’s eyes rolled back.
His jaw clenched so hard a muscle ticked violently in his neck. He couldn't endure the exquisite torture for long, his quiet moans matching your own, before his large hand clamped over yours, freezing your movement. "Stop, stop," he panted, his chest wild, his forehead pressing against yours. "I'm going to come right now if you keep doing that. I need to feel you, right now."
With trembling, frantic hands, he reached into the small drawer next to the sink—Dean’s emergency stash—and ripped open a foil condom wrapper, spitting the plastic away and rolling it onto himself in one fluid, desperate motion.
Then he stepped back between your open thighs. His hands gripped your hips with an iron hold, dragging you to the very edge of the marble counter. He aligned himself against you, waiting just long enough for your frantic nod of approval. With one heavy, unyielding, possessive thrust, he buried himself completely inside you.
The sheer, overwhelming pleasure of that sudden fullness hit you both at once, fracturing the quiet of the bathroom with a sharp, mutual gasp. Instead of slowing down, the friction only stoked the fire, drawing a long, ragged, shattered exhale from deep in Logan's chest. His pupils were completely dilated, dark and wild with pure lust as his forehead dropped heavily against your shoulder.
"Fuck," he groaned into the crook of your neck, his voice a raw, visceral prayer vibrating against your collarbone.
His hands tightened on your hips, his fingers digging into your skin like an anchor as he immediately established a rhythm. The restraint dissolved into pure instinct. He pulled you flush against him, his thrusts becoming powerful, deep, and utterly relentless from the very start. Every heavy drive forced a breathless cry from your lips, the sound echoing off the tiled walls. You rocked together on the cold edge of the marble sink, your bodies generating a feverish heat that defied the chilly stone beneath you.
The bass from the after-party still thudded through the floorboards, a distant, muffled reminder of the chaotic world outside, but within the locked walls of the bathroom, that world was entirely forgotten. There was only the slick, friction-heavy slide of skin against skin, the frantic tangle of your fingers in his hair, and the hot, primal rhythm consuming you both.
The friction was dizzying, driving you both toward a precipice that neither of you could fight anymore. Logan’s pace turned frantic, his breath coming in harsh, ragged stabs against your ear as his hips slammed against yours with an undoing, desperate urgency. Every stroke sent a white-hot wave of pleasure straight to your core, tightening the coil inside you until it was agonizing.
You choked out a breathless, broken sound, your hands clamping onto his biceps as your head thrashed back against the mirror once more.
He didn't need words to know you were right there. He buried his face in your hair, his teeth grazing your shoulder as he delivered three more devastatingly deep, relentless thrusts.
That was the final breaking point. Your walls clamped down around him tight and pulsing, fracturing your breath into a loud, ruined cry as your entire body shattered into a blinding, head-to-toe release.
Hearing you break completely ruined him. Logan let out a guttural, unhinged groan that vibrated deep in his chest. His jaw locked, his body rigid and trembling as he gave one last, deeply possessive shove, throwing his weight into you as he came violently inside the condom. He held himself deep within you, his hips shuddering against yours as he rode out the waves of his own release, the two of you panting heavily in the quiet aftermath, entirely spent.
Seven — "Fuck it"
Roughly thirty minutes later, the two of you finally emerged from the bathroom. You had tried your absolute best to fix your chaotic appearance in the mirror—re-applying a bit of smudge-proof lip gloss, smoothing down the wrinkled fabric of your dress, and trying to tame your wildly tangled hair with your fingers—but the physical evidence of what had just occurred was written all over your faces. Your skin was flushed a deep unmistakable pink, your lips were incredibly swollen and red, and Logan was walking with a loose, stupidly contented, proud stride, his hair completely disheveled and sticking up in directions where your fingers had repeatedly torn through it.
The exact moment you stepped back onto the floor of the crowded living room, a loud, piercing whistle cut through the air.
Dean was leaning against the back of the sofa, a beer dangling from his fingers and a knowing smirk plastered across his face. His eyes darted from you to Logan, zeroing in instantly on the faint trace of your lip gloss smeared along Logan’s jawline.
"Well, well, well," he said, loud enough to be heard over the music. "Must have been a pretty intense plumbing emergency in there. Either that, or you two just went ten rounds with a blender. You might want to wipe your face, Logan."
Your cheeks instantly burned. You took a step back. "Dean, shut up, we were just—"
But Logan didn't let you finish the lie. He looked down at you, catching the slight panic in your eyes, and then looked over at Dean, who was practically vibrating with smug satisfaction.
Instead of getting defensive, Logan just let out a short, quiet laugh. The stubbornness, the secrecy, the remnants of your old feud—it all suddenly felt completely irrelevant. He was tired of hiding it.
"You know what? Fuck it," Logan muttered.
Before you could process the words, his hand slid around the back of your neck, his thumb resting against your jaw as he pulled you flush against his chest. Right there by the sofa, he leaned down and kissed you.
Dean threw his arms up in a dramatic, sweeping gesture. "About damn fucking time! Graham, you owe me twenty bucks!"
When Logan finally pulled back, his eyes were bright, a relaxed, genuinely happy smile playing on his lips as his thumb brushed your cheek. You looked up at him, the noise of the party fading into the background, finally realizing that the long, argumentative journey of seven dirty words had brought you exactly where you were supposed to be.
A/N: just like probably half the female population, im obsessed with the new off campus series so i just had to write something inspired by that and who doesn't love a good college au with the fake dating trope??
WORD COUNT: 10.7k
SUMMARY: After an unfortunate game of truth or dare you're faced with a problem you weren't expecting. What you were also not expecting was Harry Styles offering to fake date you to solve your situation. But how are you gonna survive pretending to date the guy you've been crushing on since basically day one of college?
MASTERLIST | SUPPORT ME!
Every time you go to a party you have a certain excitement rushing through your veins for some reason. Something always happens, there’s not a dull night when a party is happening somewhere on campus.
With your roommate, Noor by your side and a few other girls from your dorm you walk into the frat house, where the party is fully raging, music is thumping through the walls, laughter and screaming is heard from somewhere practically all the time, the house is packed. You squeeze through the crowd carefully, trying not to spill the drink Noor practically forced into your hand the second you walked in. Someone is already dancing on the kitchen counter, a couple is aggressively making out against the fridge and one of the frat brothers runs past you wearing nothing but swim trunks and cowboy boots, though that’s nothing surprising.
“I aspire to be him!” Noor shouts through the music, pointing towards Cowboy Boots guy and you just laugh.
She grabs your wrist and pulls you deeper into the house where a bunch of people you know from the dorm next to yours already claimed a spot in the living room. Most of these faces you only see at parties, but you always greet each other like old friends. Frat parties surely bring people together.
As you squeeze into their circle you spot an even more familiar face and your stomach immediately tightens.
Harry is sitting on the couch, like always, he somehow looks completely effortless in the middle of chaos, one arm lazily stretched across the back of the couch, messy curls bouncing with each head movement he makes.
His eyes lift, meeting yours and suddenly, you feel way too aware of your own presence. Thinking of it, the excitement you feel before parties is most likely because of him, rather than the party itself. He is a well-known name around campus, as captain of the hockey team he is definitely a star athlete girls swoon after, understandably. He’s got that boyish charm mixed with something mysterious and his good looks are definitely helping his case, they have you in a chokehold since freshman year. The two of you have been running in the same circles, thanks to Noor and her popularity, but it’s not like you’ve been best of friends.
Harry’s expression brightens slightly in recognition and he lifts his cup toward you in greeting.
“Hey,” he says when you settle in the circle.
“Hey,” you breathe out, like you’re talking to a celebrity or something.
Pathetic, you think to yourself and look away before your staring could turn awkward. Then Noor throws in her favorite game she always makes people play at parties, mostly because she likes when things get messy.
“Okay!” she claps loudly. “We’re playing truth or dare because I’m bored.”
A chorus of approval rises around the group.
“Maybe we could play something else,” you suggest, hoping to save yourself from public humiliation. Unfortunately for you, Noor never considers that.
“Nope, this will be perfect,” she grins proudly.
Naturally, she likes to encourage a heavily alcoholic version of the game, where basically everyone has to drink for practically everything. So ten minutes later you’re sitting on the carpet with your legs crossed, an empty beer bottle in the middle of the circle and a worrying amount of alcohol in your system as the game goes on. Dares have been a popular choice so far, a girl has kissed her ex, a guy has given a lapdance to a girl he didn’t know, but truths are making rounds as well and the game gets dirtier with every round.
Then the bottle spins again and this time it lands on you.
“Nooo,” you groan, dropping your head back., taking a mandatory sip of your drink.
“Truth or dare?” one of the frat boys asks excitedly.
“Truth,” you answer quickly. “Always truth. I’m not getting arrested tonight.”
“I would bail you out,” Noor laughs beside you.
“Thank you, but I’ll stick to truth.”
The guy grins mischievously.
“Okay then… Out of everyone you’ve hooked up with on campus…” he starts, making everyone lean in immediately, “who gave you the best orgasm?”
The group explodes into screaming before you can even process the question.
“Drop the name, girl!” someone hollers while you feel heat creeping up your neck and cheeks.
Your gaze meets Harry’s for a second, he is just smiling, waiting for your answer like everyone else. Maybe it’s from the alcohol, maybe it’s the exhaustion from dealing with disappointing men, but you feel like being blunt about your answer.
“That would require one of them actually giving me one.”
It’s like you just dropped a bomb, everyone explodes, no one expected you to say that. Noor nearly falls over laughing beside you while someone across the circle chokes on their drink.
“Wait, seriously?” another girl asks, eyes wide.
You shrug, trying to act far more unbothered than you actually feel as heat crawls up your neck.
“What?” you laugh nervously. “You asked.”
When you glance at Harry again, expecting him to laugh like everyone else, he doesn’t. He’s still smiling faintly, but there’s something else in his expression now, something more curious than amused.
“Honestly? Real,” a brunette across the circle says, raising her drink toward you dramatically.
“Thank you!” another girl immediately shouts from the couch. “Finally someone said it!”
The girls erupt into laughter and cheers while a few of the guys start protesting loudly.
“Oh come on!”
“There’s no way all of them were bad.”
“Y’all are brutal tonight.”
“No, you’re just bad at sex,” Noor says matter-of-factly before taking a sip of her drink. The room explodes again. You cover your face with your hands, laughing despite yourself.
“This is exactly why I didn’t want to play.”
“Oh my God,” one of the hockey players groans. “You just destroyed male morale for the rest of the semester.”
“As she should,” a girl mutters.
Someone throws a pillow across the circle and suddenly everybody starts yelling over each other at once.
“Alright, alright!” the frat guy running the game laughs. “Damn, didn’t know we were starting gender wars tonight.”
“Too late for that,” Noor snorts beside you. You sink back slightly into your spot on the carpet, cheeks still burning, but weirdly… lighter. Because honestly? It kinda felt good to actually say it out loud, you’ve been carrying this secret around for way too long.
Then one of the guys across the circle leans forward with narrowed eyes.
“Wait, so how many guys are we talking about exactly?”
“Are you trying to slut shame me now?” you arch an eyebrow at him.
“Not at all, I just need the numbers for the statistics!” he holds up his hands in defense. “Like, two out of two is not as bad a ten out of ten.”
A horrified laugh escapes you.
“Oh my God, this is not a research project.”
“No, seriously!” he insists through his own laughter. “Context matters!”
“Both versions are unacceptable on the male side!” Noor points at him.
“No!” he protests. “Two guys is kinda unfortunate, but could happen. Ten on the other hand…”
“That’s a campus epidemic,” the brunette from earlier cuts in with a laugh.
“This just proves how much women have to put up with!” Noor raises her drink and almost all the girls join her.
“Can we move on before every man in this room develops a complex?” someone groans.
“Too late,” another guy mutters into his drink.
“Still think she should name names,” somebody says, but you just roll your eyes.
Your eyes drift across the room again, instinctively searching for Harry. Bad idea, because he is already looking at you. He’s pretty quiet compared to everyone else around him, one arm hanging lazily over his bent knee now as the corner of his mouth curves upward slightly. Like he is amused by what you just admitted.
Then one of the hockey guys nudges Harry with his elbow.
“Careful, mate,” he jokes loudly. “Don’t look too interested. She’ll expose you next.”
The group bursts into laughter again. Heat immediately crawls back into your face and you grab your cup for another sip, already preparing for Harry to laugh it off. But instead, Harry barely reacts, just shrugs his shoulders and says: “I’m not on her list of disappointments, maybe you have something to worry about, Tanner?” he teases back, making everyone around them laugh.
Slowly, the rumble around your answer dies down and you carry on with the game. By the time you leave with Noor you kind of forget about it too and expect it to just become a funny story you sometimes bring up.
Well, you were wrong.
Because apparently, the information you shared wasn’t as forgettable as you expected it to be. By the next afternoon it becomes kinda viral, a meme page had posted a screenshot of your confession and some girls started a micro trend by listing names of guys who failed to please them, Noor had already sent you three of these videos.
And then there were the DMs. The worst of it all, because some guys took it quite personally and started offering their unwanted services.
be honest though was it really that bad? i could fix that for u
i can show you a good time bby
if you want I can prove you wrong
It keeps going like that all weekend, driving you insane. You notice the stares and some guys even wink at you even though you have no idea who they are. By the time Monday comes, you’re considering just dropping out of school to have peace.
Walking into your afternoon class you’re so occupied trying to stay off the radar that you totally forgot that this is the lecture you share with Harry. He often comes in late and just sits in the closest seat to the door, but this time he is there before you and waves at you to sit beside him. You hesitate for half a second, but then head over to him.
“Hey,” he says when you drop into the chair beside him.
“Hey, you smile a little nervously, grabbing your notebook from your backpack. The room is still buzzing, you still have a few minutes until the professor arrives.
Your phone vibrates on the desk and you stiffen automatically, knowing it’s another DM. Harry glances sideways at you.
“Are you alright?” he asks, leaning just a tad bit closer. You exhale through your nose.
“I’m fine.”
He hums like he doesn’t believe you, but doesn’t push it and you just ignore your phone, until it vibrates again.
And again.
You exhale sharply as you grab it and mute it fully, but your anger doesn’t go over Harry’s head entirely.
“Someone is eager to reach you, huh?”
“Um, not exactly,” you sigh, deleting the notifications from your lockscreen. “I’ve been getting some… offers.”
His eyebrows arch and he shoots you a questioning look.
“I’m hoping these are not the kind of offers I’m thinking about, but…”
“But they are,” you finish for him with a forced smile. He hums with a frown as you drop your phone into your bag so it’s not distracting you. “Seems like some guys took it very personally to change my stats,” you mumble under your breath just as the professor walks in and the lecture starts.
For about twenty minutes you’re able to ignore the shitshow that’s been following you around and actually focus on the lecture. The only distraction is Harry’s presence beside you, it’s like you can’t not notice all his movements, the way he changes position in his seat or scribbles his notes down.
Then, sometime halfway through the lecture he leans closer and whispers to you.
“I think the problem is that you’ve become a challenge for them.”
“Huh?” you turn to him confused.
“The DMs,” he nods towards your bag by your leg. “They will keep coming, because you’re a challenge to them, they all want to prove that they are the ones to change your stats.”
“Okay, yeah, I can see that,” you nod, thinking through his words.
“There’s a solution though.”
“What?” you ask, a little louder than you should be talking during a lecture. The professor clears his throat.
“Please leave the friendly chats after the class. Thank you,” he calls out with a disapproving look on his face, staring at you.
Embarrassed, you slide lower in your seat, while you hear Harry chuckling under his breath beside you. Not wanting to piss off the professor, you have to sit through the whole lecture and it’s complete torture, not knowing what Harry wanted to tell you.
The moment the class is over you turn to him.
“So what is it?”
He grins, packing up his desk. You do the same and the two of you head out together.
“So, as embarrassing as it is, men are pretty simple,” he starts explaining. “They see a challenge, their competitiveness turns on and they won’t back down until they get what they want.”
“Okay, so then what’s the solution other than dropping out of school and becoming a nun?”
Harry chuckles at your joke, which makes your stomach flip.
“The real problem here is that you’re available.”
“Available?” you frown. “For what? To be continuously disrespected by assholes?”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re available to receive their offers.”
“I don’t think I’m following,” you admit just as you reach the branching of the road, you should be heading for your next class, while Harry is about to head to practice.
“By available I mean that you’re not taken,” he rephrases. “If you were dating someone, claimed by a guy, they wouldn’t feel like they could just easily slide into your DMs and make those ridiculous offers.”
“Oh, so I’m supposed to just find someone to date me, it’s that easy?” you ask totally sarcastically and Harry once again chuckles.
“Or you can just fake date someone.”
“Because that’s easier to find someone for, right?”
“I could do it.”
Your eyes widen and lips part. Did you just hear him right? Did he just offer to be your fake boyfriend to help you out or it’s just your brain playing nasty tricks on you?
But as he stares back at you, you slowly realize that he really did say that.
“I’m sorry, what? You’re offering to fake date me?”
“Yeah,” he shrugs, like it’s no big deal.
“I… I have so many questions right now,” you admit with a flustered laugh.
“Okay, I understand,” he nods. “Well, I have practice now, but I get off at six. Why don’t we meet up and we can discuss your questions?” He is already backing away towards the sports centre while you just stand there, like a dumb statue.
“Um, okay? Sure,” you agree at last. Harry nods with a smile and then turns around and disappears in the sea of students.
***
You can’t believe it, but at six o’clock you’re waiting by the sports centre for Harry to be done with practice so you could talk about him fakedating you. How insane does that sound?
Sitting on a bench near the exit you start noticing his teammates and your pulse quickens. Every time the door opens you’re scared and kind of excited at the same time to see Harry and when it’s finally him stepping out, you feel like fainting.
But as he approaches you with a soft, friendly smile you oddly find yourself calming down.
“So, have you thought about it?” he simply asks, dropping his bag to the ground and sitting beside you.
“That’s all I’ve been doing,” you scoff truthfully, making him chuckle. “And I have so many questions.”
“Alright, let’s hear them.”
You have a million questions racing in your mind and can’t really choose one to ask first, until you find the one that’s probably the most burning.
With a sigh, you turn to face him.
“Why?”
“Why what?” he cocks his head to the side.
“Why would you do it? What’s in it for you? I know what’s in it for me, but I don’t see your side.”
Harry nods, like he’s chewing on your words, moving his gaze around the buildings surrounding you before he looks back into your eyes.
“Maybe I’m trying to make up for the damage other guys do,” he shrugs, but you give him a look that makes it clear you’re not believing him. “Or maybe I just want to mess with others. I’m bored, this sounds like fun.”
“I’m not sure this should be your way of having fun, there are so many other things to do if you’re bored.”
“But I want to do this,” he points out. “I haven’t done it, I’m curious.”
“Don’t tell me it’s on your bucket list or whatever,” you shake your head laughing and that brings a smirk to his face.
“Maybe,” he teases you. “Maybe I just want to help a friend out.”
“So we’re friends?” you ask before you could think of your words.
“Are we not?” he throws the question right back.
“I mean… We’re in the same friend group and we are friendly, but I wouldn’t necessarily call you a good friend of mine.”
“Ouch,” he puts a hand over his chest dramatically, making you roll your eyes. “Well, maybe it’s time to change that!”
“I’m not sure fake dating is the best way to bring us closer,” you chuckle in disbelief.
“Not the best, but it’s one,” he shrugs smirking and you hate just how irresistible he looks. For a moment, you just stare at him. At the way he’s smiling at you like this whole thing is exciting instead of potentially catastrophic. Like fake dating you is genuinely something he wants to do. It makes your stomach twist dangerously and the urge to just be selfish and take it heightens.
“This could backfire horribly if someone finds out we’re just faking it,” you tell him with a sigh.
“Oh, I know,” he nods confidently. “But we can figure out how to do it right.”
“You sure you want to do it?”
“I offered, didn’t I?”
“That doesn’t answer my question. I need an explicit confirmation.”
His eyes flicker over your face for a second before he leans back against the bench, stretching his legs out in front of him.
“I do genuinely want to do this.”
You stare back at him, as if you’re giving him the chance to back out, but he doesn’t and you aren’t either.
“Okay,” you nod. “Then let’s discuss how to do it.”
Harry’s grin stretches wide as he nods and just like that, the acting starts.
***
“Girl, if you keep staring at the door it might explode,” Noor pokes her elbow into your side as you sit in the cafeteria. “You’re giving it away.”
“Sorry, I just… this is so weird,” you mutter, so no one else around the table hears you.
It’s been two days since you and Harry made a pact to fakedate so guys would stop bothering you and today is your official debut. Other than parties, the cafeteria is the best place to hard launch a relationship and that’s exactly what you’re about to do, only you’re so nervous you might fall right off your chair.
You’ve discussed the most important dates and Harry suggested to just go with the flow, because planning it out too much might give you away.
Noor is the only person you told the truth. You just knew you wouldn’t be able to convince her and you need her support to actually do this.
“Yeah, but maybe stop looking like you’re expecting a SWAT team to kick the doors down,” she murmurs, making you let out a nervous laugh.
That’s when the doors open and Harry walks in with two of his teammates. Heads naturally turn in their directions, students greet them on their way over to your table and you can’t stop staring at him. Maybe it’s the nerves, or just how fucking good he looks, he consumes all your attention.
He is halfway over to your table when his gaze meets yours and his whole face softens, while your stomach flips violently.
Noor says something beside you, but you hear nothing of it as Harry walks up to you. His friends greet others at the table, taking the empty seats while Harry strides right over to you.
“Hi,” he says, eyes focused only on you, then he leans down and presses a kiss to your cheek before taking the empty chair beside you.
And if that wasn’t enough, he simply grabs the underside of your chair, pulls you closer and lazily drops a hand to your knee, acting like this whole scene was nothing special. But it was.
For you, of course, but for others too. You notice how some of the girls around the table are eyeing you with shock and surprise, like they just missed a chapter and you don’t blame them. It kinda feels like you did too.
You try your best to act normal, but there is nothing normal about Harry Styles sitting beside you like this and you’re not only talking about his hand on your knee. He sits like the two of you belong together, like… actually. Like it’s the most natural thing to waltz in here, kiss you on the cheek and let everyone know your status without even saying a word.
It’s kind of scary, but exciting too.
Noor kicks your foot lightly under the table. Your eyes snap at her and find her smiling like crazy.
“Stop,” you mouth her and force your body to relax so you’re not sitting like a plank of wood while Harry is oozing charm right beside you.
“So what did we miss?” Larissa asks from across the table, wiggling her eyebrows in your direction.
“Erm, what do you mean?” you ask innocently, but then Harry decides to move his hand from your knee and circle his arm around your shoulders, gently pulling you closer to him.
“We’re just exploring new things. Together,” he answers so nonchalantly, you’d believe him if you didn’t know the truth. Why is he so good at this?
“Oh really?” another friend of yours, Georgia asks with a smile so wide you have never seen on her face.
“What, like it’s surprising?” Harry asks and you almost instantly scream Yes! It is! but everyone else around the table thinks about it for a second and actually agrees that it’s not a shocker.
Have you fallen into another universe? Why is it not surprising to anyone that you and Harry are an item now?
Questions like that flood your mind, but you can’t ask them without blowing your cover that seems to be working perfectly, so you’re left stewing in your own head.
Harry gently squeezes your shoulder, catching your attention.
“You alright?” he asks quietly. You’re very aware of how close your faces are, you can make out every freckle and blemish on his skin, along with his ridiculously pretty lashes that frame his light green eyes.
“Yeah,” you breathe out, but you’re anything but alright at the moment.
“You’re doing good,” he gifts you with a small smile. “People are noticing us.”
Carefully, you look around in the cafeteria and realize he is right, people are eyeing the two of you, whispering and probably guessing which will eventually lead to spreading the change in your relationship status shortly.
You turn back to face Harry and once again get swept away by him. It’s only day one and you agreed to keep the facade up for a couple of weeks until something else gets the attention of everyone and you can finally return to your normal again. But all you can think of now is how fucking beautiful and kind and perfect he is and that’s way too dangerous.
Because you’re supposed to be acting, it’s only a temporary agreement, but right now, you’re scared of how the end of it will find you.
For the rest of lunch you somehow manage to ease up enough not to freak out. With the girls you talk about having a movies night sometime soon and the boys talk about sport, it’s all the same as usual. Then when it’s time to leave Harry waits for you to gather your things and you almost ask him what he wants when you realize that you are a couple now and couples walk each other to class all the time.
“I’ll carry that for you,” he says, grabbing your heavy Spanish lit textbook you can’t fit into your bag, so you usually just carry it around in your arms.
“Oh, thanks,” you nod and then he holds his hand out for you. You blink a few times before eventually taking it and the two of you walk out hand in hand, earning quite some stares.
You can’t not focus on his hold around your hand. It’s warm and his hand is much bigger than yours. His grip is relaxed and easy, like it’s not the first time the two of you are doing this. Meanwhile you’re about to spiral and question this whole agreement, but that’s exactly when a guy from the party last weekend crosses you and you do remember him sending you DMs too since your confessional.
A wide grin stretches across his face and he is already opening his mouth to say something, but that’s when he sees your hand in Harry’s. The grin slips from his face instantly, instead, he just nods at you and keeps walking.
“Oh shit, it worked!” you whisper to Harry excitedly. He peeks down at you with a satisfied grin.
“Were you doubting my plan?” he asks, arching an eyebrow. You can’t help but chuckle.
“Maybe a little. Not anymore though.”
***
By the time Thursday rolls around you’re talk of the campus, but not because of the party anymore. It’s because of you and Harry becoming an item. People whisper behind your back, the ballsy ones even ask you straight about it and you can’t walk from one class to the other without dealing with the endless stares. Although that last one might be because Harry keeps walking you whenever he has the time, holding your hand or draping an arm around your shoulders while he asks about your day.
At first you thought he was just trying to ease the awkwardness with his questions, but he’s seemed genuinely interested in your occasional rants about papers or exciting projects. You asked him about hockey and he’s been teaching you the basics of the game, even invited you to their next game which you accepted.
Solemnly because a good girlfriend would cheer on their boyfriend, not because you want to see him all sweaty and strong on the ice.
When you get back to your dorm on Thursday evening, you feel drained, it’s been a long day and you want nothing than to take a shower and rot in bed while watching a movie with your favorite snacks. Returning from the shared bathroom you’re wrapped in your fluffy bathrobe and even light a candle as you get comfortable on your bed.
Your phone buzzes just as you’re opening your bag of gummy bears. You honestly expect it to be Noor sending you another ridiculous TikTok about your “relationship,” but the second you see Harry’s name pop up on your screen, your stomach flips embarrassingly fast.
HARRY: Coach asked me if I’m dating you. Guess now truly everyone knows about us.
Y/N: No fucking way! Does he like student gossips?
HARRY: Embarrassingly, yes. He is often way too deep in our business.
You laugh out loudly at that, imagining their coach asking around about gossips during practice.
Y/N: I guess we succeeded then. I heard a girl today tell her friend that you surely write love poems for me.
HARRY: I could start if that’s what the people want.
Y/N: Please don’t.
HARRY: Wow, such an anti-romantic!
Y/N: I’m just protecting myself and you as well from the embarrassment.
HARRY: Maybe I’m a good poet? How do you know it would be embarrassing??
Y/N: Are you a good poet?
HARRY: The worst, actually.
The grin on your face is ridiculously wide as you lie in bed and just keep texting him. The movie you wanted to watch gets forgotten pretty fast.
Y/N: Then my previous statement still stands.
HARRY: I actually did write a poem for a girl in high school.
Y/N: Stop. No you didn’t!
HARRY: Oh but I did.
Y/N: Do you remember it?
HARRY: It’s permanently burnt into my mind, unfortunately.
Y/N: I wanna read it.
HARRY: Absolutely not. I rhymed “eyes” with Styles.
Y/N: You wrote your name into it??
HARRY: Damn right I did.
Y/N: Did the poem at least work?
HARRY: Fuck no. She went to prom with another guy.
Y/N: Aw, I’m sorry.
HARRY: Don’t be. My girlfriend now is way cuter.
Your heart skips a beat. Is he flirting with you? Surely, he is just joking, but still, he just called you cute.
From the desk across the room, Noor slowly lowers her laptop and squints at you suspiciously.
“Why are you smiling like that?”
“I’m not smiling.”
“Your face is about to literally burst from your smile.”
You force your face to relax, though miserably fail.
“No idea what you’re talking about,” you clear your throat.
“Who are you texting?” she asks, narrowing her eyes at you.
“Just Harry,” you answer as casually as possible, though your heart is still hammering in your chest.
“Uh-huh, just Harry.”
You school your expression and put your phone aside, opening your laptop to scroll through Netflix, though you’re not even reading any of the titles, you just want Noor’s suspicion to die down.
Unfortunately, your phone buzzes again and you grab it so fast it’s ridiculous. You type your reply to Harry while ignoring Noor’s knowing smirk from across the room.
***
It’s your first time at a hockey game, even though the sport is pretty popular at your school. It’s a home game so luckily, you don’t have to travel far. Noor happily agreed to come with you, you even watched a few videos together last night as preparation for the game, though Harry has been teaching you the basics all week.
You’re already near the sports centre when he texts you.
HARRY: When are you arriving?
Y/N: In about two minutes.
HARRY: Can you come to the back? I have something for you.
Y/N: Sure!
“Hey, can we go to the back for a second? Harry wants to meet up,” you tell Noor.
“Of course, you can meet your lover before his game,” she grins suggestively. “So how is the fake dating going?”
“Good, I guess. I’m only getting a few DMs now.”
“That’s good. And how about the thing between you and Harry?”
“What thing?” you ask nervously.
“I don’t know, you’re always texting, he whispers things to you at lunch and the two of you look very coupled up, like… very.”
“That was the goal, to make guys think I’m unavailable.”
“Oh, so it’s all fake?”
You open your mouth, wanting to say yes, but then the word dies on your tongue. Is it all fake? Noor is right, you’ve been getting closer to Harry these past days and it’s way over the level of faking. Your agreement doesn’t require the late night texts and whispered inside jokes. It definitely doesn’t require the way your stomach flips every time his name lights up on your phone either.
Noor watches you carefully, like she can physically see the spiral happening inside your head.
“Wait,” she breathes out, leaning closer like she’s about to share a secret with you. “You’re into him, for real, right?”
“No?” you snap, way too fast. Noor’s mouth hangs open.
“You like him! You’re into him!”
“Would you stop… screaming?” you wave at her, the last thing you need is to draw attention.
“I knew I felt something, like your vibes were different, but this explains it all,” she grins at you like crazy. “So since when?”
You stay quiet, warmth crawling up your neck and Noor grabs your arm.
“Holy shit, this isn’t new, right? It’s not just from the fake dating, you already had a crush on him!”
“I’m stupid for agreeing to do this, right?” you ask with panic all over your face. “Because this is now making it all worse, Noor! I can’t stop thinking about him!”
“Okay, no need to lose our shit right now. Everything is fine.” She changes from excited to supportive in an instant and that’s exactly what you need right now. She is about to continue with her peptalk when a way too familiar voice calls out your name. Turning to the side you spot Harry jogging over to you.
“Hey!” he smiles at you, then he offers a nod to Noor too, but his gaze quickly returns to you. He is already wearing his undergarments and there is something in his hands that looks like a clothing item.
“Hi,” you breathe out.
“Glad you two could make it. Here, I wanted to give this to you.” He hands you whatever in his hand and that’s when you realize it’s a jersey.
With his name and number on it.
“Girlfriends usually wear their boyfriends’ jerseys at games and I thought… You don’t have to put it on, if you don’t want to,” he quickly adds as you hold the jersey up in front of you. Your heart practically somersaults in your chest.
“No, I want to,” you answer maybe a little too quickly, fingers tightening around the fabric. Harry’s expression softens instantly, pleased by your answer.
“Good,” he smiles. “Thought you’d look cute in it.”
Beside you, Noor makes a strangled noise that suspiciously sounds like her trying not to scream. You shoot her a warning look before turning back to Harry.
“Thank you. And for the tickets as well.”
“Of course. I’ll see you in there, then,” he nods with a smile and there is a second of hesitation, like he wants to do something else. Maybe hug you? Kiss you?
But then, someone calls out for him.
“Styles! Coach is looking for you!”
“Coming!” he shouts back. “Gotta go, but I’ll see after, right? At the party?”
“Sure,” you nod smiling. Then Harry suddenly leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek before jogging back inside.
“Oh my God, you are so down for that guy,” Noor scoffs, snapping you out of your trance.
“Just shut up,” you moan, shaking your head. “Let’s get inside.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re sitting in the packed arena wearing Harry’s jersey over your clothes while Noor is talking your ear off.
“No, for real, he knows I know it’s fake, right? Why would he kiss your cheek in front of me if it’s not because he is into you?”
“Others were around as well!”
“No one was paying attention. That kiss happened because he wanted it to happen, I’m telling you!”
“Can we just close this for now?” you let out a tired sigh. The last thing you need is false hope.
“Okay, okay. Sorry,” she mumbles, bumping her shoulder against yours.
With only minutes until the game starts the seats are almost entirely filled up and a guy takes the one beside you, almost spilling his drink on you.
“Woah, sorry. These cups are way too big,” he chuckles.
“It’s alright.”
“Hey, you’re… Y/N, right?” he asks and that’s when you actually look at him. “I’m Niall, we had Intro to Psychology together last semester.”
“Oh!” your face lits up finally recognizing him. “Hi! Yeah, I remember. You were the one who argued with the professor about Freud’s significance.”
“Yup,” he grins. “She almost failed me for that one.”
“I mean, you did call her Freud’s fangirl, so…”
You both laugh at that just when the teams finally make their appearance on the ice. The entire arena erupts into cheers so loud you feel it vibrate through your chest. The players skate onto the ice one by one and it’s no surprise your eyes instantly search for Harry. You spot him easily, not just because you know what number to look for from the jersey you are wearing, but because your gaze seems to be naturally gravitating towards him. Not much can be seen from him, his gear and helmet covers most of him, but the eyes are still there.
And they find you pretty easily as well.
His gaze jumps down to your jersey and though you’re not entirely sure, but it seems like he is smiling at the sight of you wearing it. You allow yourself a tiny wave in his direction which he acknowledges with a nod before focusing his attention back at the ice.
“Spotting you in the crowd, huh?” Noor teases you, but you just poke your elbow into her side, making her laugh.
The game starts before she can continue torturing you and thankfully, hockey turns out to be way more entertaining than you expected. Fast, aggressive, chaotic. Every time someone slams another player into the wall, the crowd loses their minds.
You end up talking quite a lot with Niall, he gladly helps you out when you and Noor have questions about the rules or what’s happening on the ice. He is explaining something one of the referees just did when Harry skates past you and his head turns sharply in your direction.
The movement is not that dramatic, probably no one really noticed it, but you did, since you’ve been very focused on him during the game. His eyes flick between you and Niall for half a second before he’s skating away again.
For a minute you wonder what that was about, but then the game continues and your thoughts get occupied.
Even though you’re definitely not a pro in hockey, you can tell that Harry is playing exceptionally well. He is fast and skilled, can easily sweep right past the other players and score like it’s second nature to him. It’s kind of mesmerizing, seeing him in his element.
The third time he scored during the game the whole arena explodes. You jump up instinctively with everyone else, cheering loudly while Harry’s teammates crash into him against the glass, celebrating like mad men. Then Harry looks up, his eyes finding you instantly and he points at you with a wink. A happy laughter bubbles from your throat, your heart practically jumping out of your chest.
“That was fucking romantic,” Noor squeals next to you, but you just ignore her.
Even when Harry starts to linger more and more on your side of the rink, eyes sweeping over you every time he skates by. Once, he even skates close enough to tap his stick lightly against the glass in front of you. Niall laughs beside you.
“I’m guessing he is your boyfriend.”
“Um, yeah,” you breathe out a chuckle.
“He is making sure everyone knows it.”
Heat rushes into your cheeks immediately.
By the third period, your team is leading and the arena is electric with excitement. Everyone’s on their feet during the last minute on the clock. The game tightens even in the last seconds, but when the buzzer goes off your team is the winner. The players yell and slam into each other while the crowd screams loud enough to deafen you. Noor grabs your shoulders, shaking you excitedly while Niall high-fives everyone within reach.
And then, through the chaos, Harry’s eyes land on you again and before you could even realize what’s happening he is skating over to you.
“Oh shit, this is gonna be good!” Noor laughs, but you kinda tune her out as Harry stops by the boards right in front of you.
Pulling his helmet off he taps on the glass, motioning for you to come to the side where there’s no glass. With a hammering heart, you climb out and meet him at the side. His curls are sweaty and sticking in all directions, but he still looks so fucking good your knees almost give up.
“Made sure your first game is a winner,” he grins, leaning onto the board in front of you.
“So you scored for me?”
“Who else?” he shrugs cheekily.
Suddenly, you become more aware of your surroundings and the chanting that’s getting louder around you.
“Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” people demand, watching the two of you.
You let out a nervous chuckle, your heart is pounding so hard in your chest you’re afraid you might faint any moment. Your first thought is that it is about to get real awkward, because there’s no way Harry will kiss you. There’s no rule about how far you’re willing to go in this fake relationship, but you figured kissing is way over the line.
Well, you were wrong.
Because when you look back at Harry he is smirking at you in such a charming way, then he reaches over the barrier, grabs your waist firmly and pulls you against the board that separates the two of you. The crowd is absolutely losing it and before you could even realize what is about to happen, he is kissing you.
It’s rough, he is sweaty and still in his hockey gear, the board is hard against your hips, but it’s also the most toe-curling kiss you’ve ever experienced. His lips move so in sync with yours, there’s hunger and passion, but it’s also exploratory. The cheering intensifies around you, which is pretty fortunate since you let out a moan when his tongue swipes into your mouth.
And then he pulls back. All you see is his victorious grin as he pushes himself back from the board.
“See you at the after party,” he winks and then skates away, leaving you in a fucking puddle after the most perfect kiss ever.
***
The after party is already fully raging when you and Noor arrive. You dropped by the dorm to get changed after the game, though you actually thought about staying in the jersey Harry gave you.
Your mind has been an absolute mess since the kiss. It simply altered your whole brain chemistry and now you can’t think of anything else. The rational part of your brain keeps reminding you that it was all just for the show, but then you always end up thinking about how passionate it was, like he truly meant it. It’s a complete war in your mind.
By the time you arrive at the party you’re actually thinking about ending the whole fake dating thing, because if this is what one kiss causes, you’d get totally ruined if you kept going. There’s no way you can get through another kiss like that without falling for him entirely, so it’s better if you just go back to how everything was before.
But your decision flies right out the window the moment you meet Harry again.
He is in the kitchen when Noor and you walk in, his teammates surrounding him as he casually leans against the counter. His hair looks a tad bit damp, probably from his post-game shower, he is wearing a simple gray hoodie and black jeans, but still manages to look so fucking hot you can’t look away from him.
When he sees you, his whole face lights up and as soon as you’re within his reach his hands grab your hips, he pulls you closer and makes you stand right in front of him, with your back pressed against his hard chest, his hands remaining on your hips. His scent fills your nose, it’s fresh and a little spicy and suddenly, you completely forget about your intention to fake breakup with your fake boyfriend.
“Hi,” he murmurs into your ear. “Thought you might bail on me.”
“Did you really?” you ask quietly, craning your neck to look at him. His eyes are mesmerizing and there’s a cheeky glint in them tonight.
“No,” he smirks. “I know you’d never.”
You completely melt in his arms, leaning against him gladly as you ditch any plan to end whatever is between the two of you. Some selfishness couldn’t hurt, right?
Right.
***
You’re getting drunk on Harry. And quite some booze too. Probably it’s more the booze, but whatever.
The boys’ win kind of got you in a buzz too and couldn’t refuse a couple of shots, getting you tipsy pretty fast since you didn’t have time to have dinner.
Harry has been by your side all evening, sipping on just soda. When you asked why he is not drinking, he just shrugged and said his high from the winning is enough for him. You didn’t push him.
When Noor convinces you (quite easily) to take another shot with her you really start to feel just how much you’ve had so far.
“Woah,” Harry chuckles, when you lose balance as someone brushes past you a bit more forcefully, but he is quick to steady you with his hands on your waist. “Have you eaten, Y/N?” he asks, but there’s nothing accusatory in his tone, his eyes are still smiling.
“Um, not really,” you admit giggling.
“That explains a lot,” he smiles, hands still on your waist. Your skin feels like burning underneath his touch. “Why don’t we find something for you? I think I saw pizza boxes in the kitchen.”
“Oh! Pizza! Yummy!” you beam, making him laugh before he starts steering you in the direction of the kitchen.
A few minutes later you are sitting in a window sill with three slices of pizza stacked onto a paper plate in your hand.
“You want some?” you ask, holding a slice out for Harry while chewing on your last bite. He huffs out a laugh, leans closer and takes a bite while holding eye-contact, definitely igniting something in your tummy.
“So did you enjoy the game?” he asks, leaning against the wall next to you.
“Yeah. Now I kinda know why girls enjoy watching the boy aquarium.”
“The what?” he starts laughing.
“Boy aquarium,” you repeat grinning. “I think it’s a good name for it.”
“Wow, haven’t heard that one, but okay. Then maybe you should come to more games.”
“Mm. What about when we fake breakup?” you huff out a chuckle, busying yourself with the slice in your hand. Thinking about the time when you possibly won’t spend this much time with him kind of scares and saddens you. You’ve gotten used to being so close to him way too easily.
“You are always welcome. Fake dating or not,” he says with a soft smile.
“Careful,” you tease softly to cover up the way your pulse suddenly spikes. “You’re sounding very attached to me.”
The corners of his mouth curve slightly.
“Mm wouldn’t want that, right?” he asks, but his smiling eyes are saying something else and it’s making your heart flutter.
Before you could react something, a voice cuts the moment short.
“Styles! There you are.”
Two hockey guys appear near the kitchen entrance carrying drinks. One of them grins when he spots you tucked into the windowsill beside Harry.
“Ah, didn’t mean to interrupt the lovebirds,” the shorter one grins.
“But you kinda did,” Harry shakes his head, chuckling.
“Sorry man, it’s still kinda new that you have a girl now,” the taller one shrugs laughing and you just grin into your pizza, ignoring the way the butterflies in your stomach started dancing at being called his girls.
“Well, get used to it,” Harry simply answers, his eyes searching yours with a soft look.
“Yeah, I guess you were the one to change her stats,” a guy from behind snorts, inserting himself into the conversation and at his comment the mood changes instantly. Harry tenses beside you, a hand coming to rest on your knee, but it feels like he needs the touch to ground himself this time.
The guy who made the comment just smirks into his drink like he said the funniest thing in the world, but no one is laughing and you pretty much feel like a glass of ice cold water was dumped into your face.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Harry says flatly.
The guy lifts his hands innocently. “Relax, man. I’m joking.”
“No, you’re being a dick,” Harry shoots back immediately. You stare at him in surprise. There’s no teasing in his voice anymore, none of the usual easygoing charm. He actually looks angry.
“C’mon,” the guy laughs awkwardly. “You know what I mean. The whole campus has been talking about her confession for days, guys have been competing to get her attention and then she ends up dating you all of a sudden. Must have given her one hell of a good time.”
“None of your business,” Harry spats. “Nothing ever gives you the right to talk about a woman like that. So what’s your point exactly?” he asks coldly with a deathstare.
“Jesus, I was just joking,” he mumbles, already turning around to walk away, but Harry takes a step ahead to speak his mind before the guy goes.
“Stop reducing women to stupid challenges and games. And for the record,” he continues sharply, “I’m dating her because I like her. Not because I’m trying to win some disgusting competition you all made up in your heads.”
Someone whistles as the guy disappears in defeat and Harry returns to your side, replacing his hand onto your leg. When he looks at you, he gives your thigh a gentle squeeze.
“Are you alright?”
With the leftover pizza still in your hands, you’re just staring at him with wide eyes, nodding shortly. He just went all protective boyfriend over a stupid comment which was unbelievably sweet and unexpected, but on the other hand that one tiny comment put an unwanted thought into the back of your mind.
What if the guy was right and this was just Harry’s way of wanting to get closer to you? It feels impossible, Harry would never do such an awful thing, but your rather drunk conscience is playing a dirty game with you.
“Um, I’m gonna need another drink,” you mumble, hopping off the sill. You feel Harry’s worrying gaze glued to the side of your head as you walk back into the kitchen and grab the first bottle you find.
If the fake dating wasn’t putting you in enough stress, now you have something new to spiral about: a possible ulterior motive behind why Harry wanted to do the fake dating. So with an enthusiastic swig you try to tune the voices out in your head with the alcohol.
About twenty minutes and another shot later you are fully wasted and a mess. You’re seeing double and your legs keep giving up underneath you.
“Hey,” Harry softly murmurs, gathering you in his arms. “Let’s get you home, okay? You seem tired.”
“I am tired,” you draw the words out with a sigh and let him walk you towards the door. “Wait,” you gasp, stopping in your tracks. “Gotta tell Noor I’m leaving.”
“Already told her, don’t worry. Come on, I’ll drive you home.”
“Drive?” you ask with a puzzled look, but let him steer you out of the house. “Haven’t you been drinking?”
“No,” he chuckles softly. “Only soda.”
Somehow you make it to Harry’s car without tripping, he helps you inside and even buckles you in.
“Thank you, Harry. You are sooooo awesome,” you sigh, eyes fluttering closed. He just chuckles softly before closing your door and walking over to the driver seat.
The drive home is kind of a blur, you’re drifting in and out of sleep, occasionally mumbling something to Harry who patiently tries his best to react every time. Arriving at the dorm he gently helps you out of the car and circles an arm around your waist to help you make the walk up to your room.
“Ah, thank you, Harry,” you moan as soon as you fall into bed.
“You’re welcome. Did you have a good time?” he asks and starts pulling your shoes off.
“Yeah. Right until that douche said those things,” you groan at the memory.
“Sorry about that.”
You hum, mind cloudy from sleep and alcohol and you end up saying out loud the thought that circles your head.
“You know, if you really just wanted to… could have just asked me.”
Harry furrows his eyebrows, sitting beside you on the mattress.
“What are you talking about?”
“My stats,” you scoff. “If you just wanted to be the one changing it, you could have just asked. I’ve been… I’ve been having the fattest crush on you, I would have said yes.” You snort out a laugh, eyes closing as you’re already falling asleep. You vaguely feel Harry’s gentle touch on your cheek as he stands from beside you.
“Get some sleep, we can talk about that tomorrow,” he says, though his voice sounds from far away. Somewhere, the door clicks closed and you’re already asleep.
***
Sunlight is beaming right into your face through the window. Have you forgotten to close the curtains? That never really happens.
Groaning, you turn to your other side so the brightness is not directed at your face, but just a couple of seconds later, as your mind slowly wakes from the slumber, you realize why the curtains are not closed.
Because you were brought home last night by Harry, totally drunk.
“Oh my God.”
You bolt upright in bed so fast you instantly regret it. Pain shoots through your head and you groan, dropping back against the pillows dramatically.
Fragments from last night start returning one by one like little nightmares. The game, the kiss. Then the party, getting wasted, Harry standing up for you, then bringing you home and… What you told him about having a crush on him.
Your stomach drops, maybe from the hangover, maybe from the humiliation, who knows?
“No. No, no, no, no…”
From the other bed you hear Noor grunting.
“It’s way too early for a life crisis and I’m way too hungover.”
“I’m literally dying. Sorry for being inconvenient,” you groan, sitting up again in bed, this time slower so your head doesn't bust immediately. “I told Harry I have a crush on him.”
Noor turns to you in bed, slowly realizing the weight of the situation.
“And if that’s not mortifying enough,” you continue, “I told him, if he just wanted to sleep with me to change my stats, he could have just asked me.”
“Holy shit,” Noor blinks at you with wide eyes. “No, like actually holy shit,” she repeats, pushing herself up against the headboard despite looking half dead herself. “What did he say?”
“I don’t know!” you cry, pressing your fists into your eyes, rubbing them violently. “I was literally falling asleep mid-confession.”
“And what are you gonna do now?”
With a painful sigh, you shake your head, trying to come up with a plan, but nothing comes to your mind.
“I need to talk to him.”
“And what are you going to say? Sorry I told you I have a crush on you and want to have sex with you, are we still fake dating?”
“I don’t know,” you mumble, dragging yourself out of bed. “But I have to talk to him.”
A little over twenty minutes later you’re standing in front of Harry’s room in another dorm building, wearing a random hoodie and no makeup, looking and feeling like shit. For a solid ten seconds you just stare at the door, debating whether you should turn around and fake your own death instead. Then finally you get yourself to raise a fist, but just when you’re about to knock the door opens and you find yourself in front of Harry himself, dressed in what looks like a running set.
“Hey,” he beams happily upon seeing you. Your stomach twists.
“Hi. Can we… um, can we talk?”
“Sure,” he nods, stepping back so you can walk into his room.
He is one lucky bastard for having a room to himself. It’s pretty tidy and organized, smells like his cologne that you love so much. If you weren’t about to have the most awkward conversation of your life you’d definitely start snooping around, checking out everything and anything, but now is not the time for that unfortunately.
Turning around you face him and his usual confidence, he is wearing a soft, almost teasing smile and you’d kill to know what’s going on in his mind right now.
“So… I just wanted to talk about last night. First of all, I’m sorry I got so drunk you had to drag me home.”
“Happens to all of us,” he shrugs.
“Yeah, but not everyone confesses to having a crush on their fake boyfriend,” you add with an awkward laugh, hoping to ease your nerves with the joking, though it’s not helping. “I’m really sorry about that. And also about… Implying that you did this whole thing just to change my stats and I’m also very, very sorry for saying I would have just slept with you if you asked. I-I was drunk, saying out loud everything on my mind, I understand if this is very awkward for you now and you want to never talk to me again, because I–”
Your rambling is cut by Harry stepping closer and holding his hands up to stop you from apologizing some more.
“Y/N, there’s nothing to apologize for,” he calmly says.
“Oh but there is,” you laugh bitterly, hoping the floor would just open and swallow you so you wouldn’t have to keep having this conversation. “I’m so sorry for throwing all that on you. You’ve been nothing but kind and supportive, helping me out with this whole situation and then I just dump all that on you.”
“I didn’t mind it, really,” he smirks with mischief in his eyes.
“Well, you do have something to kinda blackmail me with, so…” A breathless laugh rolls out of you, unsure what else to say.
“Hm, that’s an interesting idea, but no, I won’t be doing that.”
“Okay, so… can we pretend I said nothing? I promise I won’t make it awkward, I just really want things to be like before.”
Harry stares back at you with an unreadable expression before shaking his head.
“No.”
“No?” you ask surprised. “Okay, then–”
“I don’t want things to be like before.” Confusion just keeps building up in you, because he is saying that, but his face is telling you something different. “Remember how you asked why I wanted to do this whole fake dating thing?”
You nod, swallowing hard.
“I lied to you.”
“You did?”
“Yep,” he nods with an almost proud smirk as he slowly starts walking closer to you, lessening the distance between the two of you. “I made up this whole fake dating thing to be with you.”
For a second you’re convinced it’s just the hangover, making you imagine things, but then you realize that he actually said that.
“Wait, what?” you laugh in disbelief.
“You’ve not been the only one having a crush,” he admits with a gentle chuckle, stopping only an inch away from you. “I’ve been trying to figure out a way to spend more time with you, making a move, but I wasn’t sure if you were open to that so then I came up with this ridiculous suggestion to fake date just so I could selfishly spend more time with you.”
“Are you pranking me? Getting back at me for getting way too drunk last night?” you ask, narrowing your eyes at him, but he just shakes his head chuckling, his hands sneaking their way to your waist as he pulls you closer, closing the gap between the two of you.
“No. I truly wanted to help you with your situation, but I also wanted to be with you. I was willing to go through with this fake dating plan just to be with you. Kinda ridiculous, I know.”
“No, that’s…” you shake your head, something already melting in you as your hands slide up his arms to rest on his shoulders. “That’s kind of romantic, actually,” you admit chuckling. “So… you weren’t faking?”
“Not really.”
“The touches, the texts, the late night talks… they were all real for you as well? Because they were definitely real for me.”
“Absolutely,” he nods confidently.
“And… the kiss at the game?”
He bites into his bottom lip, looking away almost embarrassed before he speaks up.
“I saw you talking to that guy and I got jealous. I wanted to show him that you’re taken. That definitely wasn’t fake on my end.”
Your mind is blown. Every single interaction you’ve had since his proposal is now playing in your head, but in a whole new light. The touches, the gestures, the looks, the constant texting and that damn jersey he gave you before the game, it’s all clicking into place now.
“Holy shit,” you breathe out, making him laugh. “Are we really just two idiots?”
“Massive idiots,” he nods, grinning. “I feel like it’s time for us to fake breakup and get together for real,” he suggests, resting his forehead against yours. Your heart is hammering against your ribs and as you slip a hand down over his, you can feel how wildly his is pounding under your touch. You smile, wide and relieved before nodding.
“Please,” you breathe out and his lips are already crashing against yours.
***
Another winning game, another celebratory party. The boys have been going wild about this one, since it was their last game of the season and they reached an exceptional rank in the league this year.
The house is packed, the music is loud and booze is everywhere, though you’re not drinking more than three drinks tonight, a rule you made after that initial party a few months ago when Harry had to take you home and you made some drunk confessions. Even if those confessions led to you and him finally getting together, you’re not interested in making a fool out of yourself.
You’re sitting with the girls on the couches in the corner of the living room, Georgia sharing her latest disastrous dating experience as you all chime in with your own stories. You’re listening too, though your eyes keep wandering to a certain hockey player across the room, standing by the beerpong table.
Harry’s glance keeps returning to you as well, exchanging smiles and he occasionally winking at you, making your pulse quicken even after months of dating, he still has that effect on you. It’s hard to believe you once questioned if you even had a shot with him, the guy is absolutely smitten about you and the same goes for you too.
“Okay, stop with the eye-fucking! We are talking about bad experiences, you’re ruining the mood!” Georgia calls you out rolling her eyes, though she is smirking, obviously happy for you.
“Sorry! I’m just way too happy to think about all the shit from before,” you chuckle with a shrug, taking a sip from your drink.
“Wait, there is something I’m really curious about,” Larissa leans in closer with a cheeky smirk.
“I thought we’ve been over this, my stats have changed!” you answer with a dramatic sigh, making everyone laugh, but Larissa shakes her head.
“No. I need to know what he did differently than the others. What was it that you needed?”
“Girl, you always want to know the dirty deets,” Noor shakes her head chuckling.
“Of course I do! Look at her, she is glowing!” Larissa answers pointing at you. “You have to share it with the class!”
All the other girls start chiming in, agreeing that they absolutely need to know. With a longing look your gaze settles on Harry again and as if he could sense your stare, he looks right back at you, a soft smile tugging on his lips.
“You alright?” he mouths from across the room and you just nod with a gentle smile before turning back to the girls that are all waiting for you to answer.
“I needed… him. That’s what was missing. I just needed Harry.”
Thank you for reading, please like and reblog if you enjoyed and buy me a coffee if you want to support me!
A publicist, a favor, and a fake relationship with Harry Styles that was only supposed to last a few months The arrangement was simple… until it wasn’t.
Word count: 16k
Warnings: None
The text arrived at 8:47 on a Sunday morning, three question marks deep and completely devoid of context.
emergency brunch???
I’d been awake for two hours already, which sounds productive until you factor in that I’d spent most of that time reorganizing a kitchen drawer I’d reorganized three weeks ago and watching a banana turn brown on the counter like it had personally let me down.
I almost said no.
Not because I didn’t want to see Nora, but because emergency brunches with Nora had a predictable taxonomy. Either she was about to confess something catastrophic involving a man with broad shoulders and the emotional range of a parking cone, or she was spiraling about work in a way that made my own cortisol spike by pure proximity. There was rarely anything in between, and I was still in my pajamas, and the banana needed dealing with.
But forty minutes later I was weaving through the outdoor patio of the kind of aggressively trendy café that made you feel slightly worse about yourself just by entering it. Every table was full of women in matching workout sets and men wearing sunglasses expensive enough to cover my electric bill. The whole place smelled like espresso and sunscreen and somebody’s fifty dollar citrus perfume.
I spotted Nora immediately.
She was tucked near the back beneath a striped umbrella, typing on her phone with the focused intensity of someone defusing something. Her empty iced coffee sat beside her, two other phones resting face-down near the edge of the table like exhausted soldiers. She looked, as she always did, unfairly beautiful. Perfect hair. Gold jewelry. An oversized button-down half-tucked into jeans that probably cost more than my car payment.
I was wearing leggings and a sweatshirt with a suspicious stain near the sleeve.
She dropped her head back against the chair the second she saw me.
“Thank God,” she said. “I’m in actual hell.”
I sat down across from her. “Good morning to you too.”
“Dante would have written a whole circle about celebrity PR if he’d lived long enough.”
“That feels historically questionable.”
“You know what I mean.”
Nora’s second coffee arrived sometime between “actual disaster” and her third use of the word “narrative,” which felt appropriate.
“One of my clients is in a PR crisis,” she said, setting her phone face-down for the first time since I’d sat down. “Not the kind where somebody gets photographed leaving a club looking rough and Twitter loses its mind for twelve hours. I mean genuinely bad.”
“What did he do?”
Her expression flattened.
“That,” she said, “is unfortunately the problem.”
“What does that mean?”
She glanced around the patio once, more out of habit than necessity, before leaning forward slightly.
“He didn’t technically do anything.”
“That sounds promising.”
“It isn’t.” She pointed at me with one manicured finger. “Because if somebody cheats or punches a photographer or gets caught saying something awful online, at least there’s a playbook. Beginning, middle, end. Apology statement. Strategic disappearance. Maybe a carefully photographed volunteer event in soft lighting. Then everyone moves on.”
“That is genuinely dystopian.”
“That is public relations.”
She reached for her coffee again, wrapping both hands around it like it was keeping her alive.
“This is worse because nothing actually happened. It’s just bad timing. Bad optics. Too many people online deciding on a narrative and running with it faster than we can get ahead of it.”
“What narrative?”
“That he’s a pretentious, emotionally unavailable recluse who dates models and disappears for six months at a time while pretending to be deeply profound.”
I winced. “Okay. Harsh.”
“And now everyone’s decided he’s secretly miserable and desperately lonely.”
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