Summary: Max always thought you never asked for much because you didn’t need much, low-maintenance to a fault, until he finally overhears the truth.
4.4k words / Masterlist
Max had always appreciated how easy you were to love.
You didn’t demand. You didn’t sulk over missed dates. There were no passive-aggressive comments about him not posting you enough or forgetting to text back when a race weekend swallowed him whole. You never made him feel guilty for the parts of his life that were already complicated. When he was travelling or exhausted, you simply kissed his forehead and told him to rest. When his schedule changed last minute, you never got upset, never made him sit through a tense silence or apologise for the same thing five different ways, you just shrugged with that soft little smile of yours and said, “We’ll figure it out.”
You weren’t just low-maintenance, you were selfless, unshakeably chill in a way that made loving you feel almost effortless. You understood the pressure, the travel, the media, the endless demands on his time, and you never tried to add yourself to the list of things he needed to manage.
You made room for his life before he even had to ask. You bent around the complicated edges of his world so naturally that, after a while, Max stopped noticing how much you were bending at all.
It was refreshing. Comforting, even. Being with you never felt like another obligation waiting for him when he got home. You were warmth, quiet, peace… but it also made it easy for Max to coast.
Because when you said you didn’t need flowers, he believed you. When you told him birthdays weren’t a big deal, he took your word for it.
When you said you didn’t mind that his attention was always half-distracted by Red Bull, his sim rig, his phone, or whatever new team crisis was unfolding in the background, he didn’t stop to wonder whether you meant it. He didn’t ask himself if you were genuinely fine with being loved in the gaps, or if you had simply learned to make your wants small enough that they never became inconvenient.
He didn’t notice that every time you said, “Don’t worry about it,” you were teaching him that he didn’t have to.
Until he saw the way your smile dimmed at Daniel’s girlfriend’s birthday party.
The boat was filled with champagne and noise, a private Monaco affair organised by Daniel, of course, because no one else could make a birthday party feel quite that excessive and still somehow charming. There was a neon sign glowing above the bar, a curated playlist that seemed suspiciously full of songs Daniel liked more than his girlfriend did, and custom cupcakes with everyone’s faces printed on them. Max didn’t even know you could do that.
You sat beside him with a drink in hand, your shoulder brushing his every now and then as the boat rocked gently against the water. To anyone else you looked perfectly fine, but Max had started paying closer attention now.
Your laugh came half a second too late, your smile faded too quickly, and your eyes kept drifting back to the couple across the deck.
Daniel’s girlfriend had her arms slung around his neck, his jacket draped over her shoulders, and a glittery tiara with Birthday Girl written across the front sitting slightly crooked on her head. Daniel kept adjusting it for her, grinning every time she swatted his hand away, and when she leaned into him, he kissed her temple without seeming to think about it. Thoughtless in the best way, like loving her out loud was simply instinct.
“You made it!” Daniel said, pulling Max into a hug before turning to you with even more enthusiasm. “And you look amazing. Seriously, come on, look at you.”
You laughed, a bit surprised, and looked down at yourself like you hadn’t expected anyone to notice.
Max noticed that.
Daniel’s girlfriend came over next, glowing, happy, adored. She hugged you tightly and thanked you both for coming, then turned to show you the bracelet Daniel had bought her. It was delicate and expensive, the kind of jewellery Max would never have picked out on his own because he would have convinced himself he didn’t know what he was doing and given up before trying.
“He surprised me with it this morning,” she said, beaming. “And he pretended he forgot my birthday for, like, ten minutes, which was evil, but then he had breakfast set up on the balcony.”
Daniel, overhearing, lifted his glass. “Romance is alive and well ladies and gentlemen.”
Normal Daniel. Loud, teasing, affectionate Daniel, who made a spectacle out of caring because he had never been embarrassed by warmth in the same way Max sometimes was, but then Max looked at you.
You were smiling. Of course you were smiling.
You were always polite. Always kind. Always good at being happy for other people, even when something inside you was quietly aching. There was something different about it then, something Max had never noticed before because he had never had reason to look for it.
Your smile didn’t quite reach your eyes.
You didn’t look devastated, you didn’t withdraw your hand from his arm or go quiet in a way anyone else would pick up on. You just looked at the bracelet on Daniel’s girlfriend’s wrist, then at the flowers, then at the wall of photos, and for half a second your expression morphed into something almost wistful.
Max felt it like a punch he had no right to react to.
The conversation moved on around him. Daniel was talking about the cake, someone else was laughing about how long it had taken to get the decorations right. His girlfriend was telling you how Daniel had been secretly planning it for weeks, badly, apparently, because he almost exposed himself several times.
You laughed at the story.
You said, “That’s really sweet.”
Max heard the softness in your voice.
For the first time all night, Max looked at the party properly. He looked at the flowers. The photos. The custom menu cards with her name on them. The cake Daniel had apparently taste-tested three times because the first one “didn’t feel like her.”
Then Max looked at you.
You were standing beside him with nothing from him except your own practiced understanding.
No flowers.
No post.
No planned birthday dinner he hadn’t rescheduled.
No little public signs that he was proud to love you.
No evidence, really, that Max Verstappen had ever looked at the woman beside him and thought, she deserves to feel chosen.
His stomach twisted, because suddenly he remembered your last birthday with a clarity that made him feel slightly sick.
He had been in Milton Keynes for simulator work. He’d called you late, later than he meant to, and you had answered in bed, face lit softly by your phone screen. You had smiled like you were happy just to hear from him. He had apologised again for not being able to be there. You had said it didn’t matter and he had promised to make it up to you. You had said, “Don’t stress, honestly. I had a nice day.”
Had you?
Had you really?
Or had you said that because it was easier than admitting you had wanted him there?
He thought about the flowers you always claimed not to need. The birthdays you said weren’t important. The dates you never demanded. The posts you never asked for. The attention you pretended not to miss.
Beside him, you glanced up. “You okay?”
Max blinked, pulled out of his thoughts by the gentleness of your voice. That made it worse somehow, even now you were checking on him.
“Yeah,” he said, too quickly. “Fine.”
You studied him for a moment, clearly not convinced, but you didn’t push. You never pushed. You simply nodded and looked back towards the others, your shoulder brushing lightly against his sleeve.
Max hated that too. He hated that you gave him space even when maybe he deserved pressure.
He hated that you had made yourself so easy to keep that he had forgotten keeping you was still something he had to actively do.
For the rest of the night, he couldn’t stop watching you.
He watched Daniel’s girlfriend pull you into photos, watched you laugh as someone handed you a party hat you refused to wear for about ten seconds. He watched you compliment the decorations, watched you ask questions about the planning, watched your fingers lightly brush over one of the flower arrangements when you thought no one was looking.
You liked flowers.
Of course you liked flowers.
Maybe not in the over-the-top, expensive, social-media way, but you liked them. He could tell by the way you touched the petals carefully, the way your face warmed when Daniel’s girlfriend told you Daniel had chosen them because they reminded him of a dress she once wore in Monaco.
Max stood there, silent and increasingly irritated with himself.
How many things had you convinced yourself you didn’t need simply because he had never offered them?
How many wants had you softened into jokes so they wouldn’t feel like demands?
How many times had you made yourself smaller around his life and called it love?
Later, when everyone gathered around the cake, Daniel made a speech. A terrible speech, because it was Daniel, so half of it was jokes and the other half was him pretending not to get emotional. Then he spoke about how his girlfriend made his life better. How she put up with him. How she deserved more than one night of being celebrated, but he hoped this was a decent start.
Everyone laughed.
His girlfriend cried.
You smiled.
Max felt like the worst boyfriend in the world.
He complimented you in private, usually quietly, usually after you’d done something for him. He told you he loved you, yes, but often in bed, or before hanging up, or in passing when one of you was leaving. He assumed you knew. He assumed choosing you privately counted the same as making you feel chosen.
On the drive home you were quieter than usual.
Your head rested against the window, city lights sliding over your face in brief flashes. Your heels were in your lap because you had taken them off the second you got in the car, and your fingers played absently with the strap like your mind was somewhere else.
Max kept glancing over. Usually he liked quiet with you, it was comfortable and easy, you didn’t need to fill every silence.
Tonight the quiet felt full of everything you weren’t saying.
“Did you have a good time?” he asked eventually.
You turned your head, smiling faintly. “Yeah. It was lovely.”
Lovely.
The word sat between you.
Max swallowed. “Daniel did a lot.”
“He did,” you said, and your voice was warm. “It was really sweet.”
There it was again. That careful admiration.
Max’s hands flexed around the steering wheel. “You like that kind of thing?”
You looked at him properly then, brows lifting a little. “What kind of thing?”
He shrugged, trying to sound casual and failing. “All of it. The flowers. The photos. The big party.”
You looked away and gave a small laugh, the kind that tried to make a truth sound harmless. “I mean, I don’t need all that.”
Max’s chest tightened.
That wasn’t what he had asked.
“I didn’t ask if you needed it.”
Your fingers stopped moving against the shoe strap and for a moment you said nothing. Then you looked down and smiled again, but this one was worse than the one at the party because it was meant only for him, meant to reassure him, meant to protect him from feeling bad about something he had already done.
“I just think it’s nice,” you said carefully. “For her. Daniel clearly put a lot of thought into it.”
Max nodded once, jaw tense.
Thought.
That was the word that stayed with him.
You didn’t need a private room full of flowers or a custom cake or a wall of photographs. You probably didn’t even want something that big, but you wanted thought. You wanted evidence that he had paused, considered you, and chosen to make you feel loved on purpose.
Max, who could analyse tyre degradation over fifty laps, who could remember tiny setup changes from races years ago, who could spend hours perfecting a sim lap by half a tenth, had somehow convinced himself he was incapable of remembering to buy you flowers.
“I should have done more for your birthday,” he said.
You went very still.
The car felt smaller suddenly.
“Max…”
“No,” he said, because he knew that tone. He knew you were about to let him off the hook again. “I should have.”
“It’s okay.”
“It’s not.”
You exhaled quietly and looked out of the window again. “I told you it was fine.”
“I know you did.”
“Then why are you bringing it up?”
Because I finally saw your face, he wanted to say. Because I finally realised you have been asking for so little that I stopped giving you even that and I do not know how to forgive myself for not noticing sooner.
But Max had never been good with words when they mattered most.
So he said, “Because I think you say things are fine when they're not.”
Your mouth pressed together. That tiny movement cut through him more than any argument would have.
You weren’t angry, but part of him wished you were. Anger would have given him something to meet, something to fix, something loud enough that he couldn’t ignore it, you just looked tired and that was worse.
“I don’t want to be difficult,” you said after a while.
“You're not difficult,” he said immediately.
You gave him a small, sad smile. “I know. I just mean… your life is already a lot. You have so many people needing things from you all the time I never wanted to be another thing on the list.”
“You are not a thing on the list.”
“Aren’t I?” you asked softly.
Max didn’t answer fast enough, once again words failed him, he hated himself for that.
You turned your face back towards the window, and the reflection showed him the truth he had been avoiding all night. You weren’t crying or making a scene. You weren’t asking him to turn the car around or apologise in some grand dramatic way. You were simply sitting there beside him carrying a hurt that had clearly existed long before tonight.
He figured you’d be home from your errands by now.
Probably curled up somewhere in the apartment, wearing one of his hoodies like you always did when he was away for more than a few days. Maybe on the sofa with your knees tucked beneath you, scrolling mindlessly through your phone, or half-watching one of those comfort shows you liked to put on in the background while you waited for him. The thought came easily, warmly, and Max found himself smiling before he had even opened the door properly.
He liked coming home to you.
He liked the small signs of you scattered through his space. Your shoes by the door, your hair tie abandoned on the coffee table, your mug in the sink because you always forgot to rinse it. Your presence had softened the apartment in ways he hadn’t realised he needed, turning it from somewhere he slept between races into somewhere that actually felt like home.
The apartment was quiet when he stepped inside, but not empty.
Max kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, already turning toward the living room when he heard your voice from the bedroom. Then he heard your best friend’s name, and realised you were on the phone.
He didn’t mean to eavesdrop. He was about to call out, to let you know he was back, but something about your tone made him stop before the words left his mouth. So he stayed quiet, halfway down the hall, one hand still resting against the wall.
“I’m not upset he did all that for her,” you were saying. “It’s sweet. It is.”
There was a pause.
Max’s body went strangely still.
He knew, instantly, what you were talking about.
“It’s just…” You exhaled shakily. “He’s never done anything like that for me.”
The words hit him hard. Max stared at the floor, heartbeat slowing into something heavy and uncomfortable.
“I don’t ask for much,” you continued, and your voice was smaller now, like you were embarrassed to even say it out loud. “I know I don’t. I never wanted to pressure him or make him feel like he had to go out of his way when his life is already so much. I thought if I was easygoing and low-maintenance, it would make things easier on him.”
His throat tightened.
“But sometimes—” Your voice broke so softly he almost missed it. “Sometimes I wish he’d do something without me having to ask.”
Max’s fingers curled around the edge of the wall.
He could feel every careless assumption he had ever made beginning to turn over in his head, one after another, each one worse than the last.
You didn’t care if he forgot plans, if he came home distracted, if he said he would make it up to you and then didn’t, because something else came up and you smiled like it was fine.
“Maybe I enabled it by alway saying I was fine... but I don’t need grand gestures,” you went on, voice wobbling now. “I know that’s not really him, and I don’t want him to be anyone else. I don’t want a big show just for the sake of it, but it would be nice to feel special sometimes… to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
Max’s chest ached.
He looked toward the bedroom door, but he couldn’t move.
“I just want to know he wants to do those things for me,” you whispered. “Not because he’s apologising or because someone else did it first… because he loves me enough to notice.”
Max couldn’t breathe properly.
He hadn’t known.
He really hadn’t known.
He thought you meant it when you said you didn’t care about birthdays, anniversaries, flowers, or all the romantic things he had always been bad at. He had thought that was part of what made you you. Unbothered by the kind of performative relationship stuff he had never known how to do properly.
The conversation ended a few minutes later.
He heard the soft rustle of sheets then your footsteps moving across the bedroom floor. Max reacted too late, still trapped in the weight of what he had heard and only barely managed to step back into the hallway before you came out.
You stopped when you saw him.
For one awful second, neither of you said anything and then he smiled and wrapped you in a hug pretending like he hadn’t heard a word.
That night Max sat alone in the dark of the living room for a long time, head in his hands. He couldn’t bring himself to move, couldn’t bring himself to do anything except sit there in the silence and let every word he had overheard replay in his head until it felt carved into him.
He kept hearing your voice.
“to feel like he thought about me without me having to ask.”
He pressed the heels of his hands harder against his eyes.
God.
How many moments had you swallowed your disappointment before he could even notice it was there, dimming yourself down just to be easier to love?
It gutted him.
You hadn’t asked him for the world. You hadn’t asked him to become someone he wasn’t. You only wanted to feel considered. Somehow he had made the best thing in his life feel like she had to be grateful for whatever was left of him at the end of the day.
You deserved fireworks, even if you were the kind of girl who said she didn’t need them. You didn’t want more from him. You just wanted to matter enough for him to give it anyway.
You didn’t expect anything to change.
Max was always kind, attentive in the ways he knew how to be. He noticed when you were cold and passed you his hoodie without making a big thing of it. He reached for your hand in crowded places because he liked knowing exactly where you were. He remembered how you took your coffee, which side of the bed you preferred, the shows you put on when you needed background noise. He loved you. You knew he did.
So when he suggested you take a weekend off together “Somewhere quiet, just us” you didn’t overthink it. You figured he wanted to disappear for a couple of days, somewhere without cameras, team radios, sponsor obligations, or someone asking him about tyre degradation.
It wasn’t until you stepped onto the lakeside dock in Switzerland that you realised something was different.
The cottage was small but charming, tucked away by the water with warm wood walls, soft cream blankets, and floor-to-ceiling windows that made the whole place glow with the late afternoon light. It wasn’t flashy, it wasn’t the kind of place chosen to impress anyone, it felt private, thoughtful, almost painfully intimate.
Inside there were your favourite snacks arranged in the kitchen. Your favourite wine chilling in the fridge. Your comfort blanket folded over the armchair by the window. Your favourite book was already resting on the bedside table, the old, worn copy you had once told him you reread whenever your head felt too loud.
You frowned, turning slowly back to him. “Did you… did you set this up?”
Max leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets, trying for casual and not quite managing it. “Maybe.”
You narrowed your eyes, sceptical. “What’s going on?”
His smirk softened a little. He just looked at you and there was something unusually careful in his expression, something that made your chest tighten before he had even said a word.
“I listened,” he said.
You blinked. Max glanced down briefly, like the words felt awkward in his mouth, but when he looked back up he didn’t look away again.
“I didn’t realise how much I’d taken for granted,” he continued quietly. “How much you gave by never asking. You made it easy for me, but that doesn’t mean I should’ve stopped trying.”
Your throat tightened.
“Max…”
“No, let me say it,” he murmured, taking a small step closer. “You always said things were fine. That you didn’t need flowers, or birthdays, or plans, or all the extra stuff and I believed you because it was easier because it meant I didn’t have to think about whether you were only saying it so I wouldn’t feel bad.”
You swallowed hard, looking away before your face could betray too much.
He walked you further inside, his hand warm at the small of your back, and that was when you noticed the little table by the window. It had been set for two, facing the lake as the sun began to lower behind the mountains. Candlelight, flowers, two plates, homemade pasta that looked slightly lopsided and very clearly like his doing, and a little folded note beside your place.
You stared at it for a second before picking it up.
In his messy, all-caps handwriting, it said:
I SHOULD HAVE MADE YOU FEEL SPECIAL BEFORE NOW. I’M GOING TO DO BETTER.
Max’s face shifted immediately, concern cutting through the nervousness. “Schatje…”
You shook your head quickly trying to laugh it off, but your voice came out thin. “I wanted to be cool,” you whispered. “I wanted to be the girlfriend who didn’t care about all that stuff. I thought if I asked for too much then I’d just become another pressure for you.”
Max stepped closer and cupped your cheeks, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slipped out despite your best efforts.
“You are the most important person in my life,” he murmured. “You always are.” His voice dropped softer, rougher. “I wish I could give you the world and I’m sorry it took me this long to show it.”
You looked at him then, really looked at him, at the nervous set of his mouth and the careful way he held you, like he understood now that easiness was not the same thing as not needing anything.
Then you finally kissed him.
Later that night you were curled against his chest with the fireplace crackling softly in the background, the cottage wrapped in that quiet, golden kind of warmth that made everything outside feel very far away.
Max had one arm around you, his hand resting beneath the hem of your sweater, fingers tracing slow, absent patterns against your skin.
You smiled into his shoulder, cheek pressed against the soft fabric as you listened to the steady beat of his.
“So,” you mumbled, voice sleepy but teasing, “is this a one-time gesture or…”
Max’s chest moved beneath you as he chuckled. “Oh no.”
You tilted your head slightly. “Oh no?”
“No,” he said, tightening his arm around you. “You’re getting so much romance now it’ll annoy you.”
You looked up at him trying and failing not to smile. “Really?”
He nodded solemnly, like he was discussing race strategy. “Really. I’m talking airport reunions. Flowers for no reason. Random poetry.”
“Poetry?” you repeated, laughing already.
“Bad poetry,” he corrected. “Very bad. Rhymes way too much.”
“Oh, God.”
“And a cheesy playlist,” he added, completely serious. “Maybe several. One for the car. One for when I’m away. One with songs you’ll make fun of me for.”
You laughed properly then, burying your face in his neck as warmth spread through your chest. It was never about the playlist, or the flowers, or whatever terrible poetry Max Verstappen might attempt in the name of love.
It was that he was thinking about it. That he had finally understood the difference between you not needing to be spoiled and you still deserving to be cherished.
Max turned his head and pressed a kiss into your hair. “I’m serious,” he murmured, quieter now. “I don’t want you wondering anymore.”
Your laughter softened. You lifted your face again, looking at him through the firelight. “Wondering what?”
“If I think about you,” he said. “If I notice. If I care enough to try.”
Your throat tightened, but this time the feeling wasn’t painful. Max brushed his thumb along your cheek. “I do,” he said. “I’ll show you better now.”
For a moment you just looked at him, then you leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the corner of his mouth before tucking yourself back against him.
“That sounds perfect.” you whispered, smiling against his neck.
★ : a/n :: ignore the typos, comments, thoughts and reblogs are appreciated! i got a request for this :") but i lost the ask. anyway hi!! how is everyone
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
tags: jack abbot x fem!reader x samira mohan, reader is a dr. house variant, reader is early 40s, chronic leg pain, medical inaccuracies, unhinged comments about jack's ass, flirting that'd make HR blush, 18+ MDI
notes: and finally we have chapter 2, the last one seemed to do well, so I'm planning the rest for this mini series, like always, if you want to be added to this specific taglist, please comment on this post! all parts can be found here! enjoy!
word count: 5.2k
The Pitt had the misfortune of beginning with a quiet morning.
Now, it wasn’t truly quiet, because there was no such thing as “quiet” in an emergency department. Almost always, somebody or something was making noise. Somewhere down the hall a patient was demanding to speak to a supervisor for the third time in a row even though he’d been calmly told that an ER didn’t technically have a supervisor. A trauma alert had come through just before noon, though thankfully it had turned out to be less severe than anticipated. Residents moved with purposed between rooms, monitors still chimed from behind curtains, and the waiting room remained full of people convinced their emergency was the most important one in the building.
Compared to mass casualties, however, the Pitt felt almost civilized.
Unfortunately, civilized left room for obsessing over a diagnosis.
And Frank Langdon was . . . well . . . obsessing over a diagnosis.
The patient occupying room seventeen had arrived nearly four hours earlier complaining of persistent joint pain, intermittent fevers, severe fatigue, and a facial rash that had initially pointed everyone toward an autoimmune diagnosis. Her bloodwork, on the other hand, was irritatingly inconsistent. Every test seemed to support a theory while simultaneously undermining it. Frank, bless his heart, had spent most of the afternoon circling possibilities with increasing determination, convinced he was one clue card away from proving everyone else kept hesitating to commit to.
Lupus was what he was trying to land on, but every time his brain came up with the word, something else refused to fit.
The kidney involvement wasn’t severe enough.
The inflammatory makers were elevated, but not where they should have been.
The timeline was off.
The symptoms fit until they didn’t.
Which meant Frank had now spent the better part of an hour following Robby around the department explaining exactly why he was still right despite being entirely wrong. And poor Robby had endured this longer than most human beings would have.
By the second trip to the nurses’ station, Trinity had quietly abandoned her charting in favor of getting away from the conversation under the guise of checking on another patient.
By the third, even Dennis had found an excuse to disappear.
By the fourth, Robby finally gave up. “Just call her for goodness’s sake.”
Frank looked up from the tablet, and Robby was already regretting the decision.
“On second thought, never mind.”
“You literally just said—”
“I know what I said, Langdon. And I changed my mind.”
“Then why are you pulling out your pager?”
Robby stared at him for a few minutes, pager gripped tightly in his hand like he’d been caught with dessert right before dinner. “Because if I have to hear you say It’s definitely lupus one more time, I’m personally transferring myself to veterinary medicine.”
Twenty minutes later, you were dragged from the relative peace you liked to keep during your rounds and forced downstairs against your will. The elevator had done nothing to improve your mood that had been one large storm cloud since the morning, probably because of the pain your leg was giving you.
Rain had rolled through the city overnight, and somehow, your leg always knew before the weather service did. A dep ache pulsed steadily through your hip with every shift of your weight, crawling down the damaged nerves along your thigh and settling unpleasantly into your knee. Your daily (and micromanaged) dose of Vicodin had taken the edge off several hours ago, but it was beginning to wear thin around the corners.
You were tired and annoyed and judging by the message Robby gave you, nobody was actively dying, which also did nothing to make you excited about going down to the ER when you could have stayed upstairs talking to coma patients.
The familiar sounds of the emergency department greeted you the moment the elevator doors opened. Conversations overlapped from every direction, phones rang, and the air carried that uniquely antiseptic-y smell that held hints of stale coffee and exhaustion.
Your cane clicked rhythmically against the floor as you moved through the department, earning a few eyes from the nurses and even a flinch from a med student you accidentally made eye contact with. That had made you wonder how much your reputation had grown after the serotonin syndrome incident.
Thankfully, you found Robby rather quickly near the nurses’ station as he reviewed a chart while simultaneously pretending not to be waiting for you.
The pretending lasted approximately two seconds.
“There she is,” he said, eyes wide behind his circular glasses.
You narrowed your eyes. “Nobody’s dead, right?”
“Right.”
“Nobody’s actively trying to die, right?”
“Not currently.”
You sighted heavily, dragging a hand through your hair. “Then why am I here?”
Robby handed over a chart that you just stared at without taking. Your nose scrunched at it, frown tugging at your lips.
“I don’t like being handed things, Robert.” You looked around the station once—then twice—then a third time just to make sure before your expression flattened. “Where’s Jack? It’s been too long since I’ve laid eyes on that scrumptious ass.”
Robby closed his eyes like a man whose worst fears had just been confirmed that they were coming to get him. “We aren’t doing this today.”
You looked over his shoulder. “Where’s Samira?”
“Also no.”
“Then whose patient is this?”
“Langdon’s.”
Your frown somehow deepened. “You didn’t mention him.”
“Because I knew you’d react like this.”
“React like what, Robert?”
“Like a child.”
You finally accepted the chart, flipping through several pages while leaning against the counter, your cane resting near your leg. Halfway through the first page, your wariness deepened. Halfway through the second, it became certainty. When you finally looked up, Frank was approaching from room seventeen with the expression of a man who believed salvation had arrived.
Too bad for him, you were the furthest thing from a savior.
“Oh no,” you said loud enough for Frank to stop.
“What?” he asked.
“You look hopeful.”
His confusion deepened. “You were called here to help.”
You glared towards Robby. “I was called here under false pretenses.”
Robby pinched the bridge of his nose as Frank looked between the two of you with a look that screamed I’m very lost in the sauce . . . actually I’m drowning in said sauce.
Frank shifted his weight. “What are you talking about?”
You shut the chart louder than you should have, but a lack of hot healthcare workers did little to ease your mood. “I need motivation.”
“I have a patient?”
“No, you don’t have anything since you gave me your patient.”
“Same thing.”
“It really isn’t.”
Frank stared blankly, and you stared back equally. Around you, several nurses had started paying attention. Dennis and Trinity even appeared from seemingly nowhere, sensing entertainment with the instincts of a scavenger. Frank crossed his arms, and that didn’t even appeal to you.
“Two weeks ago, you diagnosed a crashing serotonin syndrome patient in three minutes—”
“Old news.”
“—And now you’re refusing to look at this one?”
Pushing off the counter, you shrugged, cane back in your hand and holding your weight. “Jack was there. Like, have you seen the man when he’s looking at you like that? I almost popped girl boner.”
The silence that followed was immediate. Trinity looked delighted, Robby looked exhausted, and Frank continued to look deeply confused. To make it all worse, you smirked and continued before Robby could give you a disappointed father look.
“Samira too. Double girl boner.”
“And there it is,” Robby grumbled. “Can we please not cause an HR violation before lunch.”
“It’s 3:30, and I haven’t even gotten started, party pooper.”
“You just got here.”
“Exactly! Many more hours for me to go.”
“Wait,” Frank suddenly said as he what you weren’t saying together.
“No,” Robby interrupted. “Don’t speak it into existence.”
“Wait,” Frank repeated, incredibly appalled. “You’re refusing to help . . . because Abbot and Mohan aren’t here?”
You mulled over his words between your teeth. “Refusing is a strong word—”
“You’re literally doing the definition of refusing—”
“I prefer selectively participating.”
Trinity snorted loudly, and across the station, one of the nurses nearly dropped a pen. Beside you, Robby looked moments away from developing a stress-induced migraine, and you? You, meanwhile, remained completely serious (or at least appeared completely serious).
The distinction mattered.
Finally, after a silent standoff, Robby sighed the long, defeated sigh of a man who had spent years losing arguments against someone fundamentally immune to reason. You took that as your opening to smirk wildly up at him. That alone told everyone exactly what was about to happen.
“Robert,” you drawled out in a teasing fashion. “I know you want to.”
“No.”
“Get Samira for me, please?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Get Samira.”
“You are a physician.”
“And she’s very pretty.”
“Not relevant.”
“I completely have to disagree with you on this one.”
Robby looked toward the ceiling briefly, perhaps searching for divine intervention. When he found none, and the heavens didn’t open up, he pointed toward Dennis.
“Whitaker.”
Dennis straightened. “Dr. Robby?”
“Please for the love of keeping her quiet, go get Dr. Mohan.”
The grin spreading across your face was instantaneous. As Dennis disappeared around the corner, Frank had the decency to look horrified while Robby looked five minutes away from handing in his two-week notice.
And somewhere deeper in the department, entirely unaware of the trap currently being assembled around her, Samira Mohan was about to have her afternoon become significantly more complicated.
_______________________
By the time Samira arrived in room seventeen, she had already been informed by three separate people that she was being summoned for reasons that were apparently not medical. The first had come from Dennis, who had looked far too amused and scared while delivering the message. The second came from a nurse trying—and failing—not to laugh as she passed by. The third came from the sight that greeted her the moment she stepped through the doorway.
You were sitting in the patient’s visitor chair.
Not examining the patient, not review the cart, just plain old sitting down.
Your bad leg—she guessed-was stretched slightly in front of you, your cane propped against the edge of the bed while Frank stood beside the monitor looking increasingly offended by your mere existence. Robby lingered near the doorway with his arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man who knew he was actively supervising a disaster but had accepted it as inevitable.
The moment you noticed movement by the door, your attention snapped toward Samira, and a wide smile spread across your face so quickly it should have been illegal.
“My eyes have been blessed,” you announced while looking right at her.
Samira felt heat threaten to creep up into her face, which was a bit irritating because she’d spent the last several days mentally preparing herself for future interactions with you. Apparently going over any flirty comments you might throw at her in preparation hadn’t helped.
“You called for me?” she asked.
You nodded. “I did.”
“You do realize that’s not how consults work.”
“I disagree.”
“You aren’t even looking at the patient.”
“I looked at her,” you said, eyes glancing toward the women briefly before looking back towards Samira. “But now I’d rather look at you.”
Samira glanced toward Robby, which earned her a pointed finger from the man.
“Don’t encourage her,” Robby warned.
“I didn’t do anything?” she shot back hesitantly, not understanding what she had done other than step into the room.
“Unfortunately, your existence is currently encouraging her.”
The patient laughed loudly, entirely happy with being in the middle of the whole exchange, which somehow made the entire situation worse. You kept your eyes on Samira, completely unbothered as you made a come here motion with your finger.
“Come closer; I promise I won’t bite,” you said before adding, “unless you want me to.”
Your request wasn’t really a request and more of an expectation in the same way attendings expected residents to approach a scan or review a lab result. Your voice held no arrogance, no attempt to show off. The tone told Samira that you had a certainty that you expected her to keep up. Oddly enough, it felt different than most of the physicians she’d worked with.
Robby taught by leading with a booming voice and a no-nonsense attitude.
You, on the other hand, taught by dragging people directly into your thought process and forcing them to survive, completely with all the nonsense available.
With that, Samira stepped closer to the bed.
The patient—a woman who looked to be in her early forties—offered her a sympathetic smile. “Do you always work with her?”
Samira shook her head. “No, ma’am.”
“That’s unfortunate. She’s been very entertaining.”
With once glance toward you, you looked please by the compliment while Frank, who had now moved closer to your chair, looked wounded by it, like he was sad he had been thrown to a corner while this had started off as his case.
“Can we focus please?” he asked.
“No,” you snapped. “But we’ll diagnose her anyway. You already dragged me down here, might as well show off a bit, yeah?”
You finally stood, reaching for the chart resting at the end of the bed. The movement was smooth enough until your weight shifted fully onto your bed leg. Something painful tightened around your eyes before disappearing against just as quickly. Samira noticed; you noticed her noticing; neither of you acknowledged it.
Instead, you handed over the chart. “Walk me through it.”
Frank opened his mouth to retaliate but quickly shut up by the look you threw his way. The whole time, the woman looked delighted and Robby looked like a middle school teacher asked to chaperone a group during a free trip on his supposed day off.
Samira accepted the chart, deep, brown eyes skimming through the notes, and rattled off the symptoms. “Joint pain. Facial rash. Intermittent fevers. Fatigue.”
“Good.”
“Positive ANA.”
“Keep going.”
Samira flipped another page while the room settled around her as she reviewed the information. Frank stopped looking like a kicked puppy, and even Robby looked interested now, leaning slightly away from the wall. Samira thought that there was something strangely intimate about being taught this way, and she realized it was similar to the way Jack walked her through a procedure during a trauma.
Even though he didn’t openly flirty with her like you did, the two of you watched with a certainty that she would be able to figure it all out with enough guidance. Where most listened for mistakes, you actively listened for possibilities without being overly critical if she got it wrong. You opened the door wide open for mistakes and welcomed them. Every answer she gave seemed to spark another question rather than another correction.
When she finished, you stepped over to the patient. “Now, what fits, Dr. Mohan?”
“Autoimmune disease,” she answered with confidence.
“Specifically?”
She hesitated. “Lupus would fit—”
“That’s what I said,” Frank cut her off.
You didn’t even look at him. “But what doesn’t fit?”
Your question hung in the air, and Samira frowned as she mentally went through the notes again.
The rash.
The joint pain.
The fevers.
Everything pointed in one direction except . . .
Her eyes moved further down the page, and then back up, and then down again before her eyes widened. She looked up grinning.
“The kidneys.”
You grinned back. “There you go.”
Frank frowned deeply. “What about the kidneys?”
Samira stepped closer. “The involvement isn’t progressing correctly, and the inflammatory markers aren’t matching what we’d expect if it was lupus.”
You nodded. “And?”
She pushed forward. “The rash isn’t completely right either.”
“What else?”
She studied the chart one final time before stopping on a note buried halfway through the intake paperwork. A symptom everybody had acknowledged but not focused on was jotted down in neat penmanship. Through the past couple of hours, the one symptom hadn’t fit until now.
“Oh,” Samira breathed, and somehow your smile widened even further.
Robby was on the edge of his metaphorical seat. “What?”
“It’s not lupus.” Samira shook her head. “It’s Lyme disease.”
At her diagnosis, you looked like a child that had just been handed a present.
Frank stared defeatedly. “No.”
“Yes,” you said.
“No.”
“Langdon.”
“The ANA—”
“Can be positive.”
“The rash—”
“Can also happen.”
“The joint pain—”
“Very happens.” You rolled your eyes. “And you call yourself a doctor.”
Frank looked personally betrayed by everything in existence.
You folded your arms, and with all the satisfaction of someone delivering a punchline they’d been waiting twenty minutes to use, you said, “It’s never lupus.”
The patient started laughing again, and even Robby smile.
The diagnosis confirmed itself surprisingly quickly after that when a more focused history revealed a hiking trip several months earlier. Additional testing was ordered, and treatment plans were discussed. And just like that, the mystery vanished, allowing the room to relax. Eventually, Robby ushered Frank back toward the station before he could launch into another lupus argument.
The woman thanked everyone, especially Samira who whispered a small you’re welcome before walking out the door.
You were the last to leave, wanting nothing more than to go back upstairs for peace and quiet, or at least you planned to leave quickly. The first few steps went normally before your leg gave out enough that your balance shifted sharply and that your cane struck the ground harder than intended to overcompensate to get you back to being stable.
However, before you could truly do that, Samira’s hands were around your arm and pulling before either of you fully processed what happened. Her hands, you thought, were warm against your skin.
Concern was written plainly across Samira’s face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” came flying out in a way that sounded too rehearsed to be genuine.
Unfortunately, she didn’t look convinced. And even more unfortunately, you were currently trying to pretend your hip hadn’t just sent a bolt of pain all the way into your spine.
“You almost fell,” she said softly.
“I almost did, you’re right. Very importantly distinction than to actually falling.”
Her concern stubbornly remained, and her expression made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t particularly enjoy looking at. So, instead, you reached for a safer territory: humor.
“You know,” you said lightly, adjusting your grip on your cane, “most people wait until the third date before grabbing me like that.”
A flush climbed Samira’s face, and you believed that was so much better than the concern she had for you. You smiled, proud of yourself for the reaction you got out of her, before straightening.
You looked down at her hands that were still currently holding onto your arm. “You know, if you ever need help with a case . . .” You nodded vaguely toward the elevators at the end of the hall. “Come find me upstairs.”
Samira gently let go of you once she knew you were stable on your feet and smiled almost bashfully. “I might take you up on that.”
On a rare occurrence, you looked away first. “Good.”
You started toward the elevators, cane clicking steadily against the floor before you paused halfway down the hallway, face turning to glance back over your shoulder.
“Just so we’re clear, Dr. Homan,” you called.
Samira laughed. “Here we go.”
“If anyone asks, this was entirely your diagnosis.”
_______________________
The trauma arrived twenty-three minutes before shift change—not that anyone in the Pitt particularly cared about the clock anymore. Well, they did, but they’d learned long ago that their shifts never ended on the dot.
The day had stretched long past the point of exhaustion almost two hours ago, settling into the familiar start where the day shift started operating on instinct and year-in-the-making caffeine addictions alone. They moved through the department with practiced sluggishness while the night shift seemed to bound through the doors wide away, alert, and enthusiastic.
For the smallest, tiniest moment, everything felt manageable.
Until the trauma alarm decided to ring and send everything to shit.
Samira found Jack in the Trauma Bay 1 before the patient even arrived.
He was already pulling on gloves, already mentally several steps ahead of everyone else in the room. This suited him in a way she suspected he hated hearing about. He seemed to just come alive as much as an overly exhausted night shift attending could. His aura just exuded an I got this handled boldness that was never arrogant and garish. The Pitt just followed his lead without him even having to speak a word.
However, Samira enjoyed the small moments between dropping pressure and gushing blood that Jack seemed to cherry pick to guide her through a chest tube or some procedure he’d read the night before from a foreign magazine.
And each time, he conjured that special patience and openness that you gave her earlier. It was something she liked much more than she would ever admit out loud.
She shook her head of the thoughts when the patient arrived surrounded by paramedics and confusion.
“Thirty-something-year-old male. Motorcycle accident. Conscious and talking on scene,” one of the paramedics rattled off as he guided the gurney into the room.
However, the man on the gurney looked significantly sicker than his injuries should have allowed. As information was spat out, the room began developing the same uncomfortable feeling Samira had experienced earlier in room seventeen.
She was quick to get a reading. “He’s hypotensive.”
“And tachycardic,” the nurse near his head announced.
Jack racked his eyes over the man’s face. “And sweating like a sinner in church.”
“Oxygen 82 percent, and BP is dropping.”
Samira shook her head. “This doesn’t make sense.”
“Someone get me a CT and labs,” Jack grumbled, hands ripping away the man’s vest before someone cut away the rest of his shirt. “Ultrasound too.”
A nurse pushed the machine toward Samira, who quickly squirted the gel on his abdomen before pushing the wand into his skin. Her eyes glued to the black and white monitor. “No free fluid.”
“What are we missing,” he hissed.
Around the room, everyone exchanged increasingly uncertain looks as Jack and Samira scrambled to reassess, reorder scans, and reimagine the injuries in a way that would make sense to them. If they spouted a theory, it never survived more than a few minutes because another piece of evidence arrived to destroy it.
Samira stood near the foot of the bed listening to vitas being called out while watching Jack work through possibilities one by one. The frustration wasn’t obvious, and most people wouldn’t have noticed. But she did.
Her eyes shifted toward the patient, then up toward the monitor, and then to the side toward Jack. Somewhere among the three, her answer on what to do became crystal clear. The diagnosis was still miles away, but the solution happened to be close.
Three floors up close.
Before she fully thought through the decision, she was already stripping off her gloves. The motion had Jack looking up.
“Where are you going?”
His confusion was reasonable considering she appeared to be abandoning an active trauma. Samira was already backing toward the doorway.
“I’ll be right back.”
Jack stared after her, and she was around the corner before he could even blink.
Luckily, the trip upstairs took less than two minutes, and she found you exactly where she’d expected: curled sideways in chair with a chart balanced across your lap and a half-finished cup of coffee siting nearby. The moment she appeared in the hallway your eyes lifted from the paperwork before narrowing.
“When I said if you ever need help with a case, I really thought it’d be like days.”
“Jack and I have a patient that’s crashing, and nothing’s sticking.”
You sighed dramatically and slapped the chart down onto the side table. “I guess I assumed there’d be at least a twenty-four-hour waiting period.”
But despite the complaint, you were already reaching for your cane. The minute you stood, Samira noticed the way your jaw tightened when you stood and the way your hand lingered on the armrest and the brief flicker of discomfort that crossed your face before disappearing completely.
You, like that last time, noticed her noticing, and chose violence instead of ignorance.
“If you keep looking at me like that, Dr. Mohan, we might have to do some medical research in the supply closet downstairs.”
Samira rolled her eyes but was able to keep the heat in her cheeks at bay.
By the time you entered the trauma bay, the atmosphere had shifted from concern into outright confusion. You took one glance around the room and immediately noticed that no one had been able to help the man in the bed.
Jack was the first to look up, and for half a second his expression brightened with obvious relief before he remembered himself. “Oh.”
“Other than my eyes on your ass, what’s happening, Jack Rabbit”
“Well, this guy here is actively dying.”
“Sounds like a fun time.”
You limped further into the room. The pain radiating through your hip had graduated from irritating to miserable somewhere during the elevator ride, but that was tomorrow’s problem. Right now, Jack looked frustrated, Samira looked concerned, and there was a patient actively trying to die in front of them.
Priorities.
“You know,” you said while reaching the bedside, “most people who drag me around at least offers a dinner first.”
Jack muttered your name. “The patient please.”
“I’m looking at him.”
“No, you’re looking at my chest right now.”
“You like it.”
“I’d like it if you looked at the other guy first and me later.”
You snickered. “So there is a later? Good to know.”
A nearby nurse turned away, and Samira bit down a laugh. Jack looked as though he was reconsidering several life choices. Very satisfied, you finally turned your attention toward the patient. The room quieted as your attentiveness narrowed like it always did. The shift from impossible to brilliant remained unsettling no matter how many times people witnessed it.
Your eyes moved rapidly between the monitor, the patient, the scans clipped to the screen nearby. You barely spoke, barely moved as the room continued feeding you information while you assembled it into something coherent.
A minute passed, and suddenly, the answer appeared before anyone else caught on. Jack watched as your expression shifted.
“There,” you said, eyes trained on the man’s face.
Jack stepped closer, trying to get in your line of sight. “What?”
You pointed your cane at him. “Everybody’s looking at the accident.”
“Because he was in one,” Jack scoffed.
“Exactly.” You nodded. “Which is why you’re all missing the thing that was trying to kill him before the motorcycle got involved. Look closely at his mouth.”
Everyone’s eyes followed up to his face.
There.
Samira’s eyes widened at the slight tug downward of the man’s left cheek, a stark contrast to the tense right side of his face. She breathed a sigh of odd relief.
“He’s having a stroke,” she said out loud.
The bay erupted into a different kind of rhythm as Jack barked for changed orders and more consults after the treatment shifted. Within minutes, the entire trajectory of the trauma had transformed. The patient stabilized, and the panic evaporated, and suddenly the room no longer needed you.
Your leg noticed first that the adrenaline that had carried you through the consult vanished almost immediately. By the time the trauma team started settling into cleanup and charting, every step felt increasingly questionable. So, you left, simply making it around the corner before finding an empty bench tucked beside a quiet halfway and lowering yourself onto it with a long exhale.
The relief was instantaneous, but not enough.
Your hip throbbed steadily beneath the surface while the rest of your body slowly remembered how tired it actually was. You rested your cane beside you and leaned your head back against the wall to spend the next few blessed minutes where nobody bothered you.
When shadows appeared across the floor, you opened one eye.
Jack and Samira were standing over you, both their faces full of concern.
You closed your one eye again. “Am I under investigation, doctors, or is staring down at a cripple a new implement in patient care?”
Samira settled onto the bench to your right while Jack leaned against the wall to your left. The two of them looked frustratingly united in purpose. You disliked it.
“You should be taking it easy,” Samira said.
You hummed. “Tell that to the gorgeous resident who came to get me.”
“You could have said your leg was bothering you.”
This time, you opened your eyes and turned your head to fully look at you. “My leg always bothers me.”
You glanced toward Jack for support, but instead, he folded his arms.
Traitor.
Jack watched the fight practically melt from your body. “You almost collapsed leaving the trauma bay.”
“Collapsed feels dramatic even for you. Do we need to talk about that one time your prothesis—”
“No we do not; we’re talking about you and how you nearly fell.”
“Nearly is carrying a lot of weight in that sentence.”
Neither looked convinced, and worse, neither of them looked like they intended to leave. You knew that the two were probably stubborn as hell. You’d spent years becoming very good at redirecting attention elsewhere. Patients and diagnoses were easier. People worrying about you was uncomfortable zone.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, adjusting your position on the bench, “I’ve noticed something medically fascinating while we’ve been sitting here.”
Jack sighed loudly, making both you and Samira smile.
“My leg hurts less when attractive doctors are hovering nearby. I don’t know if it’s science or divine intervention, but I think the results have been extremely promising.”
“That’s not how pain management works,” Jack huffed, but his smile gave everything away.
You pointed toward him. “I totally understand what you’re saying. We definitely need more research.”
Samira laughed, and the sound warmed something unexpectedly soft inside your chest. The feeling made you want more.
“What exactly are you proposing?” Jack questioned, crossing his arms in front of his chest.
You considered for a moment and glanced toward the ceiling before smiling. “I’m saying if the two of you keep hanging around me, I might start requesting your presence for reasons entirely non-medical.”
Jack closed his eyes. “You are unbelievable.”
“Samira laughed! Besides, don’t you think doctor-recommended treatment plans are important?”
“You’re making this up.”
“Jack, that is a serious accusation. I might have to write you up to HR for that.”
“I think HR would take my side over yours.”
You looked over at Samira. “Do you hear the audacity he has?”
She rolled her eyes fondly. “I think he might be right.”
You tipped your head back until it thunked against the wall. “This is the worst dream of my life. Surrounded by hot doctors and yet they’re ganging up on me instead of bending to my wishes.”
The three of you remained there for a few moments longer while the sounds of the Pitt drifted around the corner. For once, nobody seemed particularly eager to move. While the pain in your leg remained exactly where it had always been, sitting there between two people who had followed you simply because they were worried made it a little easier to ignore.
And though you would absolutely never admit it out loud, that might have been the most effective treatment you’d found all day.
And not in the cute, sitcom kind of way people imagined when they watched shows New Girl. It was actually the exact opposite.
It was difficult on the inside and out. When people found out you lived in the hockey house with four Division I athletes, there was no ‘ooh, that must be so fun’ unless it came from some lust filled puck bunny that only had the nastiest of fantasies. To people with actual working brains, more questions always followed their judgmental looks. Thing like ‘why, ‘how long’, ‘are you dating any of them’, ‘is that allowed’. Which you understood, but could only answer with one phrase.
“It’s a long story.”
Because it was! Getting into the intricacies of how you started the schools, and first ever, collage hockey cheer squad was too much: it always sounded like you were bragging about something that you didn’t see as a big deal. Plus, no one wanted to hear about how you despised the concept of bunking with a complete and total stranger for the sake of the college experience, especially when they were doing the same thing.
On the inside of the home, however, living with boys was even more difficult because… well, you actually had to live with them.
Living with boys was hard in a deeply specific, deeply exhausting way no one warned you about.
First, it was because boys were disgusting.
Not always and sometimes not intentionally, but sometimes and for some reason, even maliciously. Like that one time Dean left a condom in the shower because Logan ate his leftovers that Tucker made. You didn’t know if it was a man thing, or a sports thing, but they moved through life with a level of casual recklessness that made you wonder how any of them had survived into adulthood.
And the house itself reflected that.
At first glance, it looked like any off-campus athlete house. Loud with the occasional party, sort of worn-in due to said parties. It also constantly smelled of detergent and sweat.
But there were traces of you.
Your pink throw blankets were draped over the couch because the you always got cold and the boys knew nothing about buying decent blankets themselves. Your Vogue magazines were spread across the coffee table beside their sports journals and empty Gatorade bottles. There were tiny decorative glass bowls full of hair ties and bobby pins sitting in random places throughout the place because you kept losing them.
There was a lemon blossom candle on the kitchen counter that Dean lit it more than you did. He eventually stole it to put in his room for his after shower activities, but the touch was yours nonetheless.
Your shoes by the front door mixed into piles of massive sneakers and hockey bags was a contrasting sight. Your colorful sandals, soft Ugg boots and fuzzy animal house slippers. Your skincare products that lined one side of the downstairs bathroom sink stuck out next to Logan’s beard trimmer that sat threateningly close to your toothbrush.
There was the small pros that you found cute as you passed through, looking at the way your vastly different lives were all intertwined this way. But with the pros, comes the cons. And some cons might be to your doing as well.
There were the packages. God, the packages. The delivery driver knew you by name and you knew his. It was Anthony.
Boxes of PR constantly showed up at the house, to the point where neither them nor you could keep up. PR packages from makeup brands, clothing collaborations from boutiques that used your Instagram for promotion. There were skincare launches, cheer gear, women’s protein bars with aesthetically pleasing packaging because apparently gut health had to not only be gendered for some reason but become your entire personality this semester.
Though you found it stupid, you were doing it for the cheque. And the products worked because Garrett seemed to love them.
Dean once opened the front door and stared at the stack of boxes awaiting outside.
“What the hell is all this?” He asked exasperatedly, looking over at you, who sat in the couch. You glanced up from your laptop, peeking over the couch as if you could see the packages on the porch. “Probably PR.” You shrugged before going back to your screen.
“There are, like, ten boxes here.”
“Yeah.” You muttered, still clicking away on your laptop, not even looking up this time.
“Why?” He questioned, absentmindedly moving to load the boxes of various sizes into the home and sit them by the door. He lifted them up, dressed in nothing out gym shorts and slides, and closed the door with his foot. “I mean, who needs this much stuff? What even if half of this?”
You let out a small sigh, leaning back in the couch as you looked up at the blonde man. “What can I say Dean, the brands love me.” You shrugged with a cocky smirk before chuckling.
Dean scoffed and cut his eyes towards Garrett. “I picked the wrong career.”
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Living with boys also meant your things slowly stopped becoming just yours.
Your blankets became communal blankets that barely covered you since you had to share with Logan’s huge body. Your expensive vanilla syrup for coffee was now used in Tuckers cocktail recipes. The fridge you so carefully organized slowly became demented into disarray as if it was ravaged by some beast, especially because Tucker cooked like a suburban mother feeding a family of seven.
Every Sunday, Tucker stood in the kitchen for hours meal prepping while music played low through a speaker. He moved around the kitchen with efficiency, his broad shoulders hovering over simmering pots. The place was warm as something baked in the oven and the entire home just smelled great when Tucker cooked.
The feeling almost made up for the rest of the boys existing.
Almost.
You had your own section in the fridge. Well, you were supposed to.
Tucker, the cute gentleman that he is and was raised to be, respected it. The others did not.
Your shelf was painfully recognizable compared to theirs. You had your glass jars filled with matcha or chocolate raspberry chia seed pudding. There was your coconut water, almond milk, and lemonade alongside your fresh fruit and sweet streets. In the door was your wellness shots that tasted like shit. And last but not least, your coconut cult probiotic yogurt.
Garrett liked called your grocery hauls ‘rich girl rabbit food’, which was ironic considering he ate enough food in a day to feed a small village. But you knew it was just a joke, especially since he’s seen your late night door dash orders.
Still, you bought those things for a reason. Whether it was your skin, your stomach health, your energy levels. It all went into your focus for cheer, which was important to you.
Being captain of the cheer team meant constant appearances, performances, uniforms, cameras, and social media posts. You couldn’t survive off frozen pizza and energy drinks, as much as you wanted to, the way the some boys somehow did. Trust though, you did indulge yourself whenever you seen fit.
Unfortunately, the boys viewed your food as fascinating, like zoo animals discovering their enrichment toys.
One afternoon, after your morning yoga session in the attic, you padded downstairs in green leggings and an oversized Briar U sweatshirt, water bottle dangling from your hand.
The house was suspiciously quiet. Too quiet for your liking, which caused you to narrow your eyes immediately.
You rounded the corner before turning into the kitchen, and that’s when you spotted them.
Dean and Garrett were standing in front of the open fridge, spoons in hand and substance in their mouths. They seemed to enjoy whatever they were eating, humming in content.
You furrowed your brows before your eyes dropped to the jar in Deans hands. He was holding your yogurt. Your Coconut Cult yogurt.
Dean was actively eating from the jar while Garrett slightly grimaced through another spoonful, mildly enjoying its taste.
You froze at threshold of the kitchen, eyes widening and mouth dropping open. “Oh my God.” You said, hands coming up to cover your mouth.
Both boys looked up at you, frozen like they were caught red handed. Which they were.
Dean swallowed. “Hey.” The words got clogged in his throat, trying to speak and swallow what he thought was a dessert.
“That jar is forty dollars worth of yogurt.” You snipped, eyes bouncing between them.
Garrett blinked. “Forty—”
“You ate my Coconut Cult?!”
Dean frowned down at the small jar. “It’s yogurt.” He scoffed. “And it definitely shouldn’t be forty bucks.”
“It’s probiotic yogurt!”
Garrett took another bite and immediately regretted it. “Is that why it has that weird aftertaste?”
“Yes!”
“So you buy this spoiled tasting yogurt on purpose?”
You marched across the kitchen in disbelief, snatching the jar from Dean’s hand like a mother catching teenagers with alcohol. “I eat this for my gut health, you idiots! You know I’m lactose intolerant!”
Dean leaned against the counter lazily. “Okay, we’ll owe you.” He shrugged as if it was nothing. “I didn’t know the chocolate moose yogurt was special and forty fucking dollars.” He chuckled in disbelief.
“Like you can’t afford it.” Garett mumbled.
“You two are going to regret this later.” You hissed, throwing the jar and what’s left over, in the trash. It’s not like you could use the rest anyway with the way they were digging back and forth into the probiotic.
Garrett scoffed. “The hell is that supposed to mean?” He questioned, watching as you rounded the counter to walk away from them.
You paused, turning to stare at them for a long moment.
Then you slowly smiled. “You’ll see.” You grinned before making your way back upstairs, confused in what you can down for in the first place.
Tucker walked in halfway through the silence you left, carrying grocery bags. His eyes moved between the two boys, who was left frozen in your wake.
“What happened?”
“They ate her Coconut Cult,” Logan called from the living room, where he was playing a Mario Kart on the television.
Tucker let out a small chuckle in disbelief as she placed the bags in the counter. “Oh,” he said softly. “Oh, you idiots.”
Dean frowned. “What?”
“That stuff has like a billion probiotics in it.”
Garrett’s face slowly changed while Dean still didn’t seem to get the point yet.
“And that means?” He questioned, eyeing the pair in the kitchen.
“Oh no.” Garrett mumbled, placing his head in his hand, holding himself up in the kitchen island. Dean eyed him, while Tucker chuckled in amusement.
“Bro, what? Come on, tell me.” The blonde urged.
“If you took more than a spoonful of that, you’re gonna shit your brains out.” Tucker smiled, moving around them to load the fridge full of food.
Deans face dropped as Logan’s chuckles echoed into the kitchen.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
Then there’s the bathroom situation, which somehow managed to be even worse than the food situation.
Because the attic that you lived in only had a tiny half-bath. Just a toilet and sink squeezed beneath slanted ceilings. Meaning for showers, you had to use the downstairs bathroom. The shared house bathroom.
The one that you shared with four hockey players.
There were not enough candles or cleaning products in the world to emotionally prepare someone for sharing a bathroom with men.
You cleaned constantly.
Constantly.
You wiped the counters, refolded towels, reorganized the cabinet products, cleaned the floors. Anything to aid in stopping the place from delving into a yuck fest within hours.
One time Logan left a pair of compression undershorts hanging from the shower rod for three days.
Three. Days.
“You guys live like rats.” You complained, thudding down the stairs, gloves still on from scrubbing the bathroom counter. It was dark out, the soft sound of rain pelting the windows. “Logan, I’m throwing these shorts away.” You deadpanned, only gaining a shrug in response from the man.
Dean lounged against the archway of the living room, eating cereal straight from the box. “And yet you stay.” He grinned, eyes in the tv, where some rival team shame tape played.
“Unfortunately, I’ve grown attached.” You muttered, walking over to the kitchen trash can to rid yourself of the rubber gloves.
“Aww, to us?” Logan questioned with a smile, glancing over from the living room couch.
“To Tucker’s cooking.” You quipped, flashing him a large beam. His smile dropped, causing you to chuckle as you leaned against the wall opposite to Dean.
Speaking of, he placed a hand over his heart dramatically. “How cruel, puck princess.” He chuffed, which instantly wiped the smile from your face. You reached over, slapping his arm.
“I told you about that name.” You said through clinched teeth. All while Dean just laughed, showing all of his pearly whites.
“Well, you hurt my feelings.” He shrugged, causing you to roll your eyes.
⋆⁺₊┈┈ ೀ
The problem with sharing a bathroom, though, was the complete destruction of privacy.
There was absolutely none. People, roommates and strangers alike, barged in constantly because apparently locks meant nothing nowadays. You were never in the habit of locking the bathroom door before you moved in with these people.
One night after practice, steam from the shower you just took was still clinging to your skin and you stood at the sink brushing your teeth while wrapped in your fluffy pink towel.
Dean stood beside you, half his faced covered in shaving cream and his sweatpants hanging dangerously low on his hips while music played softly from his phone on the counter.
It was oddly domestic, but the usual after a few years living together. It was now your norm to do such things. And everything was fine, same as always.
Until you opened the drawer looking for floss. There, sitting very obviously amongst your hair ties and face masks was a hot pink vibrator.
You paused mid-brush, brows furrowed.
Dean noticed you stopping immediately, the chill vibe shifting to something else.
His eyes followed yours downward, and once they were placed onto what caught your attention, they widened in horror.
Painfully slowly, what you could see of his face started turning red.
You looked at him the same time he looked at you. I enter of you spoke for a while, just staring at each other like you were both caught in the middle of some compromising position.
Then the bathroom door opened and Tucker stepped inside holding folded towels before stopping dead in his tracks.
His eyes darted between the two of you, faces red and frozen in your half dressed states. He then glanced at the drawer, seeing the item, and then back up at you two.
A long silence followed, and his innocent stare gave nothing away.
Finally, Dean pointed aggressively.
“That’s not mine.” You both said at the same time.
“At all,” You added quickly.
Tucker blinked twice before he simply backed out of the bathrooms towels still in hand.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you two in silence again, though this time more charged than before.
You then burst into laughter, so hard toothpaste nearly came out of your nose. That broke the tension between you two, causing Dean groaned, dragging a hand down his half shaven face while still blushing violently. “Oh my God.”
Living with boys is hard. It’s exhausting and loud and invasive. It was a feat that meant never knowing peace.
But sometimes it also meant coming downstairs at two in the morning unable to sleep and finding Tucker making grilled cheese in the kitchen.
It meant Garrett silently carrying your PR packages upstairs because he knew they were heavy. Or Logan shoving vitamins toward you after practice because you “forgot your weird supplements this morning.”
And sometimes it meant Dean falling asleep on the couch under one of your pink blankets while a face mask on and a leopard print headband that sat on his forehead because you convinced him to do skincare with you.
The house was chaotic and messy. Sometimes a bit overcrowded. But somewhere between it all, it became home.
pairing – garrett graham x reader
summary – a secret hookup with garrett graham turns into four close calls, one locker room scandal, and feelings neither of them are hiding very well.
warnings – 18+, smut, alcohol, jealousy, secret hookups, hockey violence/injuries, swearing.
notes from me – thank u for the request, anon!! this was so cute i got carried away lol <3
word count – 9.4k
navigation – masterlist
The thing about keeping Garrett Graham a secret was that Garrett Graham was, in almost every available category, a terrible secret.
He was too tall for it, for one. Too broad. Too recognisable from the back, from the shoulders, from the mess of dark curls and the stupid confident way he moved through a room like gravity had signed some private agreement to make him look good from every angle.
He was also, tragically, friendly. Friendly in that Garrett-specific way that meant everybody on campus felt like they knew him well enough to yell his name across a party, slap his shoulder at Malone’s, stop him in the hall to talk about last night’s game or next week’s line-up or whatever else men said to one another when they wanted to bask briefly in proximity to a local legend and pretend it was a conversation.
And she wasn't exactly anonymous either. Not anymore. Not after Dean.
Dean Di Laurentis, who had never been her boyfriend, which was a legal technicality he clung to with the same lazy confidence he seemed to apply to everything else in his life.
Dean had been a mistake with good hair and a trust fund. A mistake with a grin. A mistake that had lasted a few times longer than it should have because he was pretty and shameless and very good at looking at a girl like he had personally invented bad decisions and would be thrilled to walk her through the beginner course.
But Dean wasn't a girlfriend kind of guy. Dean was Six Flags. You rode the ride, screamed once or twice, maybe bought the photo after, and then got off.
She knew that. She had known that then, technically.
Dean had a way of appearing in her life at the least dignified possible moments looking pleased with himself, and she had a way of refusing to let him be pleased without penalty.
Like the time she found him coming out of a women’s bathroom stall at Malone’s with a girl in a denim skirt. She had been washing her hands at the sink, glanced up in the mirror, taken in his flushed face, his rumpled shirt, the girl fixing her hair behind him, and said, “Hi, whore,” with the flat calm of someone greeting a neighbour at the mailbox.
Dean, because shame had never successfully attached itself to his nervous system, had only chuckled and leaned one shoulder against the stall door. “Hey.”
That was the whole thing. Mostly joking. Mostly old bruised pride dressed up in insults because that was easier than admitting he had maybe gotten under her skin for a minute and then left muddy footprints on his way back out.
Garrett wasn't supposed to be part of that. Garrett had happened after a party, which was already a bad sign because nothing good ever began at two in the morning in a hockey house kitchen with tequila and Dean singing the wrong words to a song everybody else knew.
It had been loud and hot and stupid, the whole house sticky with beer and laughter and bodies pressed into doorways. She had ended up outside on the back steps because the kitchen had started spinning, and Garrett had come out five minutes later with two waters and an expression that suggested he was trying very hard not to ask whether she was going to puke on his sneakers.
He had sat down beside her instead.
Garrett had looked at her sideways when she laughed at one of his jokes, and something in his face had changed. Garrett’s face was a practiced thing, mostly grin and charm and captain-boy confidence, but this had slipped underneath it. A quiet little interest. A flicker. Like he had found something he wanted to pay attention to and was already annoyed about it.
Then, later, in the upstairs hallway, she had been trying to find the bathroom and he had been trying to find Logan, because Logan had stolen his phone to send a voice note to Coach that began with “hypothetically, if a man loved hockey but hated cardio,” and somehow Garrett’s hand had ended up on her waist. Warm through her shirt. Steadying her when someone shoved past in the hall.
“Careful,” he had said, close to her ear.
She had turned her head, too drunk to be clever and too annoyed by how good he smelled to be normal. “I’m always careful.”
Garrett’s eyes had dropped to her mouth for half a second, then lifted again with that awful amused heat. “Uh huh.”
The first kiss had been an accident. His room had been closer than the bathroom. His door had shut behind them. His mouth had been warm and confident and so immediately, horribly good that she had pulled back after ten seconds just to stare at him like that might make the situation less offensive.
Garrett had grinned down at her, lips a little swollen already, one hand still at her waist. “What?”
“You kiss like you know you’re good at it.”
He’d shrugged. “I am good at it.”
“That’s a disgusting thing to say.”
“Wasn’t really a denial, though.”
She had meant to hate that. Truly. She had tried.
The first time they almost got caught, she was riding him with her hands braced on his chest and Garrett’s mouth at her throat, and the only thought in her head was a soft, stunned, repeated oh that seemed to have lost all connection to language.
His room was too warm despite the window cracked open behind the desk, the cold night air barely managing to move through the heat they had made under the sheets. The lamp was off. Some blue-white spill from the streetlight outside cut through the blinds in thin, broken lines over the wall and across Garrett’s shoulder.
His chain had slipped sideways against his collarbone. His hair was a wreck from her fingers. His mouth was open against her neck, kissing up under her jaw with the kind of lazy, devastating precision that made her thighs shake around him before she could stop them.
“Garrett,” she breathed, and then immediately louder, because his hands had shifted to her hips and guided her down harder. “Oh my God.”
His hand flew up before the sound had fully escaped, palm covering her mouth, his other hand tightening at her waist. “Jesus, baby,” he said, voice low and rough and entirely too amused for a man currently participating in the same crime. “You trying to get me murdered?”
She made a muffled noise against his hand that was meant to be a curse and came out humiliatingly close to a whimper. Garrett’s grin flashed in the dark, teeth catching briefly, eyes bright and smug and so pleased with himself she nearly hated him. Nearly.
It was hard to maintain moral outrage when his thumb was pressed lightly against her cheek and his hips were still moving, slow and deep and mean in the way only a man with a scoreboard in his soul could be mean.
“There we go,” he murmured, kissing the side of her jaw while his palm stayed over her mouth. “Can’t be announcing it to the whole house, right?”
She glared down at him, or tried to. It probably lost some effect when her eyes fluttered halfway shut because he lifted his hips again and hit exactly the wrong place, which was to say exactly the right one.
Garrett laughed under his breath, quiet and filthy with satisfaction. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”
She bit the inside of his palm.
His brows shot up. “Oh, we’re biting now?”
She nodded against his hand with as much dignity as a girl could manage while naked on top of him and very actively losing a fight against her own volume.
“Cool,” he whispered. “Very healthy. Super mature.”
She would have laughed if she had any air left. Instead her body gave her away again, a soft, trapped sound catching under his palm as he sat up suddenly, changing the angle and dragging her with him until she was pressed chest-to-chest with him, knees bracketing his hips, his mouth at her ear.
“Shh,” he said, but the edge of laughter in it ruined the authority.
He was enjoying this too much. Enjoying her like this, messy and desperate and trying very hard to be quiet because if anybody found out she was in Garrett Graham’s room, in Garrett Graham’s bed, after Dean Di Laurentis had spent the better part of the semester behaving like her eventual return to his mattress was a scheduling issue rather than a question, the whole house would become unbearable overnight.
Then the hallway floor creaked. Both of them froze. Him still inside her, both still overheated, still breathing too hard into the tiny space between them. Garrett’s hand stayed clamped gently over her mouth. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. His eyes lifted toward the door, and in the blue-dark she watched every cocky line in his face vanish into immediate, sharp focus.
Outside, Logan’s voice drifted close enough to curdle the air. “Yo– Dean. Is that who I think it is in there?”
Her stomach dropped so fast it was almost physical. Garrett’s eyes snapped back to hers.
For one suspended, insane second, they only stared at each other. She could feel his heartbeat hard against her chest. Could feel where they were still joined, which her body had the absolutely perverse audacity to notice in detail despite the fact that John Logan was currently holding a one-man investigation outside the door. Garrett’s hand loosened slightly over her mouth. Her lips parted against his palm. He held his finger up to his own lips, and she had nodded quickly.
He reached blindly toward the bedside table with one hand, the motion chaotic and deeply unathletic for a man who made a living looking graceful under pressure.
His fingers knocked something over. A bottle cap, maybe. His watch. A textbook hit the floor with a soft thud. She bit down on a laugh before it could get out, which was dangerous because laughter at that moment felt like shaking a soda bottle with the cap still on.
Garrett found his phone at last, thumb flying over the screen. For half a second there was nothing. Then the speaker on his dresser exploded to life with Cherry Pie so loud the whole room seemed to jump.
She slapped both hands over her own mouth now, eyes wide, shoulders shaking immediately with silent laughter. Garrett stared at the ceiling like he could not believe this was the solution his brain had selected and was, worse, proud of himself anyway.
In the hallway, Logan went silent. Then he burst out laughing. “Oh shit– sorry, G! Guess not!”
A second later Dean’s voice, farther away and deeply suspicious, called, “What?”
“Nothin’, man,” Logan said, still laughing. “Keep walking.”
Footsteps retreated. The music kept blaring. Garrett turned it down with the ferocious speed of a man who had made his point and no longer wanted Warrant narrating his sex life. The second the volume dropped, she folded forward into Garrett’s shoulder and started laughing for real, breathless and helpless, her whole body shaking against his.
Garrett’s arms closed around her automatically. Then he started laughing too, quiet and disbelieving into her hair. “Fuck.”
She lifted her head, face hot, eyes watering, and whispered, “Cherry Pie?”
“It was the first thing that came up.”
“You panic-played Cherry Pie?”
He huffed out a laugh. “It worked.”
“That’s not the same as being good.”
“It worked,” he repeated, grinning now, smugness returning by the inch because survival had restored him. His hands slid to her hips again, warm and possessive and much too confident. “And for the record, if Logan thinks you’re in Dean’s room right now, I might throw myself out the window.”
She pressed her lips together, trying and failing not to smile. “Jealous?”
Garrett’s eyes narrowed. “Careful.”
The word landed low in her stomach. Warm and bright and stupid. She leaned down and kissed him before he could see too much of it on her face, and he kissed her back still smiling, still breathing laughter into her mouth, both of them a little shaky now for a different reason.
“Too close,” she murmured against him.
“Yeah,” Garrett said, one hand coming up to the back of her neck, holding her there. “Maybe stop trying to wake the neighbours.”
“You’re the one playing stripper music at full volume.”
“Because you’re loud.”
“Because you’re annoying.”
His grin was all teeth in the dark. “Baby, just before? That wasn't an annoyed sound.”
She shoved at his chest, and he fell back on the mattress easily, gesturing for her to come closer with two fingers. The stupid warmth of it made her go quiet in a way that was much more dangerous than the moaning had been.
The second time they almost got caught, she was drunk enough that focusing on standing upright had become a full-body project.
The house belonged to some guy from one of Dean’s classes, or maybe one of Logan’s, or maybe no one knew and they had all simply agreed to occupy it until dawn. It smelled like beer, perfume, damp coats, and the kind of carpet that had seen too much and forgiven nothing.
She stood in the upstairs hallway with one shoulder against the wall, phone in hand, trying to read the same text from Garrett for the third time.
Garrett: You good?
It was a simple question. Easy. Very Garrett, actually. Casual on the surface, but sent because he had been watching her across the room ten minutes ago with that narrowed captain look he got whenever she reached the stage of drunk where her smile became too slow and her balance became hypothetical.
She typed, yes.
Then deleted it because the letters looked suspicious.
Then typed, yed.
Then stared at that for a long time.
Beside her, a cluster of girls in tiny tops and hockey-adjacent enthusiasm had been having one of those conversations that floated around the party like perfume: who was hot, who was overrated, who was secretly huge, who had commitment issues so severe they should probably be peer-reviewed.
She ignored it for as long as she could because she had bigger concerns, namely that if the bathroom door did not open in the next thirty seconds she was going to have to start making decisions about where else she could throw up.
Then one of them said Garrett’s name. Her eyes lifted off her phone before she could stop them.
The girl speaking was blonde, glossy in a way that seemed expensive even if nothing she was wearing necessarily was, with a little white top and the high, pleased expression of someone enjoying the sound of her own anecdote.
“No, I’m serious,” she was saying, one hand pressed to her chest like she was giving testimony. “Last night was the best night ever. Like, Garrett knows what he’s doing. He made me come, like, three times.”
The hallway did a small, drunken tilt.
The problem wasn't even jealousy at first, not properly. The problem was logistics. Garrett had been in her room last night. Garrett had been in her bed last night, sprawled diagonally like he owned both the mattress and several surrounding counties, one arm hooked around her waist while she tried to sleep and he mumbled something into her hair about setting an alarm for practice.
Garrett had stolen half her blanket and then looked offended when she kicked him in the shin. Garrett had kissed the back of her shoulder at five in the morning before climbing out of bed, half-dressed in the dark, whispering, “Go back to sleep, baby,” like he had any right to sound that soft before sunrise.
So unless Garrett had discovered cloning between midnight and breakfast, the blonde girl was lying.
The girl noticed her staring, because drunken staring was rarely subtle and this particular stare had been delivered with the blank intensity of a haunted doll.
The blonde’s smile faltered into something confused but still sweet, which was somehow worse. “Um… hi, babe. You okay?”
Another girl beside her leaned in slightly, brows lifting. “Did you need some water?”
She opened her mouth. Closed it. Her phone was still in her hand, Garrett’s unanswered text glowing uselessly against her palm.
“You weren’t with Garrett last night,” she said.
The sentence came out too clear. Too certain. Sober-sounding, even, which was deeply unfair given the fact that her inner ear was currently behaving like a loose shopping trolley.
The blonde blinked. “What?”
“You weren’t with Garrett last night.” She frowned, genuinely trying to make the pieces fit and failing so hard that social caution had gone missing in the wreckage. “Why are you lying?”
The air around the bathroom line shifted. A couple of girls looked over. Someone’s mouth dropped open a tiny bit. The blonde’s face did that quick, ugly thing people’s faces did when embarrassment arrived and pride immediately tried to tackle it before it spread.
“And how would you know?” she asked, voice sharpening with a laugh around the edges. “Are you, like, his secretary?”
Her drunk brain, slow but not entirely dead, caught up with the fact that she was standing in a hallway full of girls, defending Garrett Graham’s whereabouts during the exact hours he had spent in her bed, while actively participating in a secret that depended on not doing that.
Her mouth opened. Nothing came out. The blonde’s brows rose.
“I– uh.” She looked down at her phone like it might offer legal counsel. Garrett’s text still sat there, accusatory and simple. “Never mind. Actually.”
Then she stepped out of the bathroom line. There was a slight shoulder bump with the wall and a near-collision with a guy carrying two beers, but she made it away from the girls and around the corner with most of her dignity still technically attached.
Her heart was thudding stupidly hard for a hallway interaction, heat crawling up her throat and into her cheeks. Not jealousy, she told herself. She was just offended by misinformation. Academically. On principle. People should not be allowed to lie.
Her phone buzzed again as she reached the top of the stairs.
Garrett: Seriously. Where are you?
She stared at it for a second, then typed, need bathroom.
Then, after a pause, added, girls are liars.
His response came almost immediately.
Garrett: What
She squinted at the screen.
Garrett: Baby where are you
The baby landed warm even through the alcohol, which was annoying. She looked back over her shoulder toward the hallway, where the bathroom line and the blonde and the whole stupid conversation still existed. Then she started down the stairs, one hand on the railing, the phone clutched in the other, already scanning the crowd below for Garrett’s dark curls and the broad, familiar shape of him.
She found him near the kitchen archway, and he was already looking for her. He caught sight of her halfway down the stairs, and his face shifted at once, amusement and concern colliding so fast that neither won cleanly. He moved through the crowd before she even reached the bottom, one hand lifting to her elbow as she stepped off the last stair.
“Hey,” he said, ducking close so she could hear him. “You okay?”
She looked up at him very seriously. “You were in my room last night.”
Garrett paused. His eyes moved over her face, then over the stairs behind her, then back down. “Yeah.”
“Like the whole night.”
His mouth twitched. “Most of it, yeah.”
“So that girl is a liar.”
A slow understanding dawned across his face. Then, because he was Garrett and therefore terrible, he started to smile. “What girl?”
She jabbed a finger somewhere upward. “The blonde. She said you made her come three times.”
His brows jumped. “Did I?”
“Garrett.”
“What? I feel like I’d remember.”
She crossed her arms. “She was lying.”
“Sounds like it.”
“She looked me in the face and lied.”
Garrett’s hand slid from her elbow to her waist, steadying her when she swayed half an inch in outrage. “You say anything?”
She stared at him.
His eyes narrowed, still smiling but sharper now. “What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Baby,” he whispered.
“I said she wasn’t with you last night.”
Garrett closed his eyes for one second. Just one. When he opened them again, he looked like he was fighting for his life against laughter. “Right.”
“She asked how I knew.”
“Okay.”
“And then I left.”
“Good call.”
“I almost said because you were with me.”
His grin did something helpless then, softer under the smugness, like the idea pleased him before he had time to make it a joke. “Yeah?”
She frowned at him. “Don’t look happy. I nearly compromised the mission.”
“The mission?”
“Our secrecy mission.”
“Our secrecy mission isn’t going great if you’re interrogating women in bathroom lines about my location.”
“She started it.”
“Sure.”
“She did,” she whined, dragging the second word out.
“I believe you.” He didn’t, not entirely. Or maybe he did and was simply enjoying himself too much to be decent about it. His hand squeezed once at her waist, warm and grounding. “You still need to pee?”
Her face fell. “Yes.”
Garrett’s mouth twitched again. “Come on. There’s a bathroom downstairs.”
“You know that?”
“I’m observant.”
“You’re a slut.”
“I’m helpful.” He leaned in, his lips brushing her ear, voice dropping into that low teasing register that made her stomach flip despite the fact that she was seconds away from becoming a medical emergency. “And for the record, next time I make you come three times, I’m expecting a better cover story than that.”
She turned her head slowly to glare at him. Garrett looked deeply pleased with himself.
The third time they almost got caught, she was in the hockey house kitchen at three in the morning wearing Garrett’s t-shirt with absolutely no plan.
It was after a loss, which meant the whole house had gone strange and heavy by midnight. The kind of subdued where the TV stayed on without anyone really watching it and the boys drank beer not to party but to have something to do with their hands.
Garrett had barely spoken when he came out of the locker room earlier, jaw tight, lip split, a bruise already blooming near his cheekbone, that restless, furious energy still moving under his skin like the game had not fully let go of him.
She hadn’t been supposed to come over. That was the rule. One of the rules. There were several now, apparently, all of them made by two people with a strong shared interest in pretending they had control over anything.
No arriving together. No leaving together. No obvious texts when the guys were around. No sitting too close at parties. No looking at each other for too long in kitchens, which was quickly becoming the hardest one because Garrett Graham had a deeply inconvenient face and an even more inconvenient habit of watching her mouth when she was trying to speak.
And definitely no sneaking into his room after midnight through the window like a raccoon because he’d lost a hockey game and she wanted to crawl into bed with him.
So, naturally, she had done exactly that. Garrett’s window wasn't as easy to access as she had expected it to be.
She had nearly died twice, scraped her knee on the siding, and whispered, “This is so stupid,” to herself with feeling before finally pushing the window up and tumbling into his room with all the grace of a bag of laundry.
Garrett had been lying on his bed in the dark, shirtless, one arm over his face. He hadn’t even startled properly. He had just shifted the arm enough to look at her, eyes bleary and bruised with exhaustion, and said, “Baby, what the fuck.”
“I’m being supportive.”
“You broke into my room.”
“I prefer… entered creatively.”
He had stared at her for another second, then lifted the edge of the blanket.
For all the jokes, all the swagger, all the please-don’t-call-this-what-it-is of him, he made room for her too easily. Like his body knew before the rest of him had finished filing objections. She crawled in beside him, careful of his ribs and the angry bruise darkening along one side of his stomach, and he rolled toward her with a wince he tried to hide and a hand that found her hip immediately under the blanket.
“Hi,” he had murmured after a while, lips brushing her hair.
She had smiled into his chest. “Hi.”
Now, hours later, she woke up with her mouth dry enough to qualify as an emergency and Garrett’s arm heavy across her middle.
The room was dark and cold around the edges, the cracked window letting in a thin stream of winter air that made the discarded clothes on the floor look like shadows. Garrett was dead asleep behind her, breathing rough through his nose, body warm and heavy and completely gone in the way only athletes after a bad game seemed capable of being.
One of his hands was tucked under the hem of the shirt she’d stolen off his floor. She swallowed once. Painfully. Then again. Still bad.
She shifted carefully. Garrett grunted and tightened his arm, which would have been sweet if it had not also trapped her in a dehydrated prison.
“Baby,” she whispered.
Nothing.
“Garrett.”
A deeper grunt this time. His face pressed into the back of her neck.
“Baby,” she tried again, softer. “Can you get me water?”
Garrett’s answer was a long, sleep-mangled sound that might have been English in a previous life. She waited.
“Garrett. Please. I’m really thirsty.”
“No,” he mumbled into her hair.
She turned her head as much as she could. “No?”
“M’sleep.”
“You’re talking.”
“Sleep talking.”
She groaned softly. “You’re the worst.”
“Mm.”
She lay there for another thirty seconds, hoping thirst might pass. It did not. Eventually she eased his arm off her waist inch by inch, freezing every time he made a noise, and rolled over to look at him properly.
The sight softened her irritation before she could defend against it. His face was turned toward her on the pillow, hair falling messily over his forehead, lashes low against his cheek. The split in his lip had dried dark at one corner. The bruise near his ribs looked ugly, even in the low light. Another mark curved along his stomach where he’d been slammed into the boards hard enough that the crowd had made a single collective ooooh.
He wasn't getting up. She sighed and climbed out of bed.
The floorboards were cold under her bare feet. Garrett’s t-shirt hit high on her thighs, soft and oversized and smelling like detergent and him. She paused at the door, listening. The house had finally gone mostly quiet. No TV. No shouting. No Dean wandering around half-drunk asking philosophical questions about hot girls and mortality. Only the hum of the fridge downstairs and the occasional tick of the heating.
She slipped into the hall and padded down the stairs, one hand trailing lightly along the wall because the dark made everything look unfamiliar. The kitchen waited at the bottom, dim and blue with moonlight through the window over the sink. Someone had left a pizza box open on the counter. There were three empty beer bottles near the stove and a hoodie slung over one of the chairs. The house smelled like stale chips, laundry, and the faint metallic cold of nighttime.
She found a glass in the cabinet after opening the wrong one twice, filled it at the sink, and drank half of it in one go with her eyes closed.
Then the light snapped on. She spun around so fast water sloshed over her hand.
Tucker stood in the doorway in sweatpants and a faded t-shirt, one hand still on the light switch, hair flattened on one side from sleep. He blinked at her. She blinked back.
For one full second, neither of them moved.
Then Tucker looked at the oversized shirt. Her bare legs. The glass in her hand. The stairs behind her.
“Well,” he said slowly. “Shit.”
Her stomach dropped.
“No,” she said immediately. “Please don’t–”
Tucker rubbed one hand over his face, looking more tired than scandalised. “Damn. I owe Logan ten bucks.”
That derailed her panic so thoroughly that she stared at him. “What?”
He gave her a sympathetic look that somehow made everything worse. “I can’t believe you slept with him again.”
Her mouth opened. Closed. The silence that followed wasn't her best work.
Tucker’s brows lifted. “Dean? Obviously?”
Oh.
The relief arrived so hard it nearly made her dizzy, followed immediately by the horrible understanding that she now had to let Tucker think she had climbed out of Dean’s bed at three in the morning. Her brain, which had been half-asleep and mostly water-focused three minutes ago, scrambled for purchase.
“Right,” she said, too quickly. “Yeah. Dean. Obviously.”
Tucker’s expression softened in a way that made guilt stab straight through the middle of her chest. “Oh. Uh. Sorry. I didn’t mean to make it weird.”
“No, it’s–” She swallowed, clutching the glass with both hands. God bless darkness. God bless Tucker being half-asleep. God bless the fact that Dean’s entire personality was plausible cover for almost any bad decision within a thirty-foot radius. “Please don’t say anything.”
Tucker frowned. “I won’t.”
“No, seriously. Please.” She made her eyes wide because she could, because she had been underestimated by men before and did occasionally enjoy the practical benefits. “It’s so embarrassing. I wasn’t going to. I don’t even know why I– God.” She looked down, shook her head, and gave a small, miserable laugh that deserved an award from whatever committee evaluated female deception in shared kitchens. “Please don’t tell Logan. Or anyone. Especially Dean. Actually, fuck, especially Dean.”
Tucker, who possessed the inconvenient decency of a man who hated watching people feel bad, visibly faltered. “Hey. No, yeah. Totally. Your secret’s safe with me.”
She nodded, still performing devastated shame with one hand wrapped around a stolen water glass. “Thank you.”
“Do you… need anything?”
The kindness almost killed her. “No. I’m good. Just water.”
“Okay.”
Another awkward beat passed. Then Tucker stepped aside from the doorway with the solemn discomfort of someone allowing a ghost to pass through. “Night.”
“Night,” she whispered, and scurried toward the stairs with the glass held carefully against her chest.
She didn’t breathe properly until Garrett’s door shut behind her.
He was still asleep when she climbed back into bed. Useless. Beautiful, bruised, useless man. She set the glass on his nightstand and stared at him for a second in the dark, still buzzing with adrenaline. Then she smacked his shoulder.
Garrett flinched awake with a strangled noise, eyes half-opening. “What– fuck– what?”
“Tucker caught me downstairs.”
That woke him a little more. “What?”
“He thinks I slept with Dean.”
Garrett went very still. Then his face did something fascinating in the dark. Sleep disappeared. Pain disappeared. Every exhausted, post-game softness sharpened into offended disbelief. “He thinks you what?”
“I had to go with it!”
“You had to?”
“Yes, Garrett, because the alternative was saying actually I’m sneaking out of Garrett’s room after cuddling with him because we’re both very normal and secretive and weird.”
He pushed himself up on one elbow, immediately winced, then tried to pretend he hadn’t. “Why the fuck would he think Dean?”
“Because of Dean!”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s kind of the whole answer.” She climbed back under the blanket, still whispering harshly. “You wouldn’t get me water.”
“I was asleep.”
“So I went downstairs and got caught and had to improvise.”
Garrett stared at her, jaw working. Even bruised and half-dead, he managed to look jealous in a way that made her want to laugh and kiss him and maybe shove him a little. “Tucker thinks you left Dean’s room wearing my shirt?”
“I don’t think he was doing t-shirt analysis at three in the morning.”
Garrett dropped back against the pillow with a quiet, pained groan, one hand dragging over his face. “Great.”
She settled beside him, taking a long, triumphant sip of water. “Your fault.”
“My fault?”
“Yes.”
“For being asleep after getting hit, like, forty times tonight,” he said, eyes wide in the dark. Then he groaned. “Fuckin’– Dean?”
She smiled despite herself. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m not jealous.” He was very obviously jealous. His arm came around her waist and tugged her closer with enough care not to hurt himself but enough insistence to make the point. “I just don’t love Tucker thinking you’re sneaking out of Dean’s bed.”
“Technically, he thinks I’m sneaking out of Dean’s bed and deeply ashamed.”
Garrett made a noise of disgust. “Jesus.”
She pressed her face into his shoulder to hide her smile. “Poor Tucker was very sweet.”
“I don’t want to hear about sweet Tucker right now.”
“You’re so easy.”
“I’m injured.”
“You’re possessive.”
He was quiet for half a second. Then, low against her hair, “Maybe don’t make me hear Dean’s name when you’re in my bed.”
She lifted her head. In the dark, Garrett’s expression was harder to read, but she could feel him looking at her. Could feel the tension under the joke, under the jealousy, under the secret they kept pretending was only fun because fun was easier than looking directly at whatever else had started living between them.
“Okay,” she whispered.
His hand moved under the shirt, warm at her back. “Okay?”
“Yeah.” She nudged her nose against his jaw, soft. “No Dean.”
His breath left him slowly. “Good.”
“You still should’ve gotten me water.”
“Go to sleep.”
“You’re mean.”
“You broke into my room.”
“You let me in.”
“Mm,” Garrett murmured, already pulling her closer, careful around his ribs, his mouth brushing her forehead. “I know.”
The fourth time they almost got caught, Garrett took her on a date three towns over and still somehow managed to know someone there.
It was a cute restaurant. Cute in a way that made both of them a little awkward for the first ten minutes because hooking up in secret at parties and sneaking through windows had not prepared either of them for menus with seasonal specials and candles in little glass holders.
The place sat on a narrow street with string lights outside and fogged windows and a hostess who smiled at Garrett for two seconds too long before noticing the girl beside him and recalibrating. Garrett noticed the recalibration. His mouth twitched as they followed the hostess toward a booth in the back.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
“I didn’t say anything.”
She crossed her arms. “You were about to.”
“I was gonna say the soup smells good.”
“You were not.”
Garrett laughed, warm and low, and slid into the booth beside her instead of across from her without asking. They were far enough from Briar that no one should have known them, tucked into the back corner of a restaurant full of older couples and small groups and a table of women laughing over wine near the bar.
It made the whole thing feel suspended, like they’d stepped out of the rules for a few hours and could sit too close without having to perform distance for anyone.
His thigh pressed against hers under the table. Their shoulders brushed every time one of them moved. Garrett kept stealing fries off her plate even though he’d ordered his own, and she kept pretending to be offended while pushing the plate half an inch closer because dignity had left with the appetizer.
At some point his hand found hers on the booth seat between them. His fingers sliding over hers, playing with them idly while he told her about a freshman on the team who had tried to tape his stick with what Logan called the confidence of a man raised by wolves.
She laughed into her drink, and Garrett looked at her in a way that made the restaurant feel suddenly much smaller.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
“No, you’re doing the face.”
His thumb moved over her knuckles. “Just like hearing you laugh.”
That shut her up immediately. Garrett’s eyes flickered over her face, and she hated him for noticing the way the words landed. Hated him more for softening instead of making a joke out of it. For a second they just sat there, fingers tangled on the seat between them, candlelight catching along the edge of his jaw and the chain at his throat, his knee warm against hers.
Then she looked down at the table because she had limits. “That was gross.”
“Yeah?”
“You should be embarrassed.”
He sucked at his teeth gently. “I’m not.”
“No. I know. That’s one of your worst qualities.”
He grinned and lifted her hand, pressing a quick kiss to the back of it. “Top five, maybe.”
She was smiling despite herself, leaning in closer, when a voice came from the side of the booth.
“Graham?”
Garrett’s hand froze around hers. A tiny, immediate stillness that went through him faster than any expression on his face could catch. His smile stayed in place when he looked up, but she felt the change in his body first. The slight tightening at his shoulder. The way his hand shifted off hers and came to rest on his own thigh. The casual posture assembling itself a second too late to be real.
A guy stood at the end of the booth, tall and broad, with the unmistakable haircut of a hockey player and a jacket with Eastwood stitched over the chest. Recognition hit Garrett’s face, then something flatter underneath it.
“Parker,” Garrett said, easy enough if you weren’t pressed against him and listening to the mechanics of the lie. “What’s up, man?”
The Eastwood player grinned and held out a hand. Garrett slid out of the booth halfway to shake it, and she sank approximately two inches lower in the seat.
Which was stupid. Very stupid. If she wanted to avoid notice, shrinking into the booth like a child hiding from a substitute teacher wasn't a subtle approach. But the whole night had gone bright and hot behind her ears. She took an intense interest in the remaining fries on her plate and prayed for invisibility.
No such luck. Parker’s eyes flicked to her with polite curiosity. The interest of someone who had stumbled into a scene and wanted to know the category. Date? Hookup? Cousin? Hostage?
Garrett, because his life was apparently a sport in all directions, stood in front of the booth with one hand settling briefly on his hip before moving up to scratch along his jaw.
Nervous.
She noticed it instantly. Garrett Graham didn’t usually look nervous. He looked cocky, amused, focused, pissed off, hungry, occasionally concussed, but not nervous. Yet there he was, smiling and doing all the tiny, useless things his body did when he wanted to seem casual too badly: thumb brushing under his nose, hand dragging through his curls, weight shifting onto one foot and then back again.
“What are you doing out here?” Parker asked.
Garrett shrugged. “Dinner.”
“Yeah, no shit.” Parker laughed, looking around. “Didn’t expect to see you this far out.”
“Had to get off campus for a minute.”
The sentence was true enough to pass. It made something soft and stupid open in her chest, because Garrett had wanted to get off campus with her. Not to hook up quickly before someone knocked. Not to drag her upstairs at a party. Dinner. A booth. His fingers playing with hers beside the cushion. The whole quiet normal shape of it.
Parker’s gaze flicked to her again. Garrett saw it and shifted half a step, not blocking her, but angling himself between the attention and her face in a way that made her want to press her forehead to the table.
“This is–” Garrett started, and then stopped.
Her heart gave one hard kick, because there was no good ending there. This is my friend sounded insane. This is the girl I’m sleeping with sounded worse. This is the girl Dean hooked up with and now I am secretly, catastrophically gone for sounded accurate but logistically challenging.
So Garrett, genius athlete, captain of the Briar men’s hockey team, man with a GPA that proved his brain did occasionally participate, did the only thing available. He smiled wider and said, “We’re just eating.”
She closed her eyes.
Parker blinked once, then, mercifully, either understood enough to leave it alone or decided he didn’t care. “Cool, cool. Good to see you, bro.” He clapped Garrett once on the shoulder. “See you on the ice.”
Garrett’s grin sharpened into something more familiar. “Looking forward to it.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
They did the aggressive male handshake thing again, all knuckles and shoulder tension and mutual threat disguised as friendliness, then Parker left toward the bar.
Garrett stood for one second after he was gone, watching him go. Then he slid back into the booth beside her, and both of them sat completely still.
She stared at the table. Garrett stared straight ahead. Then, at exactly the same time, they both exhaled.
“Jesus Christ,” she whispered.
“Yeah,” Garrett said. “That was– yeah.”
She turned her head slowly. “We’re just eating?”
His jaw tightened. “I panicked. What was I supposed to say?”
“I don’t know, Garrett. Fuck.”
His hand found hers again, but this time under the table, fingers lacing through hers with a little more urgency than before. “Too close?”
She looked down at their joined hands. His thumb was moving over hers, once, twice, like he was calming himself as much as her. “Way too close.”
“Yeah.”
“And you were nervous.”
He scoffed and shook his head once. “I wasn't nervous.”
“You scratched your jaw like nine times.”
“My jaw itched.”
Her eyebrows raised. “And your nose?”
“Itched too,” he shrugged.
“And your hair?”
“Whole body’s falling apart, apparently.”
She huffed a laugh, and his hand tightened around hers. When she looked up, he was watching her with that softer thing again. The thing that kept sneaking in around the edges of their jokes and making them both go quiet.
“Hey,” he said, lower. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For making it weird.”
“It is weird.”
“Yeah.” His mouth pulled at one corner. “But I like this weird.”
The warmth hit so hard she had to look away toward the candle. “You can’t say stuff like that after calling me an eating companion.”
“I didn’t call you that.”
“You kinda did.”
Garrett laughed, then leaned in and kissed her temple because out of town meant he could do that. Could sit beside her in a booth and kiss her hair and hold her hand under the table and look at her like the secret was starting to bother him not because he wanted out of it, but because he wanted out of the hiding part.
She let herself lean into him for half a second. Just half.
The fifth time, the time they were finally caught, she didn’t think at all, and that was probably why it happened.
Afterward, she would be able to admit there had been options. Reasonable options. Normal options. She could have waited outside the locker room like other people did. She could have texted him. She could have asked Logan if Garrett was okay, which would have been embarrassing but survivable.
She could have done any number of things that didn’t involve slipping past the edge of the crowd after the game and walking straight into the tunnel like she had a right to be there.
But Garrett had been wrong all night. He had played well in flashes because Garrett Graham could probably play well during a natural disaster if someone gave him skates and a reason. But there had been something jagged in him from the first period.
Too sharp on the checks. Too quick to shove back. Mouthguard hanging between his teeth while he stared down some Eastwood winger with a look on his face that made her hands go cold around the railing.
He got sent off twice. Once for roughing, once for a fight that started so fast the crowd seemed to notice it only after Garrett already had a fist tangled in someone’s jersey. The second time, even Coach looked furious in that controlled way that made grown men behave like children caught setting fires.
She watched Garrett in the box with his jaw clenched and blood bright at the corner of his mouth, his chest rising hard under the pads, eyes fixed somewhere across the ice but not really on it.
Logan skated by once and said something. Garrett didn’t smile. Didn’t chirp back. Didn’t do any of the things he usually did to make violence look like part of the game and not something older moving through him.
So after the final buzzer, after Briar won, despite Garrett trying to personally fistfight the entire opposing roster, after the crowd started spilling into the aisles and everyone around her buzzed with post-game noise, she moved.
The tunnel was colder than the stands, all concrete and rubber matting and the damp, metallic smell of hockey gear. Voices echoed from the locker room ahead, overlapping male noise and equipment hitting benches and someone laughing too loudly in that exhausted post-adrenaline way.
She slipped past a staff member who was too busy looking at a clipboard to care, turned the corner, and found Garrett standing alone near the wall.
He was still in most of his gear. Helmet off. Gloves gone. Hair damp and flattened at the sides, curls sticking up where he had run his hands through them. His head hung forward, both palms braced on his knees like he was trying to breathe the game out of himself and failing. Blood had dried at his lip again. His jaw worked once. Twice. The tendons in his neck stood out under the harsh tunnel light.
Her chest tightened so fast it hurt. “Garrett.”
His head snapped up. The second he saw her, everything in his face changed. He came back by inches, like her voice had reached into whatever ugly room he was in and opened a door.
“Hi,” he said, breathless, already straightening. Then again, rougher, like the first one had not been enough. “Hey.”
She closed the space before either of them had time to remember they weren’t supposed to do this where people could walk by.
“Hey.” Her hands went to his face immediately, careful around the split lip, thumbs brushing at the damp edges of his cheeks. “You good? What happened?”
Garrett let out a breath, eyes closing. His hands came up to cover hers for one second, pressing them harder to his face like he needed the contact more than he wanted to admit. “M’fine.”
“No, you’re not.”
His chest was still moving hard, the pads making him look even bigger, all post-game heat and sweat and the raw leftover violence of whatever had been eating at him on the ice. She slid one hand up into his hair, fingers pushing through the damp curls at his temple. His exhale shook.
“You alright?” she asked again, softer now.
He nodded, but it was a bad nod. A nod made out of stubbornness and breath and the fact that he had no idea what to do with her looking at him like this in a tunnel. His jaw shifted. His eyes opened, finding hers, and whatever he saw there made his whole face pull tight for half a second.
“Baby,” he murmured.
That did it. Here, in the tunnel, with the locker room noise around the corner and blood on his mouth and his breathing still rough from whatever fight he had nearly brought home from the ice, the word hit somewhere deeper.
She rose onto her toes and kissed him. It was meant to be small, it really was. A check-in. A reassurance. A brief press of her mouth to his.
Garrett made a low sound the second her lips touched his, and then his arms were around her waist, pulling her in properly, pads and all, crushing the space between them like he’d been waiting the whole night for something solid enough to hold.
The kiss turned immediately. His mouth opened under hers, hungry and rough and not careful enough at first, then careful all at once when she brushed his split lip and he hissed softly into her mouth.
She pulled back half an inch. “Sorry.”
“Don’t care,” he said, and kissed her again.
Everything from the game poured into it. The hits. The fights. The awful, tight look in his eyes from the penalty box. Her hands cold on the railing. The secret they’d been carrying around like something light when it had gotten heavier every time he looked at her across a room and didn’t come closer. Garrett’s fingers dug into her waist. Hers stayed in his hair, tugging lightly. He kissed like he was trying to get back into his own body through her mouth. And she let him.
Then someone behind them said, “Ohhhh shit.”
They broke apart so fast it was almost violent. Logan stood ten feet away with a towel slung around his neck, hair wet, mouth open in the kind of delighted grin usually reserved for a successful prank or Tucker injuring himself in a deeply avoidable way.
His eyes moved from Garrett’s arms around her waist, to her hands still caught in Garrett’s hair, to Garrett’s swollen mouth, and then back again. For one second, no one spoke.
Garrett’s arms didn’t leave her waist. She noticed that through the panic, through the sudden rush of heat to her face, through the knowledge that the entire delicate architecture of their secrecy had just been bodychecked into open air by John Logan and his shit-eating grin.
Garrett kept holding her.
Logan’s grin widened. “Was comin’ to check on the captain, but… shit.” He lifted both hands, backing away already, eyes bright with the kind of joy that meant the locker room was about to become a crime scene. “Guess he’s alright.”
“Logan,” Garrett said, low warning.
Logan only pointed at him, walking backward. “Nope. No. Don’t Logan me. You have been weird as fuck for weeks, man.”
Her stomach dropped and flipped at the same time.
Garrett’s jaw tightened. “Don’t–”
But Logan had already turned toward the locker room, voice rising with unholy glee. “You’ll never fucking guess what I just saw!”
The sound that came from the locker room was immediate. A burst of voices. Dean’s laugh cutting through first, bright and vicious. Tucker saying something too low to catch. Someone yelling, “What?” and Logan answering with, “Graham!” in the tone of a man unveiling evidence at trial.
She closed her eyes. Garrett dropped his forehead to hers.
For a second, neither of them moved. His breath was warm against her mouth, still uneven. Her hands had slipped from his hair to the sides of his neck. His gear pressed awkwardly against her chest.
Somewhere around the corner, the locker room erupted again, Dean’s voice now unmistakable. “No fucking way!”
Garrett exhaled, eyes closing. “Fuck.”
She huffed, because there was nothing else to do. A laugh, almost. A sigh. The sound of a girl watching the secret blow up and realising, somewhere under the horror, that she wasn't as upset as she should be.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “Fuck.”
His hands flexed at her waist. He didn’t move back.
This was the moment he could step away. Where he could put space between them and run a hand through his hair and say something easy, something Garrett-shaped and evasive, something that made the kiss look smaller than it was.
He could make it a joke before anyone else did. He could hide behind Logan’s big mouth and Dean’s inevitable commentary and the whole familiar machinery of the hockey house turning one private thing into public entertainment.
Instead he stayed with his forehead against hers, breathing hard, thumbs pressing into her waist through her coat.
Then Dean appeared around the corner, because the universe couldn’t let them have more than three seconds without sending in a rich boy with terrible timing.
He leaned one shoulder against the wall, grinning like Christmas had come early and wearing only half his gear. Logan popped up behind him, still delighted. Tucker stood a few steps back with his arms folded, looking resigned and not remotely surprised.
Dean’s eyes flicked over the two of them, still pressed together, Garrett’s hands still on her waist. His grin turned wicked. “Well, well, well.”
She groaned. “Don’t.”
“Oh, sweetheart,” Dean said, hand over his heart. “I would never.”
“You absolutely would.”
“I absolutely will,” he corrected. His eyes slid to Garrett, bright with evil. “Graham. Buddy. Pal. Teammate. You’ve been sneaking around with my ex?”
“She’s not your ex,” Garrett said immediately.
Dean’s grin widened. “Oh, interesting. Strong feelings from the captain.”
“She’s not,” Garrett repeated, jaw tightening.
She shouldn’t have enjoyed that. She did anyway.
Dean’s gaze moved to her, faux-wounded. “I thought we had something beautiful.”
“You were sleeping with six other girls while sleeping with me. You’re a pig.”
Logan made a strangled sound. Tucker’s mouth twitched.
Dean pointed at her. “See? This is why I missed you.”
Garrett’s hand tightened at her waist. “Dean.”
“Oh, relax.” Dean lifted both hands, but he was still grinning. “I’m not poaching. I have respect.”
Logan leaned around Dean, eyes shining. “So how long?”
“Nope,” Garrett said.
“How long?” Logan repeated, louder.
She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at her. For one brief, stupid second they both seemed to consider lying. It was a beautiful instinct, really. Loyal to the end. Completely useless now that Garrett’s mouth was visibly swollen from kissing her and his hands had still not left her body.
“Three weeks,” she said.
Garrett’s head snapped toward her.
“What?” she said. “He was going to keep asking.”
Logan’s mouth dropped open. Dean shouted, “Three weeks?” Tucker just closed his eyes, nodding once to himself.
“I knew something was up,” Tucker said.
Garrett looked at him sharply. “You did not.”
Tucker opened his eyes. “She came downstairs for water in your shirt and let me think she’d slept with Dean.”
Dean turned slowly. “I’m sorry, what?”
She winced. “That was strategic.”
“You were in my house,” Dean said, pointing at himself, “using me as a slutty decoy?”
“Yes.”
Dean looked moved. “Honoured.”
Garrett made a sound under his breath. “Jesus Christ.”
Logan clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Come on. Let the lovebirds emotionally process before Coach catches Garrett making out in a tunnel like a freshman.”
Garrett finally looked over. “Dude.”
“What? That was supportive.”
Dean pointed at her as Logan started dragging him backward. “We’re talking later. I have questions. Boundary-respecting questions, but questions.”
“No, we’re not,” she called back.
“We absolutely are.”
Tucker gave her a small, sympathetic nod as he turned. “Congratulations. And good luck.”
“Thanks,” she said, because honestly that seemed appropriate.
The three of them disappeared back toward the locker room, taking the noise with them in pieces. Logan already yelling something that sounded like, “Three weeks, boys!” Dean making wounded noises. Tucker telling someone to put on pants.
Garrett laughed, low and real, and the sound loosened the last tight thing still sitting under her ribs. She looked up at him, at the bruise on his cheek and the split in his mouth and the ridiculous, beautiful, inconvenient boy who had somehow gone from secret bad idea to the person she walked into tunnels for without thinking.
“So,” she said, brushing her thumb carefully under the cut at his lip. “Guess we’re blown.”
His grin came back slowly, cocky at the edges and warm all the way through. “Yeah.”
“And you still have to explain why you were trying to fight half of Eastwood tonight.”
The grin faded by a fraction, but he didn’t look away. “Later?”
She studied him for a second, then nodded. “Later.”
His arms tightened. “Okay.”
“Okay.”
Then Garrett kissed her again, because being exposed to the entire hockey house hadn’t cured him of bad timing. She kissed him back anyway, smiling into it when the locker room erupted once more at whatever Logan had just announced.
This time, when Garrett’s hand slid openly to the small of her back and held her there, neither of them moved away.
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.
tags: jack abbot x fem!reader x samira mohan, reader is a dr. house variant, reader is early 40s, mohabbot is in the beginning stages of a relationship, unhinged comments, flirting that'd make HR blush, medical inaccuracies, 18+ MDI for highly suggestive comments
notes: welcome to my second mini-series! everyone seemed to love my last throple fic, so I was like, why not for Mohabbot :) , like always, if you want to be added to my taglist, please let me know by commenting! all parts can be found here! enjoy!
word count: 5k
The Pitt had crossed the line from busy to catastrophic nearly an hour ago.
Every hallway was filled; every curtained room held at least two patients; gurneys lined the walls while nurses moved between them with the speed of people already running on adrenaline along. Somewhere across the nurses’ station, a child was crying enough to turn hoarse. Monitors beeped incessantly in overlapping bursts that never fully stopped long enough to give the employees’ brains a small respite.
The ambulance bay doors, always in a continuing sliding motion of open and close, opened fully again, giving way for yet another gurney guided by paramedics to roll across into the belly of the beast.
“Incoming!” one of them shouted over the noise, but no one seemed to catch it at first.
Dennis was halfway through suturing a scalp laceration in room number four when Trinity appeared beside him, her gloves already bloody.
“Trauma two’s asking for another set of hands if you’d like to join in,” she announced over his shoulder.
“I physically do not have another set of hands at this moment.” His lifted his hands ever so slightly to emphasize that they were already full.
“Then please tell me you have a secret twin because—”
A gurney barreled past them out in the hall before she could finish, forcing both residents to stop and watch it go by. Their eyes locked on the patient, who was in the middle of a violent convulsion. Their minds noted that the jerky motion wasn’t seizure-like at first glance. His muscles locked and released in abrupt jerks while one of the paramedics struggled to keep the oxygen mask in place even with restraints around his arms and middle abdomen.
“Thirty-two-year-old male!” the paramedic called out while steering through the overcrowded corridor. “Altered mental state, sever fever, hypotensive en route. Seized twice in the ambulance!”
That last bit got attention.
Behind the gurney, Samira was quick to pull off one pair of gloved while snapping another on. “What’s his pressure?”
“Eighty over fifty last check.”
“Any history?”
“Girlfriend said flu symptoms for about a week. This morning he became confused and combative.”
The man let out an involuntary sound between a laugh and a choke that tugged Samira’s lips downward into a frown. Her big, brown eyes scanned the room before landing on the two roommates.
“Whitaker and Santos, you’re with me,” she barked before looking back to the nurses’ station. “Dana, do we have anything open?”
The blonde charge nurse glanced up and her board. “Room three’s all I got. Both traumas are both still full. Perlah go with them, please.”
The small crowd around the man moved as one into the smaller room. The door stayed wide open as Samira, Dennis, and Trinity carefully transferred the man into the bed. Perlah dragged a metal tray closer, causing it to rattle while Dennis cruised over the ultrasound machine. The three residents took the fastest moment to give the man an evaluation.
On first glance, they noticed the man’s skin looked wrong. He was flushed bright red across the chest and face, sweat soaking through his shirt, but his fingertips had already started taking on a faint bluish tint. Tiny muscle spasms clenched wildly beneath the skin along his jaw.
Leaning over the man, Dennis grabbed his pen light and quickly flashed it in the man’s eyes. “Pupils are anisocorias.”
“What’s his temp?” Samira asked.
“102.1” Trinity answered, clipping the oxygen monitor to his finger.
Dennis swore quietly under his breath just as the patient jerked hard against the restraints again, eyes rolling wildly before suddenly locking onto Samira with a terrifying clarity.
“Don’t let them—” he slurred before his entire body seized again, back arching against the strap around his middle.
“Okay, seizure activity,” Samira called out. “Push 4 mg Ativan. Santos, hold him down. Whitaker make sure his airway stays clear.”
The room became motion and noise. Samira and Trinnity held the man’s shoulders while Dennis’s hands carefully cupped the man’s cheeks, face close enough to notice if the patient was going to choke or not. Perlah pushed the Ativan through the IV, and the seizure finally broke after several endless seconds, leaving the patient limp and gasping.
Dennis straightened slightly. “Okay. Differential.”
“Must be Sepsis,” Trinity said.
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?” she echoed.
“He doesn’t look septic.”
“Absolutely he does.”
Samira stared down at the patient’s face and body, unease slowly crawling through her chest. “Can’t be sepsis. There’s no obvious visible infection source. The girlfriend would have said something about possible infection.”
Trinity cocked an eyebrow. “Could be meningitis?”
Dennis shook his head. “No neck rigidity.”
“Encephalitis, then.”
“Wouldn’t explain the muscle spasms,” Samira replied.
“Toxic exposure,” Dennis put out there, rubbing tiredly at his forehead.
“No pinpoint pupils though,” Trinity shot back.
“Not every toxin causes—”
Suddenly, the patient started laughing. They froze as the sound crawled up the walls of the room wrongly: wet and strained and completely disconnected from anything happening around him. Their eyes widened as blood began trickling from one nostril, thin at first before steadily worsening.
Trinity took an involuntary step back, hands raised. “Okay, that’s new. I officially hate this.”
Samira grabbed a paper towel while her mind raced through possibilities do quickly, they blurred together uselessly.
Fever. Neurological symptoms. Bleeding. Spasms. Blue fingertips.
Nothing fit correctly.
Sure, one or two of the symptoms might fit with a diagnosis, but that would leave the others out with no way to make sure they were giving the poor man the right medicine. She nearly went cross-eyed trying to figure things out when the monitor alarm suddenly shrieked.
“Oxygen’s dropping,” Perlah snapped.
“How much?” Samira asked, eyes glued to the monitor.
“Eighty-two and falling.”
“Lungs?”
“Still clear,” Dennis announced after quickly whipping his stethoscope from around his neck and pressing the end to the man’s chest.
Samira let out a frustrated groan. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
The patient’s heart rate climbed higher on the monitor, jagged and unstable. Sweat beaded down the side of his face while another tremor passed through his arms. Everything had narrowed into the growing realization that none of them knew what they hell they were looking at.
Dennis stepped back from the bedside first, his similar growing frustration overtaking focus. “You think this is a good time to find Dr. Robby or Dr. Abbot?”
Trinity nodded. “Yep. Saw them by the nurses’ station, I think. Last I saw, they were dealing with the MVA paperwork disaster.”
“Great. Fantastic. Love that for us.”
Another violent tremor hit the patient while Samira stared down at him, mind still turning uselessly through possibilities. The symptoms contradicted each other too much. Every answer created three more questions to the point it felt like trying to hold water.
She was already halfway out the door when she made up her mind. “I’ll get them.”
Dennis’s head shot up. “I’ll come with—”
“No, stay here,” she interrupted. “If he starts to crash again, come out and get us.”
The hallway outside was even worse than before. Samira shoved past a transport team moving in the opposite direction while Trinity followed close behind, narrowly avoiding colliding with a nurse carrying a tray of medications.
Their objective—the nurses’ station—looked like a war zone.
Charts were stacked everywhere. The red phone rang endlessly. Dana and another nurse were arguing over bed placement while someone else loudly demanded results that still apparently hadn’t been uploaded.
And in the middle of it all stood Robby and Jack.
Jack leaned against the counter, biceps bulging in his scrub sleeves with exhaustion written clearly across his face despite the composure he always seemed to maintain. Robby was reading over a tablet with the kind of concentration that suggested he was trying to actively pretend the rest of the ER didn’t exist.
Samira didn’t bother slowing down in her approach. “We need help.”
Neither man looked surprised as their eyes lifted to meet hers.
“What’s up?” Jack asked, hazel eyes boring into hers.
A small smirk rested on his lips, and Samira willed herself to look away before she was caught staring.
“Weird neuro case in room three,” she began. “High fever, seizures, hypotensive, possible hallucinations. He just started bleeding before I came to find one of you.”
His expression tightened. “Bleeding from where?”
“Nose. We can’t figure out what’s causing any of it.”
“Labs?” Robby asked.
“Pending.”
Trinity crossed her arms loosely. “None of the symptoms line up correctly.”
Jack pushed away from the counter at that. “Usually that’s an indicator you’re missing something.”
“Thank you. I feel so very inspired.”
Robby was already moving toward the room, Jack at his side falling into tandem steps. “How unstable?”
“Very,” Samira responded following behind them.
“Fan-fucking-tastic.”
By the time they entered room three, the atmosphere had changed completely. The patient was conscious again, though barely. His breathing had become shallow and uneven with blood soaking the paper towel below it. One hand twitched intermittently against the bedrail like his nerves were firing independently from the rest of him.
Dennis looked up the second they entered, relief flickering across her face too quickly for him to hide. “His symptoms are changing too fast for us to keep up with,” he admitted.
Jack stepped to the bedside without hesitation, eyes moving clinically over the patient. Robby stayed near the foot of the bed while the three residents started talking over each other.
“Possible encephalitis—” Trinity tried again before Dennis cut her off.
“But the rigidity doesn’t fit, and his lungs are clear despite the stats—”
Samira tried her best. “No infection source—”
“Could be toxin related—” Dennis spouted like earlier.
“His pupils changed again—” Trinity pointed out.
That was the moment the patient started whispering again with words too slurred to understand at first before actual sounds began forming through his lips. “Hurts,” he mumbled weakly. “Hurts, hurts, hurts, hurts—”
His heart rate spiked again, causing Jack to frown again.
“How long between onset and neurological decline?” he asked.
“Girlfriend said maybe twelve hours,” Samira replied. “But that’s way too fast.”
Robby’s eyes narrowed slightly at the pattern. Dennis noticed the movement scarily too quickly.
“You thinking of something, Dr. Robby?” the blond asked quietly.
Robby sighed silent before sighing heavily once like he already heated the conclusion he’d reached. His head bobbed as he spoke. “Not something.”
Jack looked over at him knowingly, shoulders dropping at his friend’s unsaid implication. “You really want to do that to us today, brother?”
“We’re already being punished apparently.”
Trinity blinked between them. “Wait—what does that mean?”
Robby reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. “I need to make a call.”
_______________________
The emergency department had somehow become even more unbearable in the ten minutes since Robby made the call.
The waiting room was overflowing with irritated families packed shoulder-to-shoulder beside exhausted nurses trying to maneuver equipment through spaces never designed to hold this many people. Trauma alerts echoed enough they’d begun blending together into meaningless static. Inside room three, whoever, the tension had condensed into impatient panic.
The patient’s fever continued climbing despite the cooling measures already attempted. Sweat soaked through the sheets beneath him while intermittent tremors continued wracking his limbs hard enough to shake the rails of the bed. Blood still leaked slowly from his nose in uneven streaked that stained every towel pink.
Dennis stood at the monitor station pretending to review vitals while actually watching the hallway entrance every few seconds. Trinity leaned against the counter beside him with her arms crossed tightly, curiosity slowly overtaking frustration.
Samira remained nearest the bedside, though her concentration kept slipping toward Jack.
He stood across from her near the foot of the bed with one hand braced against the rail while he reread test results that still weren’t giving them anything useful. Fatigue sat heavily across his face; the kind earned after coming in as a favor to Robby and dealing with the chaos in the halls for close to 6 hours.
Unfortunately for Samira, he looked unfairly sexy in all that exhaustion. And even more unfortunately, he’d glance her way and flash that knowing smirk that he knew got her all hot and bothered.
The thing between them had stopped being subtle weeks ago. Linger glances had turned into inside jokes, accidental touches that neither of them pulled away from quickly enough became the grounding go-to technique, conversations began stretching too long after the day shifts ended and night shift began. Nothing was official; nothing was ever discussed out loud. All it seemed to be was tension building slowly and steadily until even the other residents had started looking between them knowingly whenever their shifts overlapped.
Which meant the second Robby had said I’m calling her, Samira immediately understood this shift was about to become significantly more complicated.
Dennis finally broke the silence. “So, she’s actually insane, right?”
Jack didn’t look up from the chart. “Professionally? Absolutely.”
“No, I mean like . . . medically?”
“That too.”
Trinity frowned. “How come a lot of us haven’t met her?”
“Because her insaneness would infect my ER if she was down here all the time,” Robby muttered.
Jack let out a quiet laugh at that, rubbing tiredly at the stubble along his jaw.
Just as the patient slightly moved, their ears picked up on a faint sound growing louder down the packed hallway.
Click.
Click.
Click.
The cane struck tile at an unhurried pace, measured and steady despite the absolute catastrophe happening around it. The noise cut clearly through the chaos outside the room, distinct enough that everyone unconsciously went still listening for it as it drew closer.
Dennis straightened. Trinity’s eyebrow rose. Jack closed his eyes briefly like a man preparing for impact.
The sound grew louder.
Click.
Click.
Click—
You appeared in the doorway, dark blazer jacket hung open over a rumpled graphic-tee, one side slipping slightly off your shoulder like you either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care. A paper coffee cup was gripped loosely in one hand while the other gripped the handle of your cane. The small group immediately noticed a visible limp in your gate, though it somehow projected irritation more than weakness, as though the injury itself was inconveniencing you.
Your eyes swept across the room once— Patient. Monitors. Blood. Panicked residents. –before finally landing on Robby.
“Well,” you said dryly, “this looked medically expensive.”
Dennis blinked at you like he wasn’t entirely convinced you were real.
You limped further into the room, cane clicking softly against the floor. Despite the obvious slump written into your posture like you couldn’t care less about the people around you, there was still something unnervingly alert about you, almost like your brain was moving several steps ahead of everyone else’s at all times and found the rest of the world vaguely disappointing for not keeping pace.
Your attention shifted toward Jack, and your face visibly brightened at the sight of the older attending. Once he caught your gaze, he closed his eyes, sighing loudly, hand now rubbing along his temple.
“Oh here we go,” he muttered.
“Well, hello, Dr. Abbot.”
He huffed your name before you’d even said anything else, not even meeting your wide eyes again. “No. Not today.”
“What?” you asked innocently. “I’m being professional.”
“You’ve been here six seconds—”
“And already thinking deeply inappropriate thoughts about you,” you cut him off with an overly dramatic wink. “That has to be some kind of efficiency record.”
Dennis choked on absolutely nothing, and Samira bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to stop herself from laughing.
Jack finally looked at you fully, expression flat but unsurprised. “Patient’s actively dying.”
“Mm.” Your gaze moved slowly over him anyway, entirely unbothered. “You know there’s something really attractive about a man covered in other people’s blood. Make me want to make several terrible life choices that involves you and a bed.”
“Please don’t.”
“You say that like I haven’t already mentally undressed you twice since walking in. You’re underestimating me in your old age.”
Robby pinched the bride of his nose so hard it looked painful.
Jack, meanwhile, had gone completely still in the way people did when trying very hard not to react at all. Unlucky for him, the faint flush climbing up the sides of his neck to his cheeks betrayed him.
You noticed right away, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Oh, now that’s interesting, Dr. Abbot. I thought you military men were immune to this sort of fire.”
“We are not doing this right now,” he hissed, though malice was absent in his tone.
“Why not? Morale’s important during emergencies.”
“You told me last month you wanted me face down in an on-call room.”
“In my defense,” you replied reasonably, “you did look good holding retractors.”
“Please focus.”
“Uh, I am focused.” You pointed your cane toward him. “On you and your sexy ass.”
Poor Dennis looked seconds away from passing out.
Growing a bit bored of Jack’s deflections, you let your eyes roam until they stopped on the pretty dark-skinned lady.
Now, your flirting with Jack had the reckless ease of habit, sharp-edged and deliberately provocative in a way that suggested the two of you had been doing this dance for a long while. But the second your gaze landed on Samira, a quiet type of curiosity bloomed in your chest. You studied her openly for a moment.
“Well,” you murmured. “You’re new.”
Samira crossed her arms automatically, though the movement looked more defensive than closed off. “Dr. Mohan.”
“Mohan,” you repeated thoughtfully, drawing it out along your tongue. “Pretty name.”
Jack side-eyed you with suspicion which you immediately ignored.
“Are you always this pretty during chaotic shifts” you asked, “or is the universe specifically trying to ruin my concentration today?”
Samira giggled—like, actually giggled—despite trying her best not to. “I think HR would probably have concerns about this conversation.”
“HR sends me wellness emails weekly.”
“They send those to everyone.”
“No, mine are personalized.”
Robby pointed sharply at you and then toward the patient. “Absolutely not. Diagnose first. Sexually harass my staff later.”
You looked offended. “I can multitask. And technically, Robert, it’s not harassment if they’re into it.”
Neither Jack nor Samira denied quickly enough, and that alone stirred the pot simmering in your stomach. Your grin deepened briefly before you finally, finally turned toward the bed. Like a switch, they watched as you shifted visibly. The teasing nature you exhumed vanished (not entirely, because you seemed fundamentally incapable of behaving like a normal person), but your focus narrowed with startling intensity. Your eyes tracked rapidly over the patient, catching details everyone else had either dismissed or stopped seeing after the first hour.
“Symptoms,” you all but demanded, voice stern yet kind.
Dennis started listing them. “High fever, seizures, possible hallucinations, hypotension, muscle rigidity, nosebleeds, oxygen saturation keeps dropping but lungs are clear—”
“How long since onset?”
“Twelve hours maybe?”
“Travel history?”
You shouldn’t have been surprised by the blank stares, but you somehow managed.
You looked up slowly. “You didn’t ask.”
Not a question. A knowing and mildly disappointed statement.
“We were a little busy trying to keep him alive,” Trinity defended.
“You got mystery neurological symptoms, and no one asked if he recently locked an endangered frog overseas? What? Did you all collectively decide tropical diseases were canceled for the day?”
Jack watched you carefully from across the bed now, already tracking the direction your thoughts were moving.
You stepped closer to the patient, gaze narrowing at the twitching muscles in his legs. “Medication history?”
“Nothing confirmed,” Samira answered.
“Drug use?”
“Girlfriend denied it.”
You snorted loudly. “Everybody lies.”
The patient’s hand jerked against the bedrail in a rhythmic motion. Your eyes dropped toward his feet, then up to the monitor, and back down to the blood staining the towel under his nose.
“Oh, for the love of everything that is good and holy,” you muttered. You pointed toward the patient with your cane. “Tell me someone checked for serotonin syndrome.”
Dennis frowned deeply. “We considered it, but SS didn’t fully fit.”
“Because he’s bleeding and hypoxic,” you replied. “What antidepressants is he on?”
“We don’t know if he takes any.”
“He does.” Your tone carried complete certainty now. “Look at the clonus.”
Samira moved closer, eyes tracking the involuntary muscle contractions more carefully this time. Once pointed out, they became impossible to miss. Her eyes widened.
“Oh,” she whispered.
Jack shook his head. “The girlfriend said he’d had fly symptoms all week.”
“Which probably weren’t flu symptoms.” You looked almost delighted now that the pieces had clicked together. “They were side effects.”
Dennis still looked unconvinced. “Serotonin syndrome doesn’t usually progress this fast.”
“Correct.” You lifted your cane toward him approvingly. “Good. Gold start for blondie over here.” Your expression sharpened again. “So, he mixed something with it; cold medicine maybe; dextromethorphan likely. Idiot probably took half a bottle trying to self-medicate while already maxed out on SSRIs.”
Trinity stared at you. “That explains literally everything.”
“No,” you corrected casually. “It explains most things. The bleeding means his body’s currently trying to deep fry his internal organs.”
“Cyproheptadine,” Jack ordered immediately. “Cooling blankets, and someone call toxicology now.”
Samira looked downright stunned. “You figured that out in under two minutes.”
You shrugged lightly. “Three, technically. I spent at least one minute sexually objectifying your attending.”
Jack let out a tired laugh, immediately regretting it when you looked absolutely delighted by the reaction.
“Aha!” you pointed out. “I was worried you stopped liking me.”
“I never said I liked you.”
“You looked at my mouth for a full ten seconds while I was talking earlier. That’s gotta mean something!”
Another choking sound erupted from Dennis in the background. Samira outright turned away to hide her smile after she glanced toward Jack for a moment too long, something you’d caught right away. Your eyes moved slowly between the two of them.
“Oh,” you said softly.
Jack pointed right at you, hazel eyes narrowed. “Don’t.”
“You two would be unbelievably hot together.”
Robby physically grabbed your coffee cup out of your hand before you could continue. “Okay. Great work. Now time to leave.”
“I’m just making an observation, Robert.”
“You’re making a hostile work environment.”
Against your best wishes, you allowed him to steer you toward the door anyway, leaning heavily onto your cane as you walked. Your limp looked more pronounced now that the adrenaline had worn off slightly, through you still carried yourself with irritating confidence. As you walked through the threshold, your face turned so you could look up at Robby.
“Oh, I get it now. You’re keeping all the hot people for yourself, Robert. Shame on you.”
_______________________
By the end of the shift, the hallways had finally been emptied out, the waiting room had thinned, the rooms were being cleaned instead of actively flooding with incoming patients. Nurses moved slower now, drained enough that nobody bothered pretending otherwise anymore. The panic that had consumed the Pitt for most of the night had dulled to a low roar.
Samira stood at the nurses’ station finishing charting she’d been too busy to touch for the last three house. Her eyes burned from staring at monitors all night, and there was dried blood near the cuff of her sleeve she still hadn’t noticed.
A few feet away, Jack leaned against the counter reviewing discharge paperwork with the same tired concentration he brought to everything. His forearms leaned against the counter with all his weight behind it. His hands displayed the faint marks left behind by snapped gloves and hurried handwashing throughout the night.
Samira though he looked absolutely handsome despite the deep lines in his face that seemed more chiseled with exhaustion these past few days than they had been. The realization annoyed her almost as much as the fact that she was apparently not being subtle about her staring anymore.
She closed the chart in front of her. “So,” she said carefully, loud enough for Jack to here that she was speaking to him. “What exactly is her deal?”
Jack didn’t even glance up. “That narrows it down to absolutely nothing. Everything’s her deal.”
Samira smiled softly. “The flirting, mostly.”
Jack set his paperwork down slowly, studying her expression with a careful softness. “Did she make you uncomfortable?”
The concern in her voice was genuine enough to make her soften. “No,” she answered honestly. “Actually . . . weirdly not.”
Jack looked surprised.
Samira leaned back against the counter, considering her next words meticulously. “I mean, objectively, HR should probably sedate her. But it was kind of . . . endearing?
Jack barked a tired laugh. “That’s definitely not the word most people use.”
“She doesn’t seem mean about it.”
“No,” he admitted after a moment. “She’s not.”
There was something familiar layered in his answer, almost close to affection hidden under exasperation.
“She does it with you a lot?”
He gave her a deeply unimpressed look. “Constantly.”
“And you survive it?”
“Barely.”
She smiled again, glancing briefly at the computer before looking back up at him. “Okay, but seriously. Dr. Robby called her like she was some kind of Pitt cryptid.”
“Because she basically is.” He straightened away from the counter slightly, folding his arms in such a way Samira’s gaze lingered for a brief second. “She’s the hospital’s diagnostic specialist,” he explained. “Technically, she’s attached upstairs to the actual hospital, but administration mostly unleashes her on ER cases no one else can solve.”
“Because she solved that in, what, two minutes?”
“Closer to one if we’re being technical.”
Samira blinked.
Jack nodded toward the now-empty room three. “She’s a genius. Annoyingly, horrifyingly brilliant. Used to work emergency medicine before her accident.”
Samira’s gaze dropped toward the memory of your cane clicking against the tile. “Her leg?”
“Yeah.” His expression shifted into something a bit more serious. “She was in a car accident during her residency. Underwent multiple surgeries; nerve damage never healed correctly. She refused amputation, so they reconstructed her leg as best they could.”
“And she still works like that?”
“She works worse than that<’ he corrected dryly. “Earlier was actually her during a good day.”
Samira frowned slightly. “That can’t be healthy.”
“No,” Jack agreed. “It’s not.”
His answer held no hesitation, and that told her more than he probably intended too. Under his irritation and sarcasm and eye-rolling every time Robby said your name during the rest of the shift, his eyes held a concern there too, and it was deep enough that Samira was able to pick up on a few things.
“Oh,” she said slowly, eyes softening as she looked at him.
He looked wary. “What?”
“You two definitely have something going on there.”
“What? No.”
“Jack.”
“There’s nothing going on.”
She tilted her head slightly, totally unconvinced. “You let he tell you she mentally undressed you in front of three residents and Robby.”
“First of all, I don’t let her do anything. She does when she wants to.”
“You blushed.”
“I absolutely did not.”
“You absolutely did. It was cute.”
Jack opened his mouth to argue further before stopping himself halfway through, which only made Samira laugh quietly. The sound drew his eyes back toward her again, and his features softened.
“You weren’t bothered by it?” he asked again, more quietly this time.
Samira understood the actual question beneath that one.
Would it bother you if there really was something there?
She held his gaze for longer than necessary before shrugging lightly. “I mean if there were something going on . . .” A small smile pulled briefly at the corner of her mouth. “I don’t think I’d mind.”
The silence afterward lasted exactly two seconds.
“Well, that’s convenient.”
Both of them turned like they’d been caught hand-deep in a cookie jar before dinner.
You stood several feet away near the end of the counter, one hand resting atop your cane while the other held a patient chart apparently neither of them had noticed you returning. Your blazer hung loose over one shoulder again, hair slightly messier than before, exhaustion written clearly into the curve of your spine.
But your grin looked positively evil.
Jack stared at you with wide eyes. “How long have you been standing there?”
You considered the question thoughtfully. “Long enough to become emotionally invested.”
Samira looked away, mortified by the heat blooming under her cheeks.
“Oh, she blushes,” you murmured approvingly.
Jack said your name flatly. “Please leave.”
“Can’t. Hospital needs me.” You limped closer to the desk enough to drop the chart onto the counter between them. “Turns out I’m the only thing preventing upstairs from becoming a very expensive funeral home.”
“You are absolutely impossible.”
“And yet,” you replied casually, eyes glancing slowly between him and Samira again, “you’re both still looking at me like that.”
When neither of them answered, your grin widened. “This is very fun for me. I hope you two know that.”
Jack rubbed a tired hand over his face. “You need supervision.”
“No. What I need is eight hours of sleep, and someone to kiss me against a supply closet.” Your eyes drifted meaningfully toward the two of them. “Preferably simultaneously, if we’re up for brainstorming.”
Samira made a strangled sound somewhere between a laugh and complete psychological collapse while Jack briefly stunned into silence at the sheer audacity of the statement. You, meanwhile, looked deeply pleased with yourself.
You adjusted your grip on your cane and started hobbling backward toward the elevators.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Halfway there, you glanced back one final time.
“Oh,” you added conversationally, “and Jack?”
He looked up despite himself.
“If you keep staring at my mouth every time I flirt with her, eventually I’m going to start charging you for the show.”
Samira nearly chocked, and Jack went completely red.
You, on the other hand, smirked once before turning smoothly on your cane, disappearing toward the elevators while the sound of your cackles echoed faintly down the hallway behind you.
syn: when the perfect son meets the screw up daughter. so alike yet so different but nonetheless both are so oblivious to see how in love they are (part 1)
tags: angst, fluff, jealousy, aged up characters (everyone), mentions of mating, friends to enemies to lovers, kinda cringe lol, follows the events of atwow
wc: 14k
notes: this is my first ever fanfic im posting on Tumblr I have this fic uploaded onto wattpad but I decided to post it here as well lowkey nervous. There’s probably mistakes I’ll fix eventually. Also I write a lot I'm sorry and I don't know a lot of about Tumblr so tips are highly appreciated. But hope you all enjoy!
༄༄༄༄༄༄༄
Due to a series of unfortunate events you like to believe that Eywa protects everyone but you, which you know is a shameful thing to say since she lives within all the creatures and does so much good for her people.
But, you cannot help but think you must have pissed her off in another life. First of all, your existence was a completely unknown. Your father Tonowari and mother Ronal, the Olo'eyktan and Tsahik of the Metkayina Clan had no idea they were expecting. You were born very early as well, your mother almost didn't make it to the water on time for you to have your first breath. They also weren't sure you were strong enough to complete your first rite but by some miracle you did. Due to your prematurity you have been on the shorter side compared to others your age. Yet another reason you're never taken seriously.
The rest of your young life was more confusion. Something was always wrong with you, always either hurt or sick. Multiple different times you got injured while completing simple tasks like free diving. It was a joke that you always had to come and be rescued. You once got bit by a poisonous fish while exploring the reef when you were very young. Took weeks for you to heal they thought you weren't going to make it. But they really thought you were going to die when you had your big accident, the one that had you locked away.
Not literally, but you are now not allowed to do basically anything. No longer allowed to free dive unless under intense supervision and only during the day. You cannot leave the marui unless you have permission and again you have to have someone with you, usually Ao'nung but he hates having to stay by your side. Luckily as Tsireya has gotten older she doesn't mind being with you. You think it's because your brother is embarrassed of you, matter of fact you think everyone but your sister is. They say they just want to protect you as you're to be the next Tsahik if anything were to happen to your mother, they say they want you to be able to live long enough to serve your people but you think they're just embarrassed by all the screw ups and trouble you have caused them. So now you prefer to just stay dry, you hardly ever touch the water as of late. Which is such a shame because you absolutely love the water and how free it makes you feel.
The accident happened not too long ago, everything was going well for once in your life. Despite everyone's doubts you completed your Ikinmaya, you bonded with your skimwing to earn your adulthood. You got your first tattoo placed on your chest reaching up to your neck. To represent your love for Awa'atlu and the fact that while your life was not expected you're here and you will do your best to serve the clan. You were very proud of it and you thought maybe your accidents were because you were so young and immature. A thing of the past.
That was until you were outside of the reef by yourself. After eclipse.
You had snuck out that night, letting the adulthood go to your head and thought you deserved a bit of freedom. You just wanted to explore the water at night, it had been so long since you had done a night dive. You were having so much fun, looking at all of the creatures admiring their glow and beauty when you spotted a creature you had never seen before in the reef. Even your Ilu knew better then to follow it but you ignored the warning and followed the creature, before you knew it I was outside the reef, nothing but pitch black all around, just you in the darkness.
At least that's what you thought, as you were trying to make your way back home. You thought you heard something and when you turned back it was too late. You were looking right in the mouth of an Akula. One of the most ferocious predators. You and your Ilu swam faster than you have ever before. You were just about to reach the reef when it got you. All you could remember was being tossed around by the Akula, it had you by the tail. In that moment you accepted your fate, gave up fighting as everything went blank. When you woke up you saw your family praying over you to Eywa.
Apparently they found you laying on the seawall terrace unconscious. This time they really thought you were dead but your mother refused to believe it so they brought you back to have different rituals be performed. They have no idea how you're alive but your best guess is Eywa wants you here for something or else she wouldn't keep letting you live.
Even though now you're completely useless. You didn't come out of the accident scratch free this time. You lost most of your tail which slows down your swimming tremendously. You are no longer a warrior or a hunter, You cannot ride a skimwing anymore, you must now only study under my mother as Tsahik, that is your one and only role. You're not allowed to do anything else. You don't necessarily blame your father, you knew better but you let your one triumph get to your head. Your tattoo will probably be your first and last you will ever receive.
You now spend your time in solitude, no one wants to be around you, the people of the clan think you're bad luck, a curse. You hear the whispers and feel the looks of worry when you walk by. The joke of the clan. To the boys you’re nothing but a dare, the butt of their jokes. Makes finding a mate even more dreadful than it already is. Your only friend is your sister which is hard to admit but at least you're not fully alone. But you hardly go out anymore so when you saw everyone rushing to the shore because unknown Na'vi have flown in you didn't even leave your marui.
Your parents probably prefer it that you're not there, just Ao'nung and Tsireya. They represent how great your clan is, whereas you seem to only set them back.
You are the cursed child of the Metkayina.
༄༄༄༄༄༄༄
"Oh sister you missed it!" Tsireya was smiling ear to ear.
"Don't worry I overheard what's happening," you laughed at her as she spun around the marui in a trance.
"Father is letting them stay here as they seek uturu, it's a family the father is Taruk Makto, you know the one we hear about."
"Mhm," you nodded to her as you continued your beading.
"Best part is, there's cute boys!" she cheered.
"They're seeking a safe place to stay as refugees and your focused on the fact that there are cute boys?"
"There's one for me and one for you, his name is Lo'ak, sister he looked at me and said 'hey'," she was very awe struck.
All you could do was laugh, "He looked at you?"
"Yes, they're forest people but I don't know something about him," she breathed as she twirled her hair.
"Well, I'm sure he'll love you my sweet sister."
"You two better not be talking about those demon bloods," Ao'nung spat as he entered our home.
"And what if I am Ao'nung?"
"I don't like them," he shook his head.
"Doesn't matter if you like them or not you are still expected to teach them our ways and treat them with nothing but respect," Your father popped in out of nowhere. His deep voice spooked you all. You instantly straightened your posture but especially your brother.
"What will you like us to teach them first father?" Tsireya asked to ease the tension. She's really good at easing an intense situation. Or helping your brother and you get out of trouble.
"Just get them used to being in water, they have no experience with being in water for long periods of time and their anatomy will prohibit them. Take them out to the reef and just see how long they can dive for. Then they can bond with our Ilu that will probably take time."
"Can (Y/N) come with us?" your sister asked.
"What?" Both you and your brother asked very confused. He knows how grounded you are and you know how much you do not like socializing, "I can't Tsireya I'm still in trouble." As much as you complain about your lockdown you'd be lying if you said you didn't enjoy it somewhat. You have always been independent, your mother said you've never needed anyone to keep you entertained, even as a child. You love your alone time, does it to be get too much sometimes? Yes of course, but too much of anything can be bad.
"Actually it's not a bad idea," your father shrugged, "You seem to be enjoying staying inside and not working too much, plus it'll be good for you to talk to other people."
"But father, must I remind you I am very, very grounded I don't think it's smart to have me out there given what happened last time."
"That's enough (Y/N) I am very aware of what you did but I also know it's not good for you to be inside all day. Your brother and sister will be there to keep and eye on you."
"Please! I am perfectly fine here, look at my beading I've gotten really good," You have taken up jewelry making since you have nothing better to do. You’ve always loved to make jewelry using different beads, shells and pearls but you can now make really extravagant pieces.
"(Y/N)", he said sternly so you immediately dropped it, "Your going and that's final."
You waited for your father to leave so you could yell at your sister, "Reya! Why would you do that? You knew I didn't want to go but-"
"Yeah because I'm worried about you!"
"Why?"
"When was the last time you left the marui?"
You didn't have an answer, you knew you left to go look for more shells on the shore but couldn't remember when that was.
"Exactly, you don't talk to anyone, you haven't touched the water in forever. You were the fastest swimmer I knew. I miss seeing you in the water, you loved the water."
"We all know why," you shot her a glare. You know she means well but there's a reason for all of those things.
"Who would want their kid hanging out with a problem child," your brother laughed.
"Shut up!" you hissed at him
"Well it doesn't matter father has decided and you know what will happen if you don't listen," she beamed in her triumph.
You rolled your eyes and went back to the necklace you were making, "Damn it, I'm out of pearls."
༄༄༄༄༄༄༄
"Sister... Sister... (Y/N)! Get up the Sully's are waiting for us!" Tsireya shook you awake.
"The who?"
"Taruk Makto's children you know the ones were supposed to teach to swim today, don't make me go get father."
"Hurry up (Y/N) I want to get this over with," Ao'nung huffed.
You rolled over and groaned, you completely forgot about this.
"Come on get up!" she grabbed your arm, "I can't keep my future husband waiting any longer."
"Reya you're so ridiculous," you rubbed your eyes as you walked out the marui. The sun immediately blinded you. You haven't been out this early in forever. The brightness made your head hurt while your eyes had trouble adjusting.
They really were waiting for you all, or just you. They were standing right outside, the youngest one startled you. You did not see her until you almost stepped on her. They were shockingly blue, and their eyes were much smaller than yours. Their tails were also much smaller but who are you to judge, at least they have one.
"Come, follow me," your sister led, "The best thing to do is just jump in," she leaped towards the water ever so gracefully. Your brother and Rotxo followed suit. You decided to stay in the back as you are the oldest it was better for you to make sure everyone was safe. You watched as the two oldest boys jumped in, rather than dive which made you laugh softly. Their sisters jumped in right after.
You stared at your reflection for a moment as it glared back at you. Feeling almost nervous to get back in the water but your sister was right about one thing. You love the water. You dived in for the first time in forever.
It felt amazing the coolness of the water made all your thoughts and worries float away. You definitely cannot swim as fast as you used to but for a moment you didn't care. But after a few strokes you really felt a difference in your ability to cut across the water. You grew very frustrated at the fact that you knew you could swim so much faster than that, you beat your father in a race once. One of the top swimmers of your age group. Your plan was to stay in the back but even if you weren't trying you think you'd still be the one having to follow along.
You tried to ignore it by admiring the sea floor and by watching the Sully children faces as they stared at your people's beloved sea creatures in awe. They swim rather funny but that isn't their fault. You kept a special eye on the youngest, don't want her to end up like you.
You all watched as they floated back up to the top to catch their breath. It never occurred to you that other Na'vi wouldn't be able to breathe under water as long as you could. But then again you would never be able to climb a tree as well as them.
Tsireya signed for them to follow along so you could swim together but they had no idea what she was doing.
Ao'nung and Rotxo were of course making fun of their bad diving skills but your sweet sister defended them.
Are you okay? she signed to you.
Yes, I am don't worry
She smiled and motioned for you all to meet them up at the surface.
Now's your chance, you waited to make sure everyone reached the top to make your escape. Which wasn't as quick as you wanted but still you were able to get away.
It was nice to be back in the water but it only saddened you. It just made you feel even worse about your missing tail. You know it's the consequence to your actions but it's like you only ever feel consequences.
At least you socialized for a little bit, sort of. You were around new people which is a start and you got back into the water but it was all becoming too much. Just like the Sully's you needed to take baby steps into your relationship with the water. And people.
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Neteyam's POV:
I am a skilled archer I can hit a moving target hundreds of yards away. Swimming? Not my strong suit. We don't have many bodies of water back in the forest. And if we did it wasn't deep enough to dive into. I like this village though, they seem like hardworking people, much like our clan back home.
I miss home a lot but dad needs me to be strong for my siblings. I can't let them see me worried or else they will be. Especially Tuk and she is already having trouble adjusting.
But I think this diving thing will get her mind off of it for a little.
I got up extra early to be sure all four us were on time for our lesson. Tsireya came and found us, she's been really nice to us, can't say the same about her brother though. And it's really funny to see Lo'ak get nervous around her.
"I hope you all slept well," she said as she led us to their hut, it was much bigger then ours.
"Not bad," I shrugged.
"I was cold!" Tuk complained.
"I will be sure to get you some extra blankets," Tsireya smiled down at her, "Speaking of sleep, sorry one moment please," she stepped inside her family’s pod.
"Bro, does my hair look good?" Loa'ks whispered to me.
"Nah, bro did you sleep on it weird?" I teased him.
"Shit!" He started messing with it.
"So sorry to keep you all waiting," Tsireya and the rest of the group came out.
"This is my sister (Y/N), and she's very sorry that she slept in," she shot a look at her sister.
"It's nice to meet you all," the girl smiled. I analyzed her for a moment, her curly hair, her height, her many pieces of jewelry and her tail? Wonder what happened.
I made sure all my siblings greeted her, "I'm Neteyam, this is Loa'k, Kiri and Tukitrey but we just call her Tuk."
"Hi!" Tuk cheered.
"Let's get this going," Ao'nung walked over to the edge of the walkway.
"My brother is right follow me, so were going to start off with diving, we do a lot of that here so to see how comfortable you are in the water we are going for a swim," she guided
Seems easy enough.
"Don't be afraid, the best thing to do is to just jump in," I watched Lo'ak follow Tsireya with his eyes as she dove into the water.
I was waiting for (Y/N) to jump in but she seemed to be waiting for us, so I looked at my brother and went for it.
The reef was unlike anything were used to, all new life forms are underwater. It was really beautiful. We definitely didn't swim as well as the Metkayina but that's expected. I looked back to be sure Kiri and Tuk were still with us but I couldn't help but look at (Y/N) she seemed so free.
The real struggle was us running out of air, they can hold their breath much longer then we can. We kept having to swim back to the top to get air, I could tell Ao'nung and Rotxo were irritated but Tsireya understood.
They kept moving their hands as if they were speaking to us but we had no idea what they were saying.
Again, we had to float back up but this time they followed us.
"Are you all alright?"
"Your too fast wait for us!"
"Just breathe, breathe."
"You guys are not good divers, maybe you're better at swinging on trees," Ao'nung laughed, I was too out of breath to care.
Tsireya hit her brother on the head.
"C'mon bro,” my brother sighed. Ao’nung has really been getting under his skin.
“We don't speak this finger talk guys. We don't know what you're saying."
"Don't worry I will teach you."
"Uh your sister is back on the sand," Lo'ak pointed towards the shore.
"Of course she is," Ao'nung shook his head and rolled his eyes.
"What happened to her tail?"
"Tuk! You can't ask that," I corrected.
"No it's okay it's no secret," Tsireya said.
"Yeah, her skxawng self got bit by an akula, she's lucky to even be alive."
"Don't talk about our sister like that," she glared at her brother, "I apologize for my older sister, she hasn't gone diving in a long time I'm sure she just got tired."
"Wait, older?" I asked
"Yes, she's two years older then I am and a year older then Ao'nung."
"I thought she was younger then you guys," She was almost the same height as Tsireya so naturally I assumed she was the younger sister.
"No, you can tell by her tattoo, she's considered an adult in our clan. Before her attack she was a vey talented swimmer the best in my eyes, she mastered the skimwing almost instantly but now she's quiet and not herself. But I'll get her to come back so we can teach you how to ride an Ilu"
I watched as she exited the water and looked around to see if anyone saw her, then she walked along the shore as if she was searching for something.
"Where is Kiri?" Rotxo asked.
"Kiri?" Tuk cried.
Ah shit I lost my sister.
༄༄༄༄༄༄༄
After we found Kiri we all swam back ashore so we could find (Y/N). Tsireya seemed really worried about her sister. Apparently she's not allowed to be by herself anymore. Which I find rather odd, she's the eldest daughter but isn't allowed to be by herself?
"I think we need to split up she could be anywhere, (Y/N) has always been a wanderer."
"I think I saw her go this way," I pointed.
"That's the east side of the Island," Rotxo informed me.
"Okay you go that way Neteyam, Ao'nung and Rotxo you go check our marui and any other's she might be in, Lo'ak and I will check the west side. Kiri and Tuk you stay here in case she comes back this way. I don't want my sister in any more trouble than she already is," Tsireya sighed.
I know my brother must be excited, but I couldn't tease him for it, we have to find her. I followed the tide as it directed me farther and farther away from the village. Soon it was just the sound of the waves filling my ears, and the hot sun beaming down on my skin. Honestly it was nice to be away from it all for a moment to just enjoy the beauty of the beach. I let my mind go free for a second, no more worrying about where my siblings are, worrying about my dad or mom not coming home to us, and not worrying about the stupid sky people finding us. I wear my oldest son title like a badge of honor, I will do anything to protect my family. But sometimes I wish I could be a normal teenager.
Oh. Footprints. They were much smaller then mine it's got to be hers. I retraced the steps hoping they weren't washed away by the tide. But instead they led me to face the ocean. I checked around to make sure I wasn't missing anything but no this is where they stopped. That's when I spotted her, she was on top of a giant rock. But she looked concentrated, that same look she had when she left water.
I tried to call out to her but the sound of the waves were too loud and she was too far away. So I walked up the the group of rocks she was on. When I pulled my self up the first rock to reach her that's when I realized these weren't entirely rocks. They were filled with water, where there were many different animals living in them. Tiny little ecosystems of fish, crabs, clams and tons of little plants.
Once I got close enough I wasn't exactly sure how to make myself known, I was staring at her back and she has not looked up once from whatever she's doing. "(Y/N)?"
She jumped and whipped her head around, "Oh," she let out a sigh of relief, "It's just you."
"Yeah, just me," I smiled, "Wait who did you think I was?"
"My brother, coming to tell me off for being out here."
"What is this place?"
"They're called tide pools, this is my favorite place on the island."
"I can see why it's beautiful," I peered down at her, "Oh um, everyone is looking for you, and by everyone I mean your sister, brother and my siblings."
"Yeah, I'm sorry about that, I just I don't know," she cut herself off.
"No it's okay, our bad diving skills scared you off huh?"
She finally smiled, "No, no it had nothing to do with you all I admire how willing you are to learn, I hope you don't find me rude."
"Not at all," I walked closer, "Tsireya said she wants you back so you can teach us how to ride an Ilu."
"Oh I have't ridden one in so long, I wouldn't be a good teacher."
"Because of your incident?"
She looked back at me and looked me in the eye, "How did you?"
"I'm sorry your sister told us, I hope that's okay," I felt bad for assuming and bringing up such a sore topic. (Y/N) seems to be hidden away by the clan, no one mentioned her until this morning when we met her. I feel like it's because of her accident.
"It's fine, I mean everyone knows and now that your Metkayina, it's only right for you all to know."
"Can I be honest," I sat down behind her.
"Go ahead."
"I like it, it makes you unique."
I watched as she ears fluttered and she finally turned around to face me, "You what?"
"I think your tail makes you look sick," I nodded.
"I look sick?" she furrowed her brow.
"Meaning it looks cool, it makes you look like you won a battle or something."
She let out a soft laugh, "Thank you, Neteyam. You should tell my father that."
"Anytime, you let me know," I laughed back, "So, will you be coming back with me?"
"Oh I dont know, I haven't ridden an Ilu in ages."
"Come on please? I don't really want to be paired up with your brother," I confessed.
Her eyes studied me, examining me up and down, "Okay, fine I understand my brother is rather annoying."
"Thank you."
"Anytime," she copied, "Just one moment I just need to finish what I'm doing."
"Which is?"
"I came to look for pearls I ran out and I need to finish the necklace I was making."
"You like jewelry huh," she had on tons of necklaces, bracelets, a chain around her waist and even some wrapped in her hair.
"Clearly," she rattled her bracelets, "I like all the colors they add. Everywhere I look I see blue. Our skin, blue. Our eyes, blue. The water, blue. So I like to add more color with my jewelry. Your lucky you know?"
"Lucky?"
"Your deep skin contrasts so well with your yellow eyes and your dark hair."
"That's good?"
"Well in my eyes yes, don't get me wrong I think my people are beautiful but your family is also very striking to look at."
"Thank you, I've never thought about it that way."
I watched as she picked up a clam and ran her fingers over it, "Sometimes if your lucky it will open it's mouth on it's own but most of the time I have to pry it's mouth open, but I am always gentle. You have to be or else you could kill the clam, I just want the pearls so I do this very carefully."
I watched as she gently slid her knife over the clams mouth then stuck a rock in its mouth to keep it open, she then grabbed another tool of hers to harvest the pearls. There were two white pearls, a blue and a yellow.
"See," she held them in her hand to show me.
"Pretty."
"Aren't they? I should have enough now, let's go ride Ilu," she stood up.
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(Y/N)'s POV:
"Sister! Where were you?" Tsireya ran up to you.
"The tide pools, I ran out of peals," she honestly should have known where you had wandered off to. Everyone knows it's your favorite spot.
"You could have told me," her big eyes fluttered.
"You would have said not to go, but no matter I am here, I promised Neteyam I'd teach him," you looked up at him.
"Come then," Ao'nung stepped forward, "We are wasting time." He led everyone to where your people mount the Ilus. You all started clicking our tongues mimicking the Ilus so they would come close, "These are Ilu, If you want to live here you have to ride."
Tsireya guided Lo'ak, going through each of the steps of what it takes to ride an Ilu. Lo'ak clearly had a liking towards your sister. What's not to love? She's so unbelievably beautiful but most of all she's the most kind hearted person you will ever meet. Many families in the clan have offered their sons to be her mate. But you think even your father knows she will always follow her own heart.
"Feel it's breath, feel it's strength," Tsireya coached, "Hold here," she held his hand for a moment.
"Watch his legs," Aonung at laughed him, "Hold on."
You had high hopes for Lo'ak he has a fire in him, but fire can be put out. He didn't ride the Ilu, the Ilu rode him. It dragged him through the water. It was a very hard watch. You couldn't help but laugh, even Reya tried to conceal her laughter.
You turned to Neteyam, "So that's exactly what you don't want to happen."
"Noted," he was still laughing.
"You must have something similar to an Ilu back home no?"
"Yeah a direhorse is pretty similar."
"Well then imagine your riding one of those, it's almost exactly the same thing," you grabbed his hand, "Hold on here, and make sure your legs are secure," you gently placed my hand on his back. It felt very strong, "Stay low, if your up like you are now your allowing more water to push down on you."
He listened and lowered himself so his chest was resting on the Ilu, "Whenever your ready."
"Go."
He took off with such strength, he was the one in control so the Ilu listened. That's where his brother went wrong. Neteyam looked like he was having a lot of fun, he was diving in and out of the water. He even did a flip out of the water. He didn't need you to teach him anything.
"Bro's just showing off," Lo'ak rolled his eyes.
"Don't worry you will learn," Tsireya placed a hand on his shoulder.
Neteyam resurfaced with a huge smile on his face, "That was fun."
"Your a natural."
"Nah I just had a good teacher."
"I didn't teach you to do all of that," you motioned with your hands.
"You taught me the proper technique so the rest was easy from there, you're a good teacher."
"Your're a good listener."
"Hear that baby bro? Listen and you won't get wiped out."
"Whatever."
After just a few hours of training the Sully children mastered the Ilu, even Tuk was diving with ease. They are very strong, it takes a lot to leave the only home you've ever known and completely change your way of life. I haven't heard a single complaint out of them either, nothing but graciousness. Their parents must be very proud of them.
That's something you don't think you've ever felt, maybe once when you got your ink but other then that it's nothing but tongue lashings on how you need to be a better role model for your siblings or you need to not be so careless.
Neteyam is who they wish you were. He is an amazing older brother, you've never seen someone care so much about their siblings. You admired that about him.
Kiri was the real natural when it came to the Ilu, no one taught her anything she just started riding. As you traveled along side her you saw how cheerful she was. You could tell she loved our reef, she looked in tune with everything around her. As if she could feel what they feel.
"I think it's time we work on our breathing, you guys mastered everything else," Tsireya led us ashore.
"Hear that? Masters," Lo'ak nudged his brothers shoulder.
"Ilu riding and diving are nothing, a real man rides a skimwing," Ao'nung laughed at them. You watched their proud smiles leave their faces.
"Ao'nung! If you're going to be nasty go bother someone else, we are here to teach so they can grow. Not stomp on their accomplishments."
"Fine, I got something better to do anyways."
"I'm sorry about Ao'nung, he'll come around eventually," Tsireya apologized for him.
"He's just talking to talk, he failed riding the skimwing like three times," you said which immediately raised their spirits.
"Sister you got it first try no?" she smiled cheekily. You knew what she was doing she thinks she's slick.
"Yes, yes I did, let's get somewhere dry to go over breathing," you tried to change the topic.
"My sister the fearsome warrior," she continued.
"Tsatseng," you whispered to her.
The Sully's, Tsireya, Rotxo and you sat upon a rock in a meditation pose to open their airways fully.
You guided them through just some deep breaths, to steady their breathing. You could tell Tuk was getting antsy from sitting still.
"In," you inhaled, "And out," you exhaled, "In, and out."
"Can I go play in the water," Tuk whined.
"Tuk, we are in a lesson. Focus your being rude," Neteyam scolded.
"It's fine she's young, go ahead Tuk but stay close. Okay back to breathing."
"Imagine a flickering flame. You must slow down your heartbeat," your sister directed.
Rotxo used his hands to help demonstrate the breathing exercises.
Tsireya placed her hands on Lo'ak's chest, "Breath in," he inhaled deeply, "Breathe from down here," she lowered her her hands over his stomach, "Lo'ak your heartbeat is fast."
"Sorry."
"Try to focus," she said softly.
Neteyam glanced over at you snickering, You tried your best not to but you couldn't help it. You hid your face so Tsireya wouldn't see you were laughing at him.
Kiri rolled her eyes at you all, very unamused.
"Breathing from your stomach relaxes your heart, making your body not work as hard," You tried to get everyone to focus again.
"As well as helping you hold your breath longer under water," Rotxo added.
Neteyam closed his eyes, his chest going up and down at a slow pace. His markings looked as if they were expanding with every breath he took. His braids fell slightly in front of his face. His freckles reminded you of stars in the night sky against his deep blue skin.
The snickering coming from my sister and the others brought me back to reality.
"You all should be proud of all your hard work today, I think you deserve a break," Tsireya said through her laughter.
"I agree, you're probably hungry," you stood up, legs weak from how long you had been sitting.
"I could eat," Neteyam stood as well.
"I'm fine, Tsireya could you help me a little longer?" Lo'ak asked your sister.
"Of course I do not mind."
"Come on Tuk, let's go eat."
You guided them to the heart of the village where you keep different supplies and also food, You instructed them to grab anything they would like. You helped Tuk find the foods she would enjoy. Mostly lot's of fruit.
"Would you like some kelp stew?" you asked her.
She started at the green liquid with disgust, "No thank you."
"It's not my favorite either," you agreed, the smell was very pungent and the taste was very fishy for a plant.
"I like your bracelets," Tuk grabbed your hand to examine your many pieces of jewelry.
"Which one is your favorite?" you kneeled down to her level.
She hummed as she ran her little fingers over each one, "This one," she pointed at the one you made from purple sea glass and a black pearl.
You gently took her hand so you could place it on her but it was much too big and slid off, "How about this, I'll make one just like this but Tuk size, so we can match. Just give me a day or two."
"Okay!" she cheered.
Rotxo went to go find Ao'nung, while Kiri and Tuk wanted to rest a little bit back at their marui. It was just you and Neteyam. You decided to take him back towards the tide pools so you two could eat.
"Thank you for being so kind to my sister," he finally spoke up.
"There's no need to thank me, she's a sweetheart."
"She's been having the most trouble with adjusting."
"That makes sense she's so young," You bit into your favorite fruit.
"Yeah but thanks to you and your families kindness she's been doing a lot better."
"We are happy to help. Well, maybe except Ao'nung."
"Yeah," he nodded, "My brother seems to really like your sister."
"Of course, she's lovely," You love to brag about my sister.
"Yeah she is, she mentioned you being a warrior?" You could tell he was dying to bring that up.
"I am no warrior," You shook my head somewhat embarrassed since your warrior title has been stripped from you, "I did harness the skimwing easily though, that's why I have this," I lifted your chin so he could see your tattoo.
"The skimwing is what my dad is trying to ride right?"
"Yes, riding a skimwing represents adulthood in our clan, amongst other things but that's the final stage."
"And then you get a tattoo?"
"Exactly, you get more tattoos after completing different accomplishments, the chief always has the most."
"That's really cool," he said very genuinely.
"What kinds of traditions does your clan have?"
"Taming an Ikran is similar to taming a skimwing, when a young Omatikaya member comes of age they are taken up to the Hallelujah Mountains, you go up to the many Ikran and the one who tries to kill you is the one your supposed to tame. You bind their mouths, make the tsaheylu and that's your Ikran for life."
"Wow, that sounds dangerous."
"Not that bad," he shrugged.
"Do you miss home?"
"Not a second goes by where I don't," his head dropped.
You reached over to hold his hand, "This might not mean a lot but I am so sorry for what your family is going through, no one deserves that."
"That means more than you know," he looked deeply into your eyes, in that moment we saw each other fully.
"I'm going to get my brother to apologize to you all too," You said sternly.
"Don't worry about it, he's fine."
"It's not, Neteyam, not one bit."
"You know how boys can be, seriously it's not a big deal."
"It is a big deal, he knows better. I think he's jealous of you and Lo'ak."
Neteyam almost choked on the smoked fish he was eating, "Jealous?" he coughed.
"Yes I mean your everything he isn't. You're taller, stronger and you have fought battles he couldn't even imagine. You are the real fearsome warrior."
"Your flattering me," he blushed.
"I'm being honest, he would never admit it but I know my brother."
"Well in that case I hope he comes around, I don't like having bad blood with anyone."
"He has no choice."
"(Y/N)?"
"Hm?" you peeled a sea fig.
"Friends?"
"Friends," you nodded, noticing the glowing specks on his face, "Oh no, it's night fall. We have to get back before my father notices I'm missing."
"Not allowed to be out at dark huh?"
"Nope not anymore," You rushed down the rocks onto the cold sand.
"What did you do that was so bad?"
"More like what did I not do."
"Will you tell me sometime?"
"If you have the time."
"Tomorrow?"
"Yes, tomorrow I will tell you all about my many, many mistakes."
"Perfect I can't wait."
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"Daughter, where were you?" Your father asked as soon as you stepped into the marui.
"I was out, at the tide pools."
"You know you're not allowed to be out by yourself, especially at dusk. You lost that privilege a long time ago."
"I wasn't alone father."
"Then who were you with? Your brother and sister have been here."
"I was with Neteyam, we were eating and lost track of time I am sorry."
"Taruk Makto's son?"
"Yes."
"Why are you fraternizing with him (Y/N)?" your mother asked. She seemed more upset by this than your father.
"We've become friends, just like how Tsireya and the younger son have become friends, we all have."
"Not me," Ao'nung loves the sound of his own voice. Always voicing it when it's not needed.
"Very well, just make sure your back before nightfall."
Your father isn't mad? This is a first, "That's it? I'm not grounded?"
"I told you to socialize did I not?"
"Yes father you did," You couldn't believe it.
"Just tell us where you're going, next time. We just want you safe (Y/N)."
You nodded, and sat by your sister. You still couldn't believe it. You were out with a boy, past nightfall, without permission. And your father didn't raise his voice once!
"He's starting to trust you again," Tsireya whispered.
You smiled and nodded, it felt good having my father's trust back. Slightly.
"I promised the Sully's blankets, want to come with me to drop them off?" she asked.
"Just make sure it's okay with father."
Again, your father approved letting you go. He must really want Taruk Makto's family to feel welcome thats why he's being so lenient towards you.
The village at night is so much more quiet, the sound of the crashing waves put's everyone right to sleep. Especially after being in the water all day working. You realized you have yet to meet Neteyam's mother and father. You felt yourself grow nervous as you approached their marui.
Tsireya knocked on the wooden post, "Excuse us, hope were not interrupting."
"Not at all, please come on in," the man who I am assuming is Taruk Makto, invited us.
You made eye contact with Neteyam and gave him a small smile.
"(Y/N)!" Tuk ran over to you and hugged your leg,
"Hello there."
"I'm sorry you are?" Taruk Makto asked.
"Oh," you bowed my head, "I am (Y/N) I am the eldest daughter of Tonowari and Ronal. I apologize I was not there to greet you all. I was out doing... tasks," you lied, slightly.
"I didn't know chief had another daughter."
Story of your life.
"It's very nice to meet you Taruk Makto."
"Please, call me Jake, and this is my mate Neytiri."
"Oel ngati kameie," You greeted her. She was beautiful, Neteyam is her twin.
She greeted you as well, "What brings two here so late?"
"We're very sorry for intruding but Tuk said you were cold last night so we brought some extra blankets," Tsireya handed them to Tuk.
"Thank you girls, we appreciate it dearly," Neytiri thanked us.
"Yeah what do you say guys?" Jake turned to his children.
"Thank you," they all smiled.
"It's our pleasure, but it's late I hope you all sleep well," Tsireya waved.
"Yes, goodnight to you all."
"Goodnight (Y/N)!" Tuk called out from her hammock with the new blankets.
"Goodnight Tuk," you smiled.
You grabbed your sister's hand to leave the Sully's alone, "Goodnight Lo'ak," Reya waved to him.
You pulled her out of there, embarrassed by her boldness but not before looking at Neteyam once last time.
Just to find he was already looking at you.
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You woke up early for the first time in a long time to start making the bracelet you promised Tuk. You picked out all of the purple sea glass you had in your collection and found a special pearl to use. It was a black pearl just like the one you had but in the light it had a slightly blue hue. Reminded you of Tuk. You wanted her to be able to wear it forever so you customized it to expand as she grows older.
You spent nearly all morning working on her gift, wanting it to be nothing but perfect. As you were looking for an extra needle you remembered the pearls you found the previous day were still in your bag and you needed to add them to your pearl box. You collected plenty of white that you needed to finish the necklace you were working on, you got a few more black pearls but the yellow and blue really caught your attention. Not just because the colors were beautiful but because they reminded you of someone.
The yellow pearl was an exact match to Neteyam's glowing eyes, and the teal blue pearl felt like you were holding your own eyeball, it was an exact match. That's when you got the idea to make gifts for his whole family. You finished Tuk's within a few hours, you should have the rest done by the end of the week. You would definitely need more supplies for this extensive of a project. So in the mean time you started on Neteyam's so you could brainstorm what you want the rest to look like.
You can make women's jewelry no problem but you struggle with mens. They're not as fun to make as women's with all the opalescent pearls, shiny glass, and colorful shells. Men's jewelry is mostly made of bone or teeth. Not nearly as colorful. But you were having a lot of fun making the bracelet for Neteyam. You wanted the main focus to be the yellow pearl, you found the perfect beads to match. You had to shave down the darkest blue pieces of glass you had to make more of the blue color beads you wanted.
"Sister?"
"Good morning," you said not looking up.
"Good afternoon to you too," Tsireya laughed.
You didn't realize how much time had passed, "What are you working on?" she asked leaning over your shoulder.
You felt my face grow hot, You didn't really want to tell her but she would find out eventually, "I'm making a welcome gift for the Sullys."
"How kind of you," she sat down.
"Well it's the least I could do, I don't really pull my weight around here anymore so might as well make sure they're comfortable. I know how it feels to feel unwelcome here," you still hadn't looked up from your project.
"Which one is for Neteyam?" she smiled slyly.
"This one."
"It's beautiful, he's going to love it. Especially since it's made by you."
"What brings you here Tsireya? Is Lo'ak busy?," You teased her back.
"What? I can't just want to visit my sister?"
"Where is he?" You asked her.
"With his father."
You knew it, she was bored so she came to visit you, "I know you well Reya," you laughed.
"That's not why I'm here."
"Then what is it?" you finally looked up at her.
"Neteyam is asking for you," she said in a sing-song voice.
"Your messing with me."
"No, when Lo'ak went with his father Neteyam asked me where you were and if I could tell you to meet him at the dock"
You tried to conceal your smile, "That's right I told him I'd see him today."
"Well don't keep him waiting it's not polite."
You calmly put down your tools in their respective places, since your sister was still watching over you. But you really wanted to leave it all on the floor. You enjoyed your talks with Neteyam he really was a good listener. You also agreed that you were friends, it's been a long time since someone considered you a friend.
"Wait," Tsireya stopped you.
"Yes," you turned around as you were about to exit.
She pulled out the pin that held your hair in a bun so it wouldn't be in your face, "There, go on," she shooed you away.
You rolled your eyes at your sister, and made your way to the dock. Lot's of people were out since it was around lunch time but you spotted Neteyam almost immediately. His deep blue skin makes him easy to find amongst the aqua color of your people.
"(Y/N)," he greeted.
"Neteyam," you tilted your head down, "How was your night?"
"Great, I was a lot warmer," he referenced the blankets.
"Good that was our intention. So you were looking for me," you raised your brow at him, as you started to walk away from the dock.
He of course followed, "Yes you said we'd talk today, I want to get to know my new friend."
"Well I'm sorry I kept you waiting."
"Don't worry we spent the morning helping my dad out," Neteyam's family seemed so close, always willing to help each other, "So what did you do this morning?"
"I was making the bracelet I promised Tuk."
"She's really excited about it by the way, won't shut up about it."
Hearing that made you smile. You often feel like your work is under appreciated by the clan even though you are the one who makes many of the accessories they wear, "Well it's almost ready."
"I'll let her know," he smiled down at you, "So."
"So," you repeated.
"Tell me about yourself."
You hummed, trying to think of some normal things to tell him other than your extensive list of mishaps but you couldn't think of anything new. You are the eldest daughter of your parents, you make jewelry, can ride a skimwing. He knows all those things about you already. He even knows about the attack.
"Well, I guess my life is filled with nothing but accidents."
"Oh really?" He tilted his head to look at you.
"Yes, I am one of them."
He stopped in tracks trying to figure out what you had meant. But once he realized he tightened his lips to stop a smile.
"It's fine you can laugh."
He dropped his head as he laughed softly, "Come on that can't be true, there's only one way you got there."
"Yes but my mother had no symptoms of pregnancy until she had me."
"Oh, so they just had no idea you were in there?"
"Not a clue."
"That's not an accident, that's a surprise."
His words tugged at your lips. You had never looked at it like that, in such a positive way. "What about you?"
"Oh my parents definitely knew when they were expecting. They love each other, a lot," you watched how his nose scrunched at the thought of his parents conceiving.
"Mine definitely do too, I am going to have eighteen year age gap with the new baby."
"Oh shit," Neteyam said.
"I know, what am I going to have in common with it?"
"No not that, look," he pointed, "I think our brothers are fighting."
We both sighed but rushed over to hopefully dissolve the situation.
"Look at his baby tail!"
"Aw, baby tail," Ao'nung laughed.
"Leave us alone!" Kiri yelled.
Neteyam rushed over a lot faster than you did. You watched as he pushed your dumb brother off of Lo'ak. "You heard what she said, leave them alone," he said sternly, pointing a finger at Ao'nung's face.
"Aw big brother coming to-" Ao'nung swatted his even dumber friend to stop.
Neteyam's finger still in his face, "Back off. Now." He jabbed your brother in the chest.
Ao'nung put his hands up to surrender.
"Smart choice, and from now on I need you to respect my sister."
You admired Neteyam's ability to get people to listen to him. If he hadn't shown up Ao'nung wouldn't have stopped tormenting Lo'ak and Kiri, "Let's go," He grabbed his sister.
You stepped towards your brother who looked surprised you were there, "Really chief-like of you Ao'nung, father would be so proud to see how your treating our guests," You raised my voice at him.
"You shouldn't be associating with them (Y/N), they're freaks, the whole family."
You were about to chew him out again but you saw Lo'ak at the corner of your eye start approaching them.
"Lo'ak."
"I got this bro," he walked closer, "Look I know this hand is funny. I'm a freak, alien. But it can do something really cool. Watch." Ao'nung leaned in close, "First, I ball it up real tight like this. Okay? Then," Lo'ak struck my brother three time. Three good times, knocking him down to the sand. "It's called a punch, bitch!"
You weren't sure if you should laugh or say something to stop it. But then again your brother deserved it.
"Don't ever touch my sister again!"
Ao'nung lunged at Lo'ak, tackling him to the ground. He got another good punch in before your brother's friends started to pull him by the tail. While they had them down one of them used their tail to whip Lo'ak in the face. They're so pathetic the only hit they got in was when he was held back.
You looked over at Neteyam who looked like he didn't want to fight but he had no choice but to defend his brother.
You were quite impressed with how easily he could take the boys out, a simple punch knocked one them down.
"Stop it! You're so stupid!" Kiri yelled at her brothers.
"Save your voice they aren't going to stop," you told her, "We need to let them just wrestle it out."
"Is your brother always like this?" she asked.
"What? Annoying and vile?"
She nodded.
"All of the time."
We both couldn't help but laugh at our brothers rolling around on the floor like animals.
"Hey! Knock it off!" A loud voice shouted from the distance.
It was both your father and Jake running over.
"Oh shit my dad. This is not going to be good," Kiri sighed.
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"What were you thinking Ao'nung?" Your father was pacing around our Marui very angry, "You are supposed to be teaching them not fighting. I have raised you better."
"They started it! They threw the first hit!"
"Father he is lying, him and his friends were picking on Kiri, the daughter. Ao'nung was picking on a girl," you tried to emphasize how wrong it was for a group of boys to mock a girl while she's by herself, "Calling her a freak, so Lo'ak stepped in and they started mocking him as well. He had it coming."
"If you were there why did you not stop it?" Your father turned to you.
"As if Ao'nung would listen to me," you knew your words and tone were risky but Ao'nung doesn't listen to anyone.
"Doesn't matter you are the oldest you must protect your siblings from right and wrong."
"He was in the wrong father, what was I supposed to do?" Of course Ao'nung getting himself into a fight turns to you getting in trouble.
"I expect better from the both of you, (Y/N) you are supposed to be there for you siblings. Ao'nung you are supposed to be the next Olo'eyktan you cannot be getting into fights with those are looking for your guidance. You should be ashamed of yourself. Tomorrow you are to debone all the fish that's caught as punishment," Your father left the marui in a huff.
Ao'nung scoffed at his punishment.
To you, that punishment was a slap on the wrist. If you had done something like this you would have gotten way worse of a talk and like multiple different tasks to do that on top of deboning fish. Which is the most annoying job, you have to skin the fish, and take out each individual bone making your hands reek for days. Plus the clan catches hundreds of fish in a day.
You took a deep breath, and decided you needed to clear your head after that. Grabbed your bag so you could look for shells and pearls.
Ao'nung's eye was purple and his lip was severely swollen, "You just got your ass beat by forest boys."
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"I thought I'd find you here," Neteyam's voice rang through your ears like a bell. You were back at the tide pools shell hunting. You decided you had taken enough pearls for awhile and you need to let the clams form more. Tide pools is always the place you go to when you want to clear your head.
You were going to say something cheeky but Neteyam's lip was still actively bleeding, "Your lip!"
"It's fine I've gone through worse."
"It's bleeding pretty bad Neteyam."
"Trust me it's okay."
Reluctantly you dropped it but when you get back you're taking matters into your own hands, "Fine. How's Lo'ak? Hope you two didn't get in too much trouble."
"He's fine my dad is just making him apologize to your brother."
"What why?" you asked confused, your brother deserved what happened, you think even your father knew that deep down.
"Because were here due to your father's hospitality and Lo'ak beat up his son."
"I think Ao'nung needed that, he can't keep getting away with acting like that."
"I think we shut him up for awhile," Neteyam chuckled.
"You two are very good at fighting."
"Learned from the best."
"Your father?"
"Yep, do you know the story of my father?"
"I know that he's Taruk Makto and defeated the sky people all those years ago, and was human but is now Na'vi."
"Back in the human world he was what's called a marine. Fierce warriors."
"It must be hard having to live up to your father."
He looked at me with a how did you know face. He agreed, "I want to be just like him."
"I think you proved today your whole family is fierce warriors," you smirked at him.
"Enough about me, I want to hear more about you."
"What do you want to know?"
"Tell me about your accident," he looked hesitant, "If you want."
You don't really talk about what happened to you that one dark night. You try to forget about it but every time you look down you're reminded of your stupidity. You have come to just accept what happened is just apart of your story. That one day you'll get to tell your kids about it.
"Last year, I had just earned my adulthood. I felt like I was finally doing something right, after all those years of everyone saying I was cursed. So since I thought I was so grown up, late one night I decided to just go for a dive. I snuck out, which I had done plenty of times before but I usually let Tsireya know incase anything were to happen. This time, I didn't. I left and got on my ilu. I was just swimming around when I saw something I had never seen before. It looked like a light, but it was moving. I went up to it and it moved away. I decided to follow it. The creature led me outside of the reef and disappeared. I started to panic because it was nothing but darkness, I couldn't tell which way I had come from. So I just told my Ilu to go home and hoped for the best. I could see the seawall when I heard something behind me. Next thing I know I'm being thrashed around by an akula, a giant beast with teeth this big," you motioned with your hands the length, "It had me by the tail and I just blacked out, I don't remember anything after that."
Neteyam was staring at you very solemnly. He studied your demeanor as you told the story. How your ears pinned down when you talked about how scared you were. How your eyes widened when you recalled looking into the akulas mouth. He saw all these little things.
"You made it though, that's a miracle."
"Yeah but now I am in trouble for the next few years but I understand why. This is the one mistake I take full responsibility for."
"What mistakes do you not take responsibility for?" He raised his brow, smirking down at you.
"As a child I was always sick, always. Near death, kinds of sickness. I'm lucky my mother is Tsahik. I had been bit but a poisonous crab. I was stung by a jellyfish," you showed him the scar on your leg, "I've broken my arm, I've gotten stuck in trees. I've been stabbed by stingers of animals multiple times."
He started laughing at you, "And none of those were your fault?"
"Nope, well maybe the tree climbing."
"Eywa wants you here, that's why you survived."
"Maybe," you shrugged. you don't personally feel that way. You believe she's trying to take you out. But you knew the Omatikaya people are very spiritual, you didn't want to hinder that.
"You're very brave for telling me that," he smiled, "It can't be easy reliving that night."
"I have nightmares about it sometimes, I've woken up screaming before."
He placed a hand on your shoulder, "Very brave."
You had never thought of yourself as brave. Stupid and naive, yes but never brave. No one has ever been this kind to you. "Tell me more about your home."
"I miss the trees, the trees here look like babies compared to the ones back home. I miss the mountains. I miss my grandmother, I miss my brother."
Brother? You thought he only had Lo'ak, "You have two brothers?"
"Yes, he's not my blood brother, but my parents raised him. He is human, his name is Spider."
Your eyes grew wide, you tried to hide your face by looking for a shell in the little pools of water.
"You don't like humans do you?"
"I've just never seen one, and I hear they do more harm than good," You tried your best not to sound judgmental since Neteyam himself is part human.
"Yeah I know, Spider is more Na'vi then human though. But he was taken when we got attacked." He looked up at the sky as if he was looking for his brother, "We don't know if we'll ever see him again."
"I'm sorry Neteyam."
"Don't be," he shook his head, "So what do you like to do for fun around here?" He tried to liven up the conversation.
"This is what I do," you held you hands out to the tide pools.
"You come here with your friends a lot?"
"Um," you stammered, "No, just me. Maybe sometimes with my sister."
"Oh I see this is like your spot. Well thank you for sharing it with me, I must be special."
"Yeah you are," you said shyly, "Your the first person to see me as a friend in a long time." You have no idea why you’re confessing this to him. But he makes you feel like you could tell him anything.
"Do you not have many friends?"
"I have no friends."
"But your so nice?"
"Like I said before this village thinks I'm cursed."
"What because you've made some mistakes as a child?"
"Those things add up over time," You took a deep breath and decided you'd tell him more of the truth, "I had a friend once, a best friend. Ko'lea, we were inseparable, we used to tell people we were sisters as if they didn't know who my father was. We did absolutely everything together. We were around Tuks age when we decided to have a swim with our ilu. Of course we weren't allowed to go off by ourselves but we did anyway. It was my idea and Ko'lea never told me no. We were swimming around the reef, when she lost control and hit her head on a rock, knocking her unconscious. I thought she was behind me but when I turned around she was gone. I found her on the sea floor and dragged her body out of the water. She had drowned. People thought it was me who killed her," you felt your eyes well with tears. You were so young when it happened. You couldn't believe they could accuse a child like that.
Neteyam looked like he was at a lost for words.
"After that, that's when the rumors really got bad. They said Eywa has turned her back on me, I was being watched over by an evil source. My father had to have a village meeting about it because it got so bad. They once blamed for the season we had no fish in the reef. Anything bad happens here it's my fault," you felt a hot tear stream down your face. You immediately wiped it embarrassed you opened up so much to someone you had just met the previous day. You couldn't bear to look at him.
"I can tell you have been wanting to get all that out," he finally spoke.
You just glanced over, still embarrassed. He was right, you haven't talked about this to anyone, not even your sister. No one would understand what it's like to be hated by everyone. The dirty looks and the whispers you hear as you walk by. Except now, Neteyam does. His family is going through the same torment you went through for so many years. To this day even. Finally you have someone who understands what it's like.
"I am happy to have met you (Y/N)."
"Me too," you sniffed.
Eclipse was dawning on you, the bright blue sky was beginning to dim and the bioluminescence was starting to appear.
"(Y/N)! (Y/N)! Sister!" You both look behind you to see Tsireya running towards you.
At first you were happy to see your sister but the look of urgency on her face made you understand that something was wrong. you rushed down the rocks not caring if you got hurt. You ran to her, Neteyam following after.
"Lo'ak is missing!"
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"He was with Ao'nung," Neteyam said sternly
"But Ao'nung is back at the village?" Tsireya shook her head.
"Take me to him," Neteyam immediately caught on, and so did you. Yes, Ao'nung is your brother so you should probably think of him more graciously but you wouldn't put it past him if he did something to Lo'ak. Especially after getting beaten to a pulp.
It was like you couldn't get to the village fast enough. All three of you were frantically looking for your brother or any of his friends. You first spotted Rotxo but he said he hasn't seen Ao'nung all day. Tsireya said the last time she saw him it was at your marui but when you checked he was no where to be found.
You thought you had looked everywhere but you spotted him with his other hunter friends far out on the west side of the island. They had a small fire going and looked like they were having a good time talking and laughing. Lo'ak was no where to be seen.
"Fish lips! Where's my brother?" Neteyam yelled to get their attention.
"I don't know where he is forest boy, he must be wandering around here somewhere. Perhaps you'll find him in the trees," him and his friends laughed.
You've had enough of your brothers behavior, it's gone too far now. Someone's son is missing and he was the last to be seen with him. You stepped in front of Neteyam and marched towards your brother. You grabbed him by his kuru and wrapped it around your arm as you pulled tightly, "I know your lying Ao'nung. Where is he?" You yanked even harder.
"I don't know," he hissed in your face.
You took your thumb and applied pressure to the purple bruise on his face, "He's already beaten you up once, I will let him do it again if you don't say where he is."
He yelped in pain, "Agh, fine. We took him hunting," he paused, "Beyond the reef."
"Brother," Tsireya gasped.
Your anger turned into an immense amount of worry. You let go of him and just stared at your brother in utter disbelief. You had to take a breath so you didn't lose it on him. "How could you do something like that?" you stared down at him with disappointment which looked like it hurt him way more than when you grabbed him. "You know what happened to me that night and how lucky I am to even be standing here right now. And I am Metkayina I know the water. You took someone with almost no knowledge of our sea out into pure danger. How long has he been out there?"
"Since about lunch," he looked down at the floor.
You could tell Neteyam wanted to tear your brother limb from limb but you kept going, "Think back to that night, when they found my unconscious body bleeding out Ao'nung. Think back to how scared you were that I wasn't going to make it. You can try to deny it but when I woke up you were crying, because you all thought you lost me. Imagine how Neteyam feels right now. How his mother, father and his baby sisters are going to feel when they learn that their son has been out in the sea for hours and has not returned?"
"I'm sorry," he couldn't even look you in the eye.
"I am not the one you should be apologizing to," you shook your head, "You are going to tell Taruk Makto what you did," you said coldly.
"What?" he finally looked at me.
"You heard me," you turned to Neteyam, "Grab him."
Neteyam followed exactly what you did. He grabbed your brother by the kuru but you can imagine his grip is a lot firmer than yours, "You are a lucky son of bitch that I let your sister handle you."
You led them back to village, looking back every so often to make sure Neteyam hadn't loosened his grip. You were so angry at your brother but you were more scared. You knew exactly how it feels to be lost at sea which is why you wouldn't even wish it onto your worst enemy. There is no worse of a feeling than the amount of panic that takes over your body. You can't think straight, you lose all sense of rationality. It's truly maddening. you pray that Lo'ak gets found.
As you reached the Sully's marui you let Neteyam take the lead as you entered.
"Go! Tell him what you told me!" He shoved your brother.
You would not want to look Jake in the eye and tell him that his son was missing and it was your fault. But Neteyam said it was better he tell Jake and not Neytiri. Ao'nung was much safer this way.
Jake was definitely angry with your brother but he was more concerned about Lo'ak in this moment. You think he knew your father would handle Ao'nung. Jake shot your brother a death glare but turned his attention to me with a much softer gaze.
"Where's your father?"
"It's nightfall so probably our marui, preparing for dinner."
"Take me to him, please."
༄༄༄༄༄༄༄
Neteyam's POV:
I wasn't sure if I should be more mad at Ao'nung for luring Lo'ak out there when he was trying to make peace. Or myself for letting my siblings out of my sight for so long. Lo'ak has been missing for hours and I didn't notice. I was distracted. My one job is to watch my brother and I failed.
Dad's for sure going to kill me when he's done killing Lo'ak.
My dad went straight for the Chief, to tell him exactly what Ao'nung did. Tonowari looked furious, I thought his head was going to explode, "I will send out my warriors and best divers to look for your son," he reassured my dad.
"Thank you chief, I will be getting out there too, I'd like to be the one to skin him."
"Not if I get to him first," my mother spat.
"Do not be upset with Lo'ak, my son knows better and trust he will be dealt with later. First course of action is to find the boy, that's the biggest priority."
(Y/N) was holding her brother by the ear until Ronal made her release him. I could tell her words got through to him because he no longer had that smug look on his face.
I couldn't help but feel guilty for making her retell the story, to then have to relive it hours later. I appreciated her being so open with me, now I know she trusts me. I can relate to her in a lot of ways, we both feel so out of place here. I too get weird looks when I'm simply walking by. To most Na'vi I will always be alien. But (Y/N) she was alien to her own people.
I watched as my dad was getting ready to saddle up on the skimwing, "Please sir, let me go with you. Let me help find my brother."
"Not a chance you stay here so I at least know you're safe," he rode off into the distance. He never lets me do anything to actually help. I'm nothing but a look out.
"Daughter, where do you think you're going?" I turned around to see (Y/N) trying to sneak off.
"Father I know first hand what it's like to be out there by yourself. I can ride a skimwing, let me go help. Please," she looked at him with desperate eyes.
I was a little disappointed she didn't ask me to go with her but at the same time I felt myself smile at the thought of her wanting to help my family. And at her failed attempt to join the search party.
"Absolutely not you know your consequences, let the real warriors handle this. They aren't careless like you are, you can go prepare the remedies incase they are needed."
I could tell she was biting her tongue and wanted to protest some more but instead she stormed off in a huff. I decided to follow her incase she needed any help.
"(Y/N)! Slow down!" She was walking very fast for someone her size.
"Why are you following me?" The anger in her voice scared me a little.
"Incase you need help."
"Shouldn't you be looking for your brother?" she asked as we walked into her home.
"I got told no."
"Me too. Do you know how ridiculous that is? I survived a vicious attack, at night, in the middle of the sea. Shouldn't that make me the most qualified person to look for him? How can someone even screw up a search party," she was slamming a bunch of jars looking for different herbs, "I swear he likes it when he makes me feel utterly useless."
"I know what you mean. You feel like you're so capable of doing more but they simply won't let you."
"Exactly!"
"I guess it just their way of keeping us safe."
"I guess," she turned to look at me, "Oh, your lip," she rummaged through different jars and motioned for me to come sit next to her. "This should have your lip healed within the next day or two." She gently rubbed a salve on my lip using her finger. It felt cool on my lips, while her eyes that were just full of rage were now soft.
"What is it?" She asked.
"Oh nothing, um what's this stuff made of?"
"Algae and some other herbs, not too sure but mostly algae, we better take it with us incase Lo'ak is cut up," she handed me the jar, and kept handing me several others.
"How many do we need?" I asked.
"Better to be safe than sorry, I grabbed several salves, cloths to wrap him in incase something got him, and bowl with water to wipe off blood," she pointed to the things she had on her tray.
"Your mother taught you all this?"
"Yes but it's rather pointless if you ask me, the only chance of me becoming Tsahik is if something happens to my mother but the odds of that are very low. But other than that whoever my brother mates with will become Tsahik."
"My grandmother is Tsahik back home, I think you would like her. Maybe-". The sound of the conch shell blew. They found him.
Now I just have to hope he's alive.
We pushed passed the crowd of people so I could reach my brother, while I held (Y/N)'s wrist as to not lose her.
There he was, my skxawng ass brother. He looked okay from afar, I think he was more scared of how in trouble he is going to be in than being lost.
"Hey, let's have a look at you." My dad was inspecting his body while Lo'ak was giving Ao'nung the death stare, "He's fine. He's fine. Just a few scratches."
"Lo'ak!" Our mom ran to him, "I pray for the strength that I will not pluck the eyeballs out of youngest son!" she clawed at his face.
"No, my son knows better then to take him outside the reef. The blame is his."
"No," Lo'ak spoke up, "This is not Ao'nung fault."
I immediately turned to (Y/N) behind me and she was just as confused as I was.
"This was my idea, he tried to talk me out of it."
Now he's in even more deep shit but it was a very noble thing for my brother to do. I admire him for that.
The disappointment on my dad's face was evident, "I got this," he whispered to Tonowari and grabbed my brother.
"I'll be back," I let go of her wrist to follow my parents.
"Dad you told me to to make friends with these kids. That's all I was doing."
"I don't want to hear it. You brought shame to this family."
"Can I go now?" Lo'ak is used to this by now.
"Any more trouble, I jerk a knot in your tail. You read me?"
"Yes sir. Lima Charlie." Marine talk for loud and clear.
"Where were you?" My mom turned to me.
"Yeah, what happened to keep an eye on your brother?"
"Sorry sir," he was right I should have been there when he went to go apologize to Ao'nung. None of this would have happened if I had been there.
I was going to find (Y/N) so I could say goodnight to her but she looked like she was getting lectured as well by her parents. So I decided to just follow my parents home.
We sat in silence as we ate dinner. We weren't hungry but my mom didn't want the fish she prepared to go to waste so she made us sit and eat together as a family. The tensions were high, Kiri was in her own mood like always. Lo'ak seemed fine for someone who was missing. Mom was angry and you could tell because she kept looking daggers at my brother. My dad was rightfully mad, yet another scene caused by our family. Well mostly Lo'ak. Tuk seemed to be the only one in a good mood.
"Neteyam what is on your lip?" My mom asked not looking up from her food.
"Yeah what's on your lips?" Kiri smirked.
I shot her a glare, "A salve (Y/N) gave to me, my lip was cut from the fight earlier."
"It looks like it's not helping at all, our herbs would have healed it already."
"She was just trying to help, the best way she knew how," I defended her.
My mom seemed shocked by my answer.
"Watch the attitude son," dad said.
"I'm sorry I just think it's helped me a lot actually."
"So her herbs our better then ours?" My mom asked offended.
"No, mom I didn't mean t-"
"I'm just teasing you my boy, I'm glad you've made a friend," she smiled at me. The rest of my family was all laughing at me.
"Excuse me?" (Y/N) knocked on the post, "Sorry to be interrupting, again, but I brought some different remedies for Lo'ak I heard he got scratched up pretty bad from the coral. And for Neteyam if he needs any."
My brother elbowed me and winked. As if he doesn't spend most of his time with Tsireya.
My mother stood from her spot and walked over to her, "Thank you for your kindness (Y/N), you are welcome to join us for dinner."
"Thank you Neytiri, but I told my parents I'd be quick," she smiled as she handed the tray we gathered together to my mom.
"Maybe tomorrow then, to show our gratitude."
"Please (Y/N)!" Tuk pleaded.
"Of course I'd be happy to," she nodded.
"We will see you tomorrow then," my mom bowed her head to show her appreciation.
"Enjoy your dinner. And Lo'ak my family is happy your safe, even if it didn't seem like it. Goodnight to you all," she waved goodbye.
I don't know what came over me but I immediately got up to follow her, "(Y/N)!"
She quickly turned around, "Yes?"
"You don't have to join us if you don't want to."
"No, no I want to."
"Are you sure?"
"Very," she assured.
"Good, bring Tsireya too," I have to torture my brother as well, that's what older brothers are for.
"I will tell her," she nodded and turned to walk away.
"Wait," I grabbed her arm, "Did you get in trouble?"
She laughed softly, "Yeah, mostly by my mom for calling my brother a liar and choosing your family's side over my own," she rolled her eyes, "Did you?"
"Yeah for not keeping an eye on Lo'ak like I promised but nothing too bad," I shrugged.
"I can't believe Lo'ak did that, now Ao'nung isn't in any trouble, I got in more trouble," she scoffed.
"It's what we get for being the oldest. But I think things are going to be better now that they worked out their differences."
"I guess so, I better get back before they know I'm missing."
"But I thought they knew?"
"Nope I had to sneak out, goodnight Neteyam."
"Goodnight (Y/N), see you tomorrow."
I watched as she ran off, as I was walking away to get back inside I turned back to see her looking back at me as well.
"Did you get a goodnight kiss?" Lo'ak asked as I entered.
"No but she said Tsireya was asking for you."
His eyes grew wide, "Really?"
"No," I shook my head laughing.
"Goodnight Neteyam," he mocked while making kissing noises while running his hands over his body.
"She's my friend," I pushed him.
"What happened to her tail son?" Dad asked trying not to smile.
"She was attacked by an akula. A giant fish with huge teeth. She was out passed the reef like Lo'ak was but she wasn't as lucky to come out with just a few scratches. No one bring it up tomorrow when she's here," I pointed at all of them, especially Tuk. She will say anything that comes to mind.
"Noted," dad laughed, "Out of everyone here you two had to pick the chiefs daughters?"
"Dad you picked the chiefs daughter," Lo'ak said glancing over to our mom.
"That's cause we're Sullys, atta boys," he clasped my hands and pulled me in while laughing.
"Jake!" Mom yelled over us, "People are trying to sleep be quiet.
My dad immediately knocked it off, "Your mom's right quiet down. Besides she chose me," we all started laughing this time.
"Oh really your going to lie to them?" My mom said fighting back a smile.
"I'm just kidding baby, I chose you. And I'd do it a million times over again," he kissed her.
"Ewwww," Tuk scrunched her nose in disgust.
"What I can't kiss your mom? This is how you got here."
"Ewwwww!"
"Dad!"
"Please stop!"
"Huh?" Tuk was confused.
"Now listen boys I do not want to be a grandpa anytime soon okay so-"
"Okay dad stop, actually," Kirk buried her face in her hands.
"Yeah, dad were only friends," I tried to calm everyone down.
"Still you're getting older, it's best for you all to know. When a mommy Na'vi and a daddy Na'vi love each other very much-"
"Goodnight!" Kiri got up and walked away.
It was nice to see my family talking and laughing for once. It has been awhile since I've seen their smiles. I pray to Eywa this becomes our normal again.
part one: evergreen part two: evergreen part three: evergreen
summary: lo’ak and reader grew up close, but what happens when you guys move to awa’atlu and he meets someone new?
warnings: no warnings, fluff
pairing: neteyam x fem!reader
wc: around 2,5k-3k
a/n: last part, tell me if you want anything more added to this story!
you could not stop thinking about it afterward, because once the truth existed between you and neteyam, even quietly, everything changed. or maybe nothing changed at all. maybe you were only finally seeing what had always been there. either way, it became impossible to ignore him now. you noticed the way his voice softened around you compared to everyone else. the way his eyes found you first in crowded spaces without even trying. the way he instinctively reached toward you whenever you stumbled over rocks or rough currents, steady hands at your waist before you could fall. and eywa, the touching suddenly felt unbearable.
before, you had never thought much about how naturally affectionate neteyam was with you. growing up together had blurred those boundaries long ago. your hands had always found each other casually, comfortably. shoulders brushing. fingers intertwined absentmindedly during stories. naps tangled together after hunts. but now every small thing felt dangerous. because now you understood what it meant to him. and worse, (or better) you were starting to understand what it meant to you too.
“you’re staring again.”
you nearly jumped at kiri’s voice beside you. she snorted immediately
“wow. bad.”
you glared weakly while looking away from where neteyam stood near the water speaking with jake.
“i was not staring.”
“you absolutely were. you still are”
“why are you always around when i’m suffering?”
“because eywa enjoys me.”
you groaned softly, covering your face with both hands while kiri laughed beside you. unfortunately, she was right. you had been staring.
specifically at the way neteyam’s arms flexed while tying down one of the fishing nets, which felt deeply unfair.
“you know…” kiri said casually “this is significantly more painful to watch now that both of you know.”
your eyes widened immediately.
“kiri!”
“what?”
“keep your voice down!”
she grinned horribly.
“oh, so i’m right?”
you hated everyone in this family. kiri bumped her shoulder lightly against yours.
“he’s been impossible lately too.”
that caught your attention despite yourself
“what do you mean?”
“he gets this stupid look on his face every time someone says your name.”
your stomach flipped violently.
“stop.” you said with a smile creeping up on your face
“no, seriously. yesterday mom asked where you were and he answered so fast it was embarrassing.”
you stared at the ground, trying and failing to calm the sudden warmth crawling up your neck. kiri watched you carefully for a moment before her expression softened slightly.
“you like him, i know it”
it was not a question. your chest tightened immediately. because yes. that was becoming terrifyingly obvious now. you just did not know what to do about it.
“i don’t know,” you admitted
kiri made a face.
“that is such a lie”
you laughed weakly.
“okay, fine. maybe i do.”
“maybe?”
“kiri.”
she grinned again before looking toward where neteyam still stood.
“he’s waited forever, you know.”
your throat tightened.
“tsireya said something like that.”
kiri hummed knowingly.
“everyone knew except you apparently.”
you buried your face in your hands again
“this is humiliating.”
“for you, maybe. for me it’s entertaining.”
later that evening, you found yourself alone with neteyam for the first time since your conversation on the walkway. well, alone intentionally. he sat near the edge of the shore repairing one of his hunting knives when you approached, and the moment he looked up and saw you, that soft expression returned immediately. your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly fast.
“hey” he said
simple word.
“hi” you said with a small smile. you sat beside him carefully, trying very hard not to think about how broad his shoulders looked this close. failing horribly. for a moment neither of you spoke. then neteyam set the knife aside, giving you his full attention. and eywa, that should not affect you this much.
it did.
“you’ve been avoiding me today” he said quietly.
your eyes widened slightly.
“i have not.”
one look from him. you sighed.
“okay. maybe a little.”
his mouth twitched faintly.
“why?”
because every time you looked at him lately, your entire body forgot how to function properly.
instead you muttered “you make me nervous now.”
the words slipped out before you could stop them. neteyam blinked. then stared at you carefully.
“nervous?”
heat crawled violently up your neck, too late to take it back now. you looked stubbornly toward the ocean instead of at him.
“yes.”
there was a pause, then very softly:
“i didn’t mean to.”
that almost made it worse, because of course his first instinct was concern. you laughed weakly under your breath
“i know.”
silence stretched between you briefly before neteyam spoke again.
“is it a bad nervous?”
you finally looked at him then, big mistake, because he was already looking at you with that awful steady warmth in his eyes, and suddenly your chest felt far too tight.
“no, not bad.”
something shifted in his expression at that, small, hopeful. careful enough that it nearly broke your heart. you swallowed softly.
“neteyam…”
his entire attention sharpened instantly at the sound of your voice saying his name like that. you noticed. unfortunately.
“when did it start?”
he knew exactly what you meant. you could tell by the way his face softened immediately. for a moment he looked almost embarrassed, which felt wildly unfair considering neteyam was usually composed about everything.
“i don’t know” he admitted quietly. “a long time ago.”
“how long?”
he smiled faintly to himself.
“you remember when you fell out of that tree trying to impress lo’ak?”
you stared at him. mortification immediately flooding your body.
“oh my god.”
his quiet laugh wrapped warmly around your ribs.
“you landed directly on me!”
“i remember!”
“you cried for twenty minutes because you thought your braid looked ugly afterward.”
you covered your face instantly while he laughed harder.
“stop talking!” you said, even though you were thinking the opposite
“you asked!”
“i regret asking.”
he was still smiling though. softly now. fond.
“so, to be more precise, since we were kids?”
his eyes met yours fully. open now. unguarded in a way they almost never were.
“yeah, i just kept waiting for it to go away.”
your chest physically ached, because you knew exactly what that felt like. except his had lasted years longer than yours. all this time. all while standing beside you loving someone else.
“neteyam…”
“don’t” he said gently.
“don’t what?”
“look guilty.”
you froze slightly. because apparently he noticed everything. well, you knew that, but it was still shocking how observant he is.
his expression softened further.
“you never did anything wrong.”
“i hurt you anyway.”
“that was never your fault.”
your eyes burned suddenly, because how was he still this kind? after years of this?
you looked down at your hands helplessly.
“i don’t understand how you can say that.”
neteyam was quiet for a moment. then carefully, slowly, he reached over and tipped your chin upward until you looked at him again. your breath caught instantly. his hand was warm against your cold skin
you forgot how thinking worked.
“because loving you never felt like something bad” he said softly
your entire chest cracked open. nobody had ever looked at you like this before. not really. not completely. or, you just didn’t notice. lo’ak’s love, whatever parts of it had existed, always felt frantic. uncertain. like something constantly slipping through your fingers no matter how tightly you held on. this felt different. neteyam looked at you like he had already chosen a long time ago, and never changed his mind afterward. it terrified you how badly your heart responded to that
his thumb brushed lightly against your cheek before he seemed to realize what he was doing. immediately, he started pulling away. instinct moved faster than thought. your hand caught his wrist gently. both of you froze. the air suddenly felt painfully thin. neteyam stared at you. you stared back. and somewhere behind the fear and confusion and lingering heartbreak still living inside you, another feeling finally surfaced clearly enough to recognize. want, not comfort, not safety, want. you wanted him closer. the realization hit hard enough to leave you breathless. neteyam’s eyes dropped briefly toward your mouth before lifting again. very bad for your health, actually.
“tell me to stop” he said quietly.
your pulse hammered everywhere, because he would. you knew he would. even now, after all these years, he would step back immediately if you asked him to. that realization made something warm unravel painfully inside your chest. you shook your head slightly. barely a movement. still enough. something in neteyam’s expression broke then. not badly. just… restraint finally slipping. his free hand moved carefully to your waist like he was afraid you might disappear if he touched you too quickly. you could feel his heartbeat, fast.
“are you sure?” he whispered.
you had never been less sure about anything in your life.
and somehow, still-
“yes.”
the word barely left your mouth before he kissed you, and eywa. you immediately understood the difference between being wanted and being cherished. neteyam kissed you like he had spent years imagining it and still could not quite believe it was happening now, careful at first, almost hesitant. then deeper the second you leaned closer with a soft sound against his mouth. his hand tightened instinctively at your waist, you melted instantly, which was honestly humiliating, but also impossible to care about because neteyam was kissing you. neteyam. kissing you. his breath caught slightly when your fingers slid into his braids, and the sound alone nearly ruined you completely. everything about this felt overwhelming. the warmth of his mouth against yours, the way he held you so carefully despite how badly his hands trembled, the quiet little breaths he kept losing every time you kissed him back harder, like he still could not fully believe you were real. you pulled away first only because breathing became necessary. both of you stayed close though. foreheads resting together. his eyes still closed. you could physically feel his heartbeat through his chest
neteyam opened his eyes slowly and immediately looked at you like you had just handed him something sacred. he laughed softly against your mouth. actually laughed. you had never heard that sound from him before, not like this. unguarded. completely full of joy. it wasn’t loud, but it was happy
it made you want to kiss him again immediately just to hear it once more, so you did. and this time neteyam kissed you back like he was done holding himself back
part one: evergreen part two: evergreen part four: evergreen
summary: lo’ak and reader grew up close, but what happens when you guys move to awa’atlu and he meets someone new?
warnings: angst w a tad of comfort, lo’ak being jealous, love triangle between lo’ak, reader and neteyam, lo’ak being stupid and in his feelings
pairing: reader x fem!reader, neteyam x fem!reader
wc: around 4k words
a/n: sorry if this one is a bit boring, i’m very busy at the time so i write whatever comes to mind
you started noticing neteyam everywhere after that.
which was unfortunate.
because once your mind began looking for him, it became impossible not to.
he was suddenly in every part of your day in ways that felt unfairly overwhelming. standing waist-deep in the water while teaching tuk how to properly throw a spear, laughing quietly when she nearly hit him instead. sitting beside jake during meals, broad shoulders relaxed for once while listening to kiri talk over everyone else. helping mend fishing nets with practiced hands while older villagers praised him for being patient enough to actually listen when taught.
neteyam had always been there, that was the problem. he had always been steady, warm, reliable in the background of your life while your entire heart stayed fixed on someone else. now it felt like finally adjusting your eyes after staring into sunlight too long, and maybe that would have been manageable if he had not started looking at you differently too. or maybe he always had. that possibility made your stomach twist.
because there were moments lately, brief ones, quiet ones, where his attention lingered too long before he looked away. moments where his hand brushed your back gently while passing behind you, and instead of feeling casual, it left heat lingering beneath your skin for hours afterward. you hated how aware of him you were becoming. especially because lo’ak noticed it too.
“you’ve been spending a lot of time with my brother.”
the words came suddenly while you sorted herbs beneath one of the woven shelters near the shore. you looked up to find lo’ak standing there, arms crossed tightly over his chest, defensive already. you swallowed softly before looking back down at the leaves in your lap
“we’re friends.”
“right.”
that tone immediately irritated you. you exhaled slowly through your nose.
“what is that supposed to mean?”
“nothing.”
“lo’ak.”
“i said nothing?”
you finally looked up fully then, frustration flickering through your chest when you saw the expression on his face. upset, jealous. you laughed breathlessly from disbelief alone.
“you do not get to act like this, not now.” you said
his jaw tightened instantly
“act like what?”
“like you suddenly care who i spend time with.”
“i do care.”
the answer came too fast, too sharp. your chest hurt anyway. because that had always been the problem, hadn’t it? he cared, just never enough. you stood slowly, brushing leaves from your hands.
“you have tsireya.”
something complicated crossed his face immediately, guilt, frustration, confusion.
“it’s not about that.”
“then what is it about?”
he opened his mouth, closed it again. and despite everything, despite how many times this exact silence had hurt you before, part of you still waited. waited for him to finally say the thing you had wanted for years. instead he dragged a hand through his braids roughly and looked away.
“i don’t know.”
you stared at him for a long moment before nodding once.
“exactly.”
you tried stepping around him, but his hand caught your arm lightly. not enough to trap you. just enough to stop you.
“don’t do that.”
your entire body went tense immediately.
“do what?”
“talk to me like i’m some stranger now.”
hurt flickered across his face before he could hide it
“you used to tell me everything.”
your throat tightened painfully
“yeah” you whispered. “and look where that got me.”
the words visibly landed. you watched guilt spread across his expression again, heavy and familiar and exhausting. for once, though, you did not feel satisfaction from it. just tiredness. because guilt never changed anything. you pulled your arm free gently.
“i can’t keep doing this with you, lo’ak.”
his eyes snapped back toward yours
“doing what?”
“waiting for you to figure out whether i matter.”
he looked almost angry then, not at you. at himself maybe? which somehow made it worse.
“you do matter.”
“but not enough.”
silence. again. eywa, you were beginning to hate silence. you stepped back before he could stop you this time.
“that’s what i thought.”
neteyam found you later sitting alone near the edge of the reefs with your feet dangling into the water. he noticed immediately that your eyes looked glassy. his chest tightened. without saying anything, he sat beside you quietly. you appreciated that about him. he never pushed immediately. for a while neither of you spoke. waves rolled gently against the rocks beneath you both while eclipse painted the ocean gold. eventually neteyam spoke softly.
“lo’ak talked to you, right?”
not a question, you laughed once under your breath.
“is it that obvious?”
“only because you look like you want to bite someone.”
that actually made you smile a little. neteyam felt warmth bloom embarrassingly fast inside his chest at the sight of it.
“sorry” you murmured.
“for what?”
“being miserable all the time lately.”
his expression softened instantly.
“hey.”
you looked over at him.
“you never have to apologize for hurting.”
the sincerity in his voice nearly undid you on the spot, because he meant it. your eyes burned suddenly, and you looked away quickly toward the water before he could notice. except of course he noticed, neteyam always noticed.
“what did he say?” he asked gently.
you hesitated, then sighed quietly
“he asked why i’ve been spending time with you.”
neteyam went still beside you, you glanced toward him briefly. his jaw had tightened slightly.
“and?”
you shrugged weakly.
“and then we argued in circles until i left.”
“sounds familiar.”
you huffed a soft laugh despite yourself, then your expression faded again.
“i don’t understand him.”
neteyam stared out toward the horizon for a moment before speaking carefully.
“i think lo’ak’s spent so long assuming you would always be there that he never stopped to think about what it would feel like if you weren’t.”
your chest twisted painfully, because that sounded horribly accurate
“that’s not fair”
“i know.”
you looked down at your hands.
“the worst part is that i still…” your voice faltered slightly. “a part of me still hopes every time he looks at me like that.”
neteyam’s heart cracked quietly inside his ribcage. still, his voice remained calm.
“that doesn’t make you weak.”
“feels like it does”
“it doesn’t.”
you looked over at him then, and eywa, there was something dangerous about the way neteyam looked at people when they were hurting. like your pain physically mattered to him, like he would carry pieces of it himself if he could. it made your chest ache in an entirely different way than lo’ak ever had. softer. steadier. because with lo’ak, love had always felt like reaching. with neteyam, it felt frighteningly like being held. you looked away first
your heartbeat had become deeply inconvenient lately.
things with tsireya and lo’ak got worse after that, not loudly, that almost would have been easier. instead they became strained in small, painful ways that everyone around them slowly began noticing. the easy affection between them started disappearing. conversations cut shorter than before. smiles that looked practiced instead of natural. tsireya still cared about him deeply, that part was obvious, but there was sadness in her now too. understanding. like she had finally realized she was trying to hold onto someone whose heart kept drifting elsewhere no matter how hard he fought it. you avoided getting involved entirely. mostly because the guilt ate at you every time you looked at her. she had done nothing wrong. none of this was her fault. which was why it startled you so badly when she approached you herself one afternoon while you helped repair woven baskets near the marui.
“can we talk?” she asked gently
your stomach dropped instantly. still, you nodded. tsireya sat beside you quietly, smoothing her hands over her knees for a moment before speaking.
“you love him very much.”
you stared at her. she offered you a sad little smile.
“i am not angry with you.”
that somehow made it worse. your throat tightened immediately.
“tsireya-”
“i think he loves you too.”
you physically froze.
no.
no, absolutely not.
because if that were true, then what had all this pain been for?
“he cares about me” you corrected weakly.
tsireya shook her head softly.
“no.”
your pulse hammered unevenly. she looked down at her hands.
“i used to think maybe if i was patient enough, eventually he would look at me the way he looks at you.”
your eyes stung instantly.
“please don’t say that.”
“it is true”
you felt horrible suddenly. completely horrible.
“i never wanted to hurt you.”
tsireya’s expression softened gently.
“i know.”
and she did. that was the awful part. she reached over carefully, covering your hand with hers.
“none of this is your fault”
you almost laughed bitterly. it certainly felt like your fault. tsireya looked toward the ocean for a moment before speaking again.
“do you know what finally made me understand?”
you nodded your head slowly
“when he got hurt during the storm.”
your chest tightened immediately at the memory
“he hugged me first” she said quietly. “but afterward… he spent the rest of the night searching the crowd for you.”
your breath caught
“no he didn’t-”
“he did not even realize he was doing it.”
something sharp and aching moved through your chest. because part of you wanted to hear that more than anything. another part wanted to cry from exhaustion.
“i think he is just scared” she admitted softly.
“of what?”
she looked at you carefully then.
“of loving someone enough to lose them.”
your eyes burned, because maybe that was true. lo’ak loved recklessly in every part of his life except this one. except you. and maybe by the time he finally understood what he felt, too much damage had already been done. tsireya squeezed your hand gently before standing.
“for what it is worth” she said softly, “i think someone else has been loving you much longer.”
your heartbeat nearly stopped. before you could even form words, she walked away. leaving you sitting there stunned and horribly aware of who she meant.
that night you could not sleep. every thought circled back toward neteyam until your entire chest felt restless and overheated. you thought about the way he listened when you spoke. the way he always made room for your feelings instead of treating them like inconveniences. the way his eyes softened whenever he looked at you lately. and worst of all, you thought about all the years before now. all the moments that suddenly looked different in hindsight. neteyam teaching you how to braid stronger bowstrings because you kept snapping yours. neteyam carrying you home after your first hunting injury because your ankle hurt too badly to walk. neteyam quietly sitting beside you after your parents died while everyone else tried too hard to say comforting things. he had always been there. steady as breathing, and somehow you had never fully seen it before. the realization made guilt curl painfully in your stomach. because while you spent years aching for lo’ak, someone else had been quietly aching for you too. you wondered if that hurt him as much as this hurt you, which it probably did, maybe even worse
the thought made your chest physically ache. you climbed carefully out onto one of the walkways outside the marui, hoping the night air might settle your thoughts.
instead, you found neteyam already there. of course you did. he leaned against one of the woven supports overlooking the dark ocean below, moonlight silver against his skin. he turned at the sound of your footsteps, and immediately his expression softened when he saw you. there it was again, that terrifying warmth.
“couldn’t sleep?” he asked quietly.
you shook your head.
“you?”
a small huff of laughter left him.
“not really.”
you moved beside him slowly, resting your arms against the railing while waves crashed softly far below. for a while neither of you spoke, the silence felt different with him. not heavy, not painful, just quiet. safe. then softly, before you could lose courage, you asked:
“have you really loved someone that long?”
neteyam went completely still beside you. slowly, he turned his head toward you. moonlight caught across his face, illuminating something vulnerable there that almost made your chest stop working.
“yeah.” he answered quietly.
your heartbeat became uneven immediately.
“why?”
his eyes held yours for a long moment. so long that your pulse started climbing into your throat. then he smiled slightly. small. sad.
“because she was worth waiting for.”
your breath caught completely. the entire world suddenly felt too small for your heartbeat. neteyam looked away first, like he regretted saying it aloud. like after years of silence, honesty itself felt dangerous now. you stared at him, really stared at him. and suddenly every single thing made sense in the most overwhelming way possible. all those years. eywa. all those years.
part one: evergreen part three: evergreen part four: evergreen
summary: lo’ak and reader grew up close, but what happens when you guys move to awa’atlu and he meets someone new?
warnings: angst w a tad of comfort, lo’ak being jealous, love triangle between reader, neteyam and lo’ak, lo’ak being a idiot
pairing: lo’ak x fem!reader, neteyam x fem!reader
wc: i think like around 4k words
a/n: this was originally a one shot but i got a request for a part two so i decided to turn it into series, idk if this was a bit too angsty, ive been so busy with dance competitions that i just write whatever comes to mind!
the first time neteyam noticed something had changed between you and lo’ak, it was quiet. he didn’t immediately make a move, he watched.
watched if he was just paranoid, and that you were still miserably in love with him.
he noticed it during dinner when lo’ak was talking about something aonung had done earlier that day, everyone laughing while tuk was cackling, and you smiled when expected, nodded at the right moments, but your eyes never once drifted toward lo’ak anymore. they used to constantly.
without even realizing it, you always looked for him first. whenever someone spoke, whenever something funny happened, whenever you walked into a room. your attention had always circled back to him like instinct.
now it didn’t.
neteyam noticed because he had spent years noticing you, even when he tried not to. he noticed the way your laughter sounded thinner now, like you were performing it instead of feeling it. he noticed how you sat closer to kiri instead of lo’ak lately, how your hands stayed busy weaving cords and fixing beads instead of reaching absentmindedly toward lo’ak.
he noticed lo’ak noticing it too. that part almost made him angry, because lo’ak looked confused. confused. as if he had not slowly pulled away from you for months while expecting you to remain exactly where he left you. neteyam kept his face neutral and ate quietly while his brother kept glancing toward you every few minutes. you barely looked back once. and somewhere deep inside himself, hidden beneath years of loyalty and guilt and silence, something ugly and selfish loosened. because neteyam had loved you for longer than he even understood what love was, before lo’ak ever did, before you ever looked at his brother like he hung the stars, before any of this.
he remembered one of the many, many times being children and watching you run through the forest after lo’ak while he chased some animal he definitely should not have been chasing. you had tripped over a root, scraping your knee open badly enough to cry, and before neteyam could even move, lo’ak had already run off after whatever stupid thing distracted him. you had sat there sniffling while neteyam cleaned dirt from your skin with shaking hands because he had been little too.
“does it hurt?” he had asked quietly.
you nodded miserably.
so he pressed one tiny hand over the scrape afterward like somehow he could protect you from pain simply by touching it.
you smiled at him through tears anyway.
that smile ruined him permanently.
he was young enough then that nobody noticed how carefully he watched you.
how quickly he learned your moods.
how every time you entered a room his body recognized it before his mind did.
then years passed.
and you loved lo’ak.
everyone knew it except lo’ak himself.
or maybe he knew and simply never understood the weight of being loved like that.
neteyam used to hate himself for the jealousy.
because lo’ak was his brother.
his brother who had spent years feeling second place to him in almost everything.
his brother who struggled while neteyam succeeded effortlessly.
his brother who always seemed desperate to prove himself while neteyam accidentally became everything expected of a perfect son.
so neteyam buried it.
every awful selfish feeling.
every moment his chest tightened when you laughed too hard at something lo’ak said.
every moment he caught himself imagining impossible things.
he buried all of it because that was what good brothers did.
and because you looked happy.
that should have been enough.
except now you didn’t anymore.
and neteyam hated how much hope that gave him.
“you’re staring.”
neteyam blinked, dragged away from thought as kiri dropped down beside him on the rocks overlooking the water.
“i am not.”
“you absolutely are”
she followed his line of sight toward where you stood with some metkayina women sorting herbs into woven baskets. you looked peaceful from far away. but kiri saw people too easily.
“she’s not like… usual.” kiri said quietly.
neteyam’s jaw tightened.
“i know.”
kiri leaned back on her hands.
“and lo’ak’s an idiot.”
he huffed a laugh despite himself.
“you said it. not me.”
“oh, please. even mom sees it now.”
neteyam looked over
“sees what?”
kiri gave him a look
“everything.”
unfortunately, that sounded exactly like neytiri.
kiri tilted her head slightly.
“you know what’s funny?”
he immediately distrusted that tone.
“what.”
“you look at her the exact same way dad looks at mom.”
neteyam nearly choked
“what?”
“relax” kiri snorted “i’m not judging you.”
his heartbeat became deeply inconvenient.
“i do not look at her any type of way.”
“sure”
“kiri.”
“neteyam.”
he groaned softly while she laughed, then her expression softened a little.
“you know… she notices you too.”
that made him still.
“what.”
“not like how she does with lo’ak.” kiri clarified. “but she notices.”
he looked back toward you automatically.
you were laughing softly at something one of the women beside you said, sunlight catching against the beads woven into your braids. beautiful. always beautiful. it physically exhausted him sometimes.
“doesn’t matter.” he said eventually
kiri watched him carefully.
“because of lo’ak?”
“because she loves him.”
kiri was quiet for a moment.
then “maybe she’s getting tired of it?”
neteyam hated how badly he wanted that to be true.
it happened during eclipse.
most of the village had gathered near the shore, music carrying through the air while children ran wild between bonfires and people. you sat near the outer edge of awa’atlu, knees pulled loosely to your chest while weaving something delicate between your fingers.
alone. well, not alone.
aonung sat nearby talking to you occasionally, and every time he made you laugh, lo’ak’s expression darkened a little more across the beach. neteyam noticed that too. everyone probably did, because lo’ak had become strange lately. restless. possessive in ways he had no right to be. he still spent nearly every day with tsireya, but lately whenever someone else got too close to you, his mood shifted immediately. like he expected you to stay untouched while he figured himself out.
neteyam was beginning to lose patience with him. he found himself drifting toward you before fully deciding to. you looked up when his shadow crossed over you, and smiled. a real smile this time. small, but real. it hit him embarrassingly hard.
“hi” you said softly
“hi” he said
real smooth neteyam, real smooth.
aonung looked between you both once before smirking slightly and standing.
“i’m getting food. do not fall in love while i am gone.”
you nearly inhaled your own tongue.
neteyam stared at him flatly while aonung walked off laughing.
“ignore him.” you said, trying to play it cool but your face was saying otherwise.
“i’m trying” he replied with a breathless laugh.
there was a moment of silence before neteyam lowered himself beside you, close enough that your shoulder brushed his.
“what are you making?” he asked and nodded his head once towards your project.
you held up the half-finished bracelet
“a bracelet for tuk! she asked for one with shells.”
“she’ll love it.”
“hopefully”
your fingers continued moving carefully through the thread and the bead. neteyam watched your hands move for some second before speaking again.
“you seem happier tonight”
you stilled, then shrugged.
“trying to be.”
his chest ached, you always answered honestly when people bothered asking properly. most people simply did not. you guys talked for a bit, then a wave of quietness followed. not a awkward one, just full
then your voice came softly.
“can i ask you something?”
“always.”
you smiled faintly at that before speaking.
“have you ever loved someone for so long that you forgot how to stop?” you said unknowingly
neteyam forgot how breathing worked. his entire body went still. because yes. yes. every. day. he looked at you carefully. you were still focused on the bracelet, not seeing the war currently happening inside him.
“yeah,” he said eventually, voice rougher than intended.
your fingers paused.
“what did you do?”
he almost laughed at the cruelty of eywa sometimes.
what did he do?
he loved quietly. patiently. hopelessly.
he stood beside you while you loved someone else. he accepted whatever scraps of closeness he could have and thanked the universe for them. he watched you ache over another person while pretending it did not kill him too.
instead he simply said “i waited.”
your expression softened sadly.
“did it work?”
neteyam looked at you for a very long time. then he smiled. small. tired.
“i guess i’m still waiting.”
something shifted in your face then, something he could not fully read. before either of you could say anything else, voices rose louder near the water.
lo’ak.
arguing with tsireya.
not screaming.
but sharp enough that nearby conversations had started quieting. you turned automatically toward the sound. so did neteyam. lo’ak stood tense, frustration written all over him while tsireya had her arms crossed loosely under her chest.
“i said i’m sorry” lo’ak snapped.
“you keep saying that,” tsireya said back softly like the girl she was.
“but you do not mean it if nothing changes.”
neteyam watched your face carefully. the hurt there surprised him, not jealousy, something sadder. because even now, part of you still cared whether lo’ak was happy. tsireya noticed you nearby first. her expression shifted immediately. understanding flashing across her face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. because unlike lo’ak, tsireya was observant. she saw everything. and suddenly neteyam wondered how long she had known. lo’ak followed her gaze, saw you sitting beside neteyam, and froze.
the look on his face was immediate.
raw.
jealous.
it shocked all of you equally, judging by how quickly his expression changed after realizing it had shown.
too late.
you stared at him.
confused, hurt. hopeful in the worst way. neteyam felt something cold settle inside his stomach. because suddenly lo’ak looked exactly like someone realizing too late that he was losing something. tsireya saw it too, that part was obvious
her face went very still.
she looked at lo’ak for a long moment before quietly saying “oh.”
lo’ak looked away first, coward. tsireya nodded once to herself. small. sad. then she walked away. neteyam felt something deep in his chest, understanding. the art of accepting that you’re loving someone who loves someone else. lo’ak made no move to follow her. instead his eyes stayed fixed on you. and neteyam finally understood. lo’ak did care about tsireya. probably genuinely, but not enough. just like he did with you. because if he had loved her fully, he would not be looking at you like the ground had disappeared beneath him.
you stood abruptly.
“i should go help kiri.”
neteyam knew that excuse was nonsense. still, he nodded immediately.
“okay.”
you avoided looking at lo’ak entirely while leaving. lo’ak watched you go with an expression neteyam had never seen on his brother before.
panic.
later that night, lo’ak found him alone near the water. neteyam knew he would.
“you like her.”
straight to the throat, apparently. neteyam looked up slowly from where he sat sharpening a knife.
“that’s your opening line?”
“answer me.”
there was something frantic beneath lo’ak’s anger. something unstable. neteyam suddenly felt exhausted.
“does it matter?” he said annoyed and breathless
“yes.”
“why?”
lo’ak’s mouth got stuck in his throat. because there it was again. that question. why.
why did it matter now?
why now, after months of neglecting you while expecting you to remain his anyway?
lo’ak’s jaw tightened.
“because she likes you.”
neteyam stared at him for a long moment. then shook his head once.
“no.” he said quietly. “she doesn’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
except he did. he knew every look you gave him. every touch. every smile. you loved him deeply, yes, but not like that. not yet. maybe not ever.
“she loves you” neteyam said finally.
lo’ak looked away, guilt immediately flooding his expression again. neteyam was starting to hate that look.
“i know.”
“do you?”
that made lo’ak snap his gaze back toward him.
“what’s that supposed to mean?”
neteyam stood slowly. taller. calmer. dangerous in a completely different way than lo’ak ever was.
“it means she spent months waiting for you while you ran after someone else. you take it for granted.”
lo’ak’s face hardened immediately.
“i wasn’t-”
“you were.”
silence. waves crashed softly nearby.
“she looked at you like you were everything.” neteyam continued quietly “and you treated her like she would wait forever.”
“i never asked her to.”
“you didn’t have to!” he snapped
lo’ak flinched
good.
neteyam almost hated himself for thinking that too.
“i care about her” lo’ak muttered.
“that is not enough”
“you think i don’t know that?”
anger cracked through his voice now. real anger. real confusion.
“then what do you want me to say, neteyam? i tried with tsireya. i really tried.” he says, his voice cracking mid sentence
neteyam stared at his brother carefully
“but?”
lo’ak’s face twisted with frustration
“but every time something happened, every time i got hurt or scared or happy or anything, she was the person i wanted first.”
neteyam’s chest tightened painfully. because he understood that feeling too well. lo’ak laughed bitterly, rubbing both hands down his face.
“and now she barely even looks at me anymore.”
“because you hurt her! you treat her like shit! you hold her back!”
“i know!”
the words exploded out of him.
then quieter, broken almost “i know.”
for a long moment neither spoke.
finally neteyam said softly “tsireya deserves better too.”
lo’ak looked physically ill at that. because he knew. eywa, he knew.
“i didn’t mean for this to happen”
“that does not change it.”
lo’ak looked out toward the dark water.
“do you love her?”
neteyam closed his eyes briefly, there was no point lying anymore.
“yes.”
his brother nodded slowly like the answer hurt. maybe it did. yeah, it did.
“since when?”
neteyam almost laughed. since forever. since childhood. since scraped knees and tangled braids and watching you fall asleep against him during storms.
instead he simply said, “a long time.”
lo’ak looked back at him then. really looked at him. and for the first time, understanding fully settled between them. all those years. all those moments. neteyam had loved you silently through all of it. his brother swallowed hard.
“why didn’t you say anything?”
because you loved him. because neteyam loved his brother too. because sometimes loving someone meant stepping aside even when it destroyed you.
“it didn’t matter” he answered quietly.
lo’ak’s eyes dropped toward the ground. and for the first time in his life, neteyam thought his brother might finally understand what it felt like to lose something before realizing how much it mattered.
you cried that night, quietly, face buried into your arms so nobody would hear. because seeing lo’ak look jealous should have made you happy. instead it only made everything worse, because now you knew. he did care, just not enough. if he loved you fully, there would never have been a tsireya in the first place. you were tired of everything, tired of half-love, tired of hoping. and somewhere in the middle of all that grief, another realization sat gently beside it.
neteyam had waited with you. not literally, but somehow emotionally. he understood things nobody else did, he noticed when you went quiet, he listened carefully when you spoke, he looked at you like your words mattered before you even finished saying them. and worst of all, being around him felt easy in a way that terrified you. because you could breathe around neteyam. you never had to chase his attention. you never had to wonder whether he saw you. he always did. that should not have mattered so much. but it did. and somewhere deep inside yourself, something small and wounded began turning toward warmth after being cold for far too long. even if you were still too afraid to call it hope.
part two: evergreen part three: evergreen part four: evergreen
summary: lo’ak and reader grew up close, but what happens when you guys move to awa’atlu and he meets someone new?
warnings: angst with no comfort, reader being replaced, no happy ending, brief mentions of a cut/blood
paring: lo’ak x fem!reader
wc: not sureee
a/n: this is my first fanfic, so tips are appreciated! i listened to evergreen on repeat while writing this
lo’ak’s mom, neytiri and ur own mom have always been close. so when neytiri found out she was pregnant at the same time as her good friend, no one doubted you two would be friends.
you two got into trouble together, bathed together, took naps together, so when lo’ak started acting cold towards you, it was a shock for everyone. especially you
years later when the sky people came back for war, ur parents passed away. the sully’s let you live with them and your friendship with lo’ak sparked even more. yes, you were close with neteyam, kiri, spider and tuk too, but since you and lo’ak are about the same age, you preferred hanging out with him
fast forward to some months ago, you had to move away to awa’atlu to seek uturu with the sully’s
it was harsh on you all, but especially you and lo’ak
it didn’t help that you had aonung as teacher, while lo’ak had tsireya. tsireya was patient with lo’ak and the rest of you, but aonung on the other hand was quite the opposite
lo’ak slowly made progress, while you were just stuck, getting more frustrated by each passing day. and the cherry on top was that lo’ak, the boy you’ve loved since forever, was slowly but surely replacing u with tsireya. well, it’s not a shock, she’s all nice, gentle, loving and caring, while your just, there.
lo’ak keeps “forgetting” plans he had with you, just for you to find him hanging out with her, tsireya
you tell yourself “he probably got caught up in something” or “maybe he asked for a longer lesson?” but you know that’s not the real reason behind it.
so after he’s cancelled for, what the fifth or sixth time? it starts settling in. you start to avoid him, not entirely but enough so he knows he’s done something, and one day you find yourself sitting against a tree, hugging your knees not realising he’s walking towards you.
“hey” he says, dropping down beside you. “where have you been? i barley see you around anymore” he says softly
“i’ve been busy” u say, a bit too fast
“with what?” he says after some moments of quietness
“weaving, preparing food, learning how to heal with these new herbs and pastes.”
“i don’t see you at training either, have u given up?” he jokes, nudging ur shoulder. but you just let out a silent laugh, looking out towards the beautiful sea of awa’atlu.
“no, i just changed my schedule due to my other training”
“other training?”
“yeah, my healers training? i’ve talked about it quite a lot lately” you say a bit sharply, you both know he’s been with tsireya or just not payed attention when you were with him, but u still said it.
after some moments of quietness, he turns his face towards yours, and points out the elephant in the room “your mad at me.”
you let out a silent laugh. “you say that like it surprises you.” you say, still looking out towards the water
“a little.”
“i waited for you yesterday. not just yesterday, all the other times too.”
his expression shifted immediately. guilt flashed across his face.
“right,” he said. “yeah.”
“yeah.”
he rubbed the back of his neck.
“i got distracted.”
you turned to look at him then, and there he was. messy hair still damp from the rain that fell down from the sky earlier, that stupid mouth you had kissed in your imagination more times than you would ever admit, those eyes that always looked like they knew more than they said.
it would’ve been way easier if he was ugly.
“by tsireya.” you said, quieter than you expected
he looked away.
and somehow, that silence was worse than if he had just said yes.
because if there had been some explanation, some reason, maybe you could have kept pretending. but silence meant truth.
“it wasn’t like that,” he finally said.
you laughed, but there was no humor in it.
“then tell me what it was like.”
he opened his mouth.
closed it.
looked back at the ocean instead of at you.
and there it was again.
that awful silence.
you had started to think silence was his real answer to everything.
because if he had something comforting to say, something honest and good, surely he would say it. surely he would not sit there looking guilty while you sat beside him trying not to feel pathetic.
your throat tightened.
“do you know what the worst part is?” you said
after some seconds of quiet, he asks “what?”
his voice was quieter now.
“i keep making excuses for you before you even ask for them.”
you looked down at your lap, fidgeting with your song chord.
“i tell myself you’re busy. i tell myself you didn’t mean to leave me waiting. i tell myself i’m being dramatic, that maybe i’m expecting too much, that maybe love is supposed to feel like this. maybe loving someone means being patient. maybe if i just keep being patient long enough, one day you’ll wake up and realize i was worth choosing.”
the words sat heavy between you.
when you finally looked at him, his face had gone still.
not angry.
not defensive.
just guilty.
again.
always guilty.
never what you actually wanted.
“don’t,” you said softly.
he frowned. “don’t what?”
“look at me like that.”
“like what?”
“like i’m something sad.”
his jaw tightened.
“that’s not fair.”
you nodded once.
“no. it really isn’t.”
for a moment, neither of you spoke.
the wind moved between you, cool against your skin.
you could feel your heart beating too fast, because once you said it, once you let yourself be honest, there was no going back to pretending everything was fine.
and a part of you still wanted to.
a part of you still wanted him to interrupt you. to tell you you were wrong. to tell you he loved you and had just been too stupid to say it.
instead, he just sat there.
so you kept going.
“i think i’ve spent a long time loving you in ways you never asked for.”
“don’t say that.”
“why not? it’s true.”
“because you’re making it sound like i used you.”
“you didn’t,” you said quickly, because that part mattered. “you didn’t. you were never cruel, lo’ak. that’s the problem.”
your voice cracked despite yourself.
“if you had been cruel, i would have left. if you had told me clearly that i meant nothing, i would have hated you and moved on. but instead, you were kind. and close. and just careful enough to keep me hoping.”
“i care about you.” his voice came out rough
and there it was.
the sentence that had kept you trapped for months.
because yes, he cared.
you knew that.
you had built entire dreams around that fact.
but caring and choosing were not the same thing.
you looked at him for a long moment.
“i know you do.”
“then why are we talking like this?”
your eyes stung.
“because i think i come second to everyone.”
he stood so suddenly it startled you.
“that’s not true.”
you stood too, because sitting there suddenly felt like being too exposed.
“isn’t it?”
“no.”
“then why does it always feel like i’m waiting for you to look back at me while you’re already running toward someone else?”
his frustration flashed.
“because not everything is about choosing between people.”
“isn’t it?”
“no.”
“then why,” you asked, your voice breaking despite how hard you tried to hold it steady, “do i always feel like i’m losing to tsireya?”
that made him freeze.
and immediately, you hated yourself for saying it.
because it was not tsireya’s fault.
she was kind. she was good. she had never done anything except exist beautifully and effortlessly in a way that made everything harder.
this was not about jealousy.
it was about being tired of standing next to someone and feeling invisible.
he looked at you like he wanted to fix it and did not know how.
that somehow hurt most of all.
because if he had an answer, he would have said it.
instead, there was only silence.
again.
you nodded slowly, because there it was.
the truth.
plain and ugly.
“that’s what i thought.”
you turned to leave, because staying any longer felt like begging.
his hand caught your wrist before you got far.
gentle.
careful.
if he held on harder, you might’ve just stayed.
“don’t do that,” he said quietly.
you looked down at his hand around your wrist, then back at him.
“do what?”
your voice came out softer than you meant it to.
“walk away like that.”
“why?”
he froze.
because that was the question, wasn’t it.
if he had said stay, if he had said because i love you, if he had said because i cannot stand the thought of losing you, maybe you would have stayed.
you would have stayed for almost anything.
instead, he said nothing.
slowly, you pulled your wrist free.
“that’s why.”
and then you walked away.
for the next few weeks, you became very good at pretending.
you smiled when people expected it. you helped with chores, joined conversations, laughed at jokes, and acted like there was not a constant ache sitting quietly beneath your ribs.
you avoided lo’ak with the kind of determination usually reserved for survival.
if he came toward you, suddenly you were needed somewhere else.
it was childish, maybe.
but if you let him close again, you were afraid you would do what you always did.
forgive too quickly.
accept too little.
take scraps and call it love because they came from hands you adored.
you refused to do that to yourself again.
except the truth was, even while you were avoiding him, some stupid hopeful part of you kept waiting for things to go back to normal.
you kept thinking maybe he would show up one night and finally say the right thing.
maybe he would decide.
maybe he would miss you enough.
maybe this distance would make him realize what you had been to him.
it was embarrassing how badly you wanted that.
how badly you still wanted him.
you hated that love did not disappear just because you finally admitted it was hurting you.
a hunting group had been gone longer than expected, and by the time word spread that rough waters had delayed them, half the village was already waiting by the shore.
you told yourself you were only there because everyone else was.
that was a lie.
when they finally returned, the beach erupted into movement. voices, rushing feet, healers moving quickly, families searching faces.
you found him immediately.
of course you did.
a cut along his shoulder. blood drying against his skin. tired, but standing.
before you could stop yourself, you were already moving toward him.
and for one stupid, hopeful second, he looked up and saw you.
your eyes met.
everything in you reached for him.
and then tsireya got there first.
she threw her arms around him without hesitation, relief written all over her face, and he held her back just as quickly.
tight.
instinctive.
easy.
like there had never been another choice.
you stopped walking.
it was such a small thing.
such a normal thing.
there was nothing wrong with it.
but in that moment, everything became painfully clear.
because love lived in instinct.
in who you reached for first.
in whose name your body knew before your mind did.
and it had never been you.
he looked over her shoulder and saw you standing there.
his expression changed immediately.
guilt.
again,
not relief.
not longing.
not surprise.
just guilt.
like he already knew exactly what that moment looked like from where you stood.
you looked down to the ground, nodded to yourself, and you stepped back.
then turned and walked away before anyone could stop you.
this time, you did not wait for him to follow.
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