Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)
Summary:
A collection of supplemental material, articles, flashbacks, alternate POVs, transcripts, messages, and narrative fragments from the System Failure universe.
Basically: deleted scenes, unhinged transcripts and bonus lore. Aka the Patch Notes.
Warnings and Notes: This isn't required reading. It's just Bonus content. Thought it would be fun! Jack Wolff's favourite person is his big sister.
As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble
***
Jack Wolff did not remember deciding Ana was his favourite person.
Mama was Mama, which meant she lived in a separate category entirely. Mama knew where everything was. Mama smelled like nice soap and wind and the good jumpers. Mama could make his whole body feel less buzzy just by putting a hand on the back of his head. Mama was not a person in the ranking. Mama was the place the ranking lived.
Papa was Papa. Papa was loud even when he was trying not to be loud. He gave the best hugs because he was very tall and warm and made Jack feel like he was being folded inside a coat. He also said “no” to very reasonable experiments, which Jack thought counted against him.
Rosa was Rosa.
Benedict was Benedict.
But Ana… Ana was his favourite.
It was simply one of the first facts of the world.
The sky was up. Cars were loud. Mama smelled like nice shampoo. Papa’s hands were very big. Toast was better when cut into triangles.
And Ana was the best.
This was not, in Jack’s opinion, complicated.
Adults made many things complicated. They used too many words and asked questions they already knew the answers to. They said things like maybe later when they meant no, and we’ll see when they meant please stop asking before I lose my mind. They smiled in a strange way sometimes, with their mouths doing one thing and their eyes doing another, which Jack found confusing and dishonest.
Ana did not do that.
Ana said yes when she meant yes. Ana said no when she meant no.
Ana said, “I don’t know,” if she didn’t know, which Jack liked very much because most grown-ups acted like not knowing was a dangerous animal that had to be hidden under a blanket.
Jack could not remember meeting Ana.
Mama told him she had come to Switzerland when he was very tiny, when he had still been a red and angry potato-baby, and she had held him like he was something breakable and important. There were pictures of it. Ana sitting in a chair with her shoulders very straight, looking down at him with a serious expression while Papa stood nearby looking like he might cry and Mama looked tired and happy.
In the picture, Ana did not look like people usually looked at babies.
Other people made silly faces. They smiled too much. They spoke in squeaky voices and said things like aren’t you precious, which Jack, when he saw people do it to other babies, found deeply embarrassing for everyone involved.
Ana looked at him like he was a question.
Jack liked that.
Even before he knew why.
***
By the time Jack was old enough to have memories that stayed, Ana was simply there.
Not always. She did not live with them all the time. Sometimes she was at Cambridge. Sometimes she was in Brackley. Sometimes she was in Monaco or Singapore or China or somewhere else grown-ups went when they had important jobs and laptops. But she came back.
That was one of the most important things about Ana.
She always came back.
Jack did not have the words for why that mattered when he was small.
He only knew that some grown-ups appeared and disappeared and expected you to be happy whenever they decided to re-enter the room.
Ana was not like that. Ana sent messages. Ana remembered. Ana arrived when she said she would arrive, unless there was a flight delay, and then she explained that the delay was caused by weather or technical checks or airport incompetence, depending on how annoyed she was.
Jack liked explanations. Ana gave him explanations.
That was probably where it started.
When Jack was two, he had discovered the word why and found it much more useful than almost every other word available to him.
“Why is the sky blue?”
“Because molecules in the air scatter shorter blue wavelengths of sunlight more than longer red wavelengths,” Ana said.
Jack had blinked at her.
Papa had made a noise like he was in pain. Mama had said, “Ana, darling, he is two.”
Ana had paused. Then she had looked back at Jack and said, “Because light bumps into the air in a way that makes blue easier for us to see.”
Jack had considered this.
Then he had asked, “Why?”
And Ana had answered again.
That was the magic of Ana.
She answered again.
She did not say, “Because I said so.”
She did not say, “That’s just how it is.”
She did not say, “Ask Papa,” unless she genuinely thought Papa knew the answer better, which usually meant why grown men shouted at televisions during football.
Ana treated his questions like they mattered.
Sometimes she looked things up. Sometimes she drew diagrams.
Once she spent twenty minutes explaining buoyancy using a bowl of soup and several dinner rolls.
(Jack still wasn't entirely sure what buoyancy was, but he appreciated the effort.)
Ana never acted like children were stupid.
Other adults did. They simplified everything.
Ana didn't. If he asked a complicated question, she gave a complicated answer.
She just explained it. Like Jack was capable of understanding. Which made him want to understand.
***
Ana also built things.
This was extremely important. Because Ana could make anything.
( Not literally. But almost.)
Computer programs. Apps. Little robots. Systems. Charts. Models.
One time she made him a treasure hunt that involved QR codes, hidden clues, and a spreadsheet.
It was the greatest day of his life.
Mama had said, "Ana, he's six."
And Ana looked genuinely confused: "The clues were age-appropriate."
"They required Excel."
"Basic Excel."
Jack had been very proud of himself for solving it, even though Ana later admitted she had “adjusted the difficulty curve in real time,” which sounded like cheating but apparently was not.
Ana built him an Advent calendar every year.
Not a shop one. A real one.
It had little pockets and numbers and tiny things inside chosen only for him. Not things for a general child. Things for Jack.
A wooden fox because he had liked foxes that year. A small blue car because it matched Papa’s old car from a photograph. A tiny magnifying glass because Jack had been collecting leaves and saying he was doing “important looking.”
Each pocket proved Ana had remembered something.
Jack did not think of it that way at first.
He just thought Ana was magic.
When he got older, he knew it was not magic. It was better than magic. It was attention.
Ana paid attention like it was her job.
She knew he disliked bananas with brown spots but liked banana bread because “texture transformation changed the category.”
She knew the exact dinosaur he meant when he said “the one with the head bump.”
She knew he did not like loud restaurants unless he sat near a wall.
She knew he liked being told the plan before they went somewhere.
She knew he liked pressing lift buttons but not if there were too many people watching.
She knew the difference between Jack being naughty and Jack being overwhelmed.
That was a very important difference. Some adults did not understand it.
Papa tried, but Papa was Papa, and sometimes Papa’s face got too big with worry and made things worse by accident.
Mama understood very well, because Mama understood feelings in a way that made Jack think she had secret maps.
But Ana understood the inside of it. The structure. The place where too much sound or too many lights or too many people made the whole world feel scratchy.
Once, at a race, Jack had got stuck.
That was what he called it later. Stuck.
There were too many people in hospitality, oo many voices, too many smells, and somebody laughed very loudly behind him and his skin went wrong. He couldn’t make words come out properly. The whole room became too bright.
Then Ana appeared.
She did not say, “What’s wrong?”
That was a bad question because if Jack had known what was wrong, he would have said it already.
She crouched in front of him, not touching him. “Too much?” she asked.
Jack managed one nod.
Ana took off her own noise-cancelling headphones and put them over his ears.
The world went softer.
Then she held out her hand, palm up.
Not grabbing. Not forcing. Just offering.
Jack took it.
Ana led him through a side corridor, into a smaller room, and sat on the floor with her back against the wall. Jack sat beside her. Not touching at first. Then leaning, slowly, until his shoulder pressed against her arm.
Ana did not make him talk.
She got her phone out and opened an app with stars on it.
For ten minutes, they looked at constellations without saying anything.
Later, Papa came in looking like he wanted to apologise to every molecule in Jack’s body. Mama came too, quieter. Ana looked up at them and said, “He needs eight more minutes.”
Papa opened his mouth. Mama put a hand on his arm. Papa closed his mouth.
Jack loved Mama for that.
He loved Ana for knowing the number. Eight minutes was much better than “a little while.”
A little while could be anything. Eight minutes was eight minutes.
Ana understood numbers. Ana understood quiet.
Ana had not pretended that all was well.
Grown-ups pretended a lot. Jack noticed that before he knew how to explain it. They said “maybe” when they meant no. They said “in a minute” when they meant please forget. Ana did not do that.
If Ana did not know, she said, “I don’t know.”
If Ana did not want to do something, she said, “No.”
If something hurt, she said, “That is painful.”
If Jack asked a question at a bad time, she said, “I can answer in twenty minutes.”
And then, twenty minutes later, she answered.
***
Ana fixed everything.
Ana fixed his toys when they broke, if they could be fixed. She fixed the settings on his tablet when the sound was too loud. She fixed Papa’s phone once while Papa stood there looking personally insulted by technology. She fixed a wobbly chair at Granny and Grandpa’s house in Scotland with tools and a scary little frown.
She also fixed feelings sometimes.
Not in the way Mama did, with soft words and warm arms. Not in the way Papa did, with promises and the sudden appearance of ice cream.
Ana fixed feelings by making them make sense.
When Jack was four and had cried because one of his toy cars broke, he expected her to say it was only a toy.
Some adults did that. Jack hated that.
Only a toy was a stupid thing to say. If it was only a toy, then why had his heart hurt so much?
Ana had picked up the broken car, examined it, and then sat down beside him on the floor. “You are sad because it mattered to you,” she said.
Jack sniffed. “It broke.”
“Yes.”
“I loved it.”
“I know.”
“It’s just a car,” he whispered, because he had heard adults say that and thought maybe he was supposed to say it too.
Ana looked at him then, very seriously.
“No,” she said. “It is a car you loved.”
And Jack had cried harder after that, but better somehow. Like the crying was allowed to exist now because Ana had given it a proper place.
She could not fix the car.
She tried. Jack knew she tried because she got out a very small screwdriver and made the face she made when she wanted reality to obey.
But the plastic axle was snapped.
So Ana did something else.
She built the car a tiny stand and wrote its name on a piece of card.
“Museum,” Jack said, delighted through his tears.
“Yes,” Ana said. “A display vehicle.”
***
Ana talked to him like he was a person. Not a baby. Not an inconvenience. A person.
Small, yes. But real.
That was the difference.
When he was four, he asked her if engines had feelings.
They were in Papa’s garage, and Jack was not supposed to touch anything without asking, so he had both hands clasped behind his back like Grandpa John had taught him.
Ana was leaning over something metal with a frown on her face. “No,” she said.
Jack considered this. “Why not?”
“Because feelings require a nervous system.”
“Cars have wires.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“But they make sounds when they are sad.”
Ana looked up. “What sound?”
Jack made a horrible grinding noise with his mouth.
Ana’s eyebrows drew together. “That would not be sadness. That would be mechanical failure.”
Jack nodded, satisfied.
Then Ana added, “But people can assign feelings to machines. That’s called anthropomorphism.”
“Anthro—pom—”
“Anthropomorphism.”
“Anthro-pom-or-fism.”
“Close.”
“Does Papa do that?”
“Yes.”
***
Once Ana cut her finger in Grandpa John’s garage in Scotland.
Jack remembered that too.
There was a lot of blood. Not horror-movie blood, but enough that Mama’s voice got very calm in a way that meant something was very wrong.
Ana looked annoyed, mostly.
Grandpa John looked like he might cry, which was strange because Grandpa John did not cry, he just said things like “aye, well” and “that’ll do.”
Jack held Mama’s bag in A&E because Mama said he needed a job.
He took the job very seriously.
Ana sat beside him with her hand wrapped in a towel, jaw tight, looking at the wall.
“Does it hurt?” Jack asked.
“Yes,” Ana said.
“How much?”
“Enough.”
“Are they going to fix your finger?”
Ana looked at him then.
For a second, he worried he had said it wrong.
Then her mouth moved. Not all the way into a smile, because Ana’s smiles were rare and small and had to be earned, but enough.
“Yes,” she said. “They are going to fix my finger.”
Jack patted her arm very carefully, because Mama had said Ana did not always like touch, especially when she was hurt.
Ana did not pull away. So Jack stayed.
Later Papa called and sounded worried and bossy, and Ana talked to him in her sharp voice.
Jack liked Ana’s sharp voice.
Other people sometimes thought it meant she was angry, but Jack knew better. Sometimes it meant angry, yes. But sometimes it meant scared. Sometimes tired. Sometimes too many feelings at once and she had put them all into one straight line so they could get out.
Jack understood that.
He did it too sometimes, except his came out as shouting.
Ana never minded when he shouted by accident.
She only said, “Too loud. Try again.”
Not stop. Try again.
***
Ana did not lie.
Ana did not laugh when he was serious.
Ana did not tell him to hug people when he didn’t want to.
Ana did not touch his hair without asking.
Ana did not make him eat peas after he told her they popped wrong in his mouth. Ana said that was a sensory issue and gave him cucumber instead.
Ana knew lots of things that helped Jack understand himself before he even realised he needed understanding.
Jack did not have the words for it until he was older.
But even very young, he knew that Ana was different with him.
Not softer exactly, though sometimes she was soft.
Not in the way Mama was soft, with hugs and kisses and hands smoothing his hair. Ana’s softness was quieter.
A cup of water placed beside him before he realised he was thirsty.
A jacket zipped up when wind came through.
Noise-cancelling headphones appearing in his backpack before a long flight.
The exact dinosaur stickers he liked waiting for him after a doctor’s appointment because she had remembered the pteranodon phase, which was different from the triceratops phase and not to be confused with the mosasaurus week.
Ana’s love was specific. Jack thought specific love was the best kind.
Anybody could say they loved you. Ana remembered the way.
He also knew, though nobody told him, that Ana did not love easily. Not because she didn’t want to.
Because it cost her something.
Jack could see it sometimes when other people tried to hug her too fast, or asked too many questions, or spoke loudly when she was already tired. He could see her go still, like a cat deciding whether to run. He could see her face become smooth and blank. He could see adults miss it completely.
Jack did not miss it.
He learned Ana’s rules because Ana learned his.
No surprise hugs.
Ask first if she was working.
Do not touch her when she was wearing headphones.
Do not shout near her ear unless there was actual danger.
If she said, “Not now, Jack,” it did not mean “I don’t love you.” It meant not now.
When he was smaller, not now had sometimes felt like no forever. But Ana always came back. Maybe five minutes later. Maybe after a call. Maybe after she had finished typing the thing that made her forehead crease.
She came back. “I can answer now,” she would say. And then she would.
***
Jack had once asked Mama why Ana always looked surprised when Jack crawled into her lap.
Mama had gone quiet.
Then she said, “I think maybe Ana didn’t have enough people crawl into her lap when she was little.”
This had confused Jack.
“I mean maybe she didn’t always have someone to hold her when she needed it,” Mama said, smiling sadly.
Jack had thought about that for a long time.
Then he had gone to Ana, who was reading on the sofa, and stood beside her knee.
She looked down. “Yes?”
“Can I sit with you?”
Ana blinked.
“You can sit beside me.”
“Can I sit on your lap?”
A tiny pause.
Then Ana shifted the book. “Carefully.”
Jack climbed into her lap with all the carefulness of a child trying very hard not to be a child. Ana went stiff for about three seconds.
Then one arm came around him.
Jack leaned back against her.
Her heart was beating fast. He could hear it.
“You’re warm,” she said after a minute.
“Is that bad?”
“No.”
“Good,” Jack said. “Because you are cold.”
Ana did not answer. But her arm stayed around him.
After that, sometimes, Jack sat on her lap because he wanted to.
Sometimes he sat on her lap because he thought she needed practice.
He was not sure if adults could need practice being loved, but Ana seemed like she did.
So he helped. Ana helped him with things all the time, all the time after all.
***
When Jack asked why Ana did not come to some family dinners, she went quiet.
Then she said, “Because some rooms make me tired before I enter them.”
Jack thought about that.
Then he said, “Like school assembly.”
Ana looked at him.
“Yes,” she said softly. “Like school assembly.”
That was another thing about Ana.
Sometimes Jack said things and her face changed like he had found a secret door.
He did not always know what door.
But he knew to be careful with it.
By the time Jack was old enough to understand family properly, he knew Ana was his sister. But she wasn’t his sister in the same way Rosa and Benedict were her siblings. There was history there, thick and strange, like old dust under a carpet.
Ana did not talk much about it.
Jack did not ask at first.
Then, one day, he did. “Were they nice to you?”
Ana was sitting at the kitchen table, helping him with a model solar system that had become far more accurate than the instructions required.
Her hand stopped. Just for a moment. “Sometimes,” she said.
So Jack decided something.
Not out loud, because some promises were too big for words and he was only a child.
He decided Ana would never be lonely with him.
If he was in a room, she had someone.
Even if he was small.
Even if he could not fix old things.
He could sit beside her.
He could ask before touching.
He could tell her when the room was too loud because sometimes she noticed for him but not for herself.
He could bring her Kinder chocolate because she liked that even though it was cheap and Papa once said, “Really?” and Ana said, “Yes, really,” in the voice that ended conversations.
He could love her in ways that were useful.
Ana liked useful love. Jack understood that better than most adults.
Useful love was not less love.
Useful love was remembering.
Useful love was, “I saved you the quiet seat.”
Useful love was, “This shirt has no itchy tag.”
Useful love was putting a cup of tea beside her laptop and not talking until she looked up.
Useful love was telling her, “You can say no,” even when everyone else thought she already knew that.
Jack thought maybe Ana had spent a long time being useful to other people.
He wanted to be useful back.
***
His favourite thing about Ana, though, was something nobody else seemed to notice. Or maybe they noticed and didn't realise how important it was.
Ana never made him earn her attention.
Never.
Not by being clever. Not by behaving. Not by winning. Not by being impressive. Not by being anything except Jack.
He could tell her he'd built the world's worst Lego tower and she'd be just as interested as if he'd solved a maths problem.
Actually, sometimes more interested. Because she'd ask follow-up questions. Lots of follow-up questions.
One day at school, a teacher asked everyone to write about their hero.
Most kids picked racing drivers. Or footballers. Or superheroes. Jack wrote about Ana.
The teacher had looked surprised. "Your sister?" she'd asked.
Jack had nodded.
"Why?"
And he'd stared at her for a second. Because again. The answer seemed so obvious. "Because she makes things better."
The teacher had smiled.
But Jack wasn't sure she'd understood.
Because adults usually thought heroes were people who saved the world.
Ana probably could save the world if she wanted to. She was certainly smart enough. But that wasn't why.
She made his world better. Which felt more important.
The funniest part was that Ana didn't think she was good with children.
She said this all the time.
Usually while helping him with homework.
Or building something for him.
Or remembering some random thing he'd mentioned six months earlier.
Or explaining how volcanoes worked.
Or making advent calendars for him.
Or sitting through school presentations.
Or showing up to karting races.
Or fixing broken toys.
Or teaching him how to use a soldering iron.
Or answering forty-three consecutive questions.
Apparently, according to Ana, she wasn't good with children.
Jack had once told her this was obviously incorrect.
She'd blinked. Looked genuinely puzzled. And said, "Based on what evidence?"
Jack had stared at her. Then he'd started listing examples.
At number twelve she'd interrupted. "That is anecdotal."
"It still counts."
"It doesn't."
"It does."
Ana had thought about it. Then sighed dramatically. "Fine. It counts a little."
Jack considered this one of his greatest victories.
***
Still, the real reason Ana was his favourite person ever was actually very simple.
Much simpler than adults expected.
When Jack was with Ana, he never felt too much. Or too loud. Or too childish. Or too needy. Or too anything.
He was just Jack.
And Ana, who spent so much of her own life feeling different from everyone else, somehow made everyone around her feel like there was plenty of room to be exactly who they already were.
Jack didn't have words for that yet.
He was only eight.
But he knew what it felt like.
It felt safe.
And maybe that was why, whenever someone asked who his favourite person was, he answered immediately.
Not because she was the smartest. Even though she was.
Not because she built cool things. Even though she did.
Not because she remembered everything. Even though she somehow did.
It was because when Ana walked into a room, Jack always felt a little happier.
And as far as eight-year-old Jack Wolff was concerned, that was a pretty good definition of love.
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Summary: the one where he puts a ring on your finger
Series Masterlist
Sidney has been carrying a ring in his pocket for three days, and he’s starting to think it might burn a hole through his shorts.
The ring box is small, velvet, and currently residing in the right pocket of his linen pants while you’re six feet away, crouched down and cooing at a tabby cat on the cobblestone streets of Folegandros. This is the fourth cat you’ve befriended today — or maybe the fifth, he’s lost count — and watching you baby-talk to a stray while the Aegean Sea sparkles behind you is making his chest feel too tight.
“Sidney, look at her little face,” you call out, glancing back at him with that smile that made him buy the ring in the first place. “She’s so sweet. Do you think she’s hungry?”
“Probably,” he says, even though he has no idea. He’s been to a lot of places, done a lot of things, but Greek island cat behavior was never in his wheelhouse.
You’re already digging through your bag — the woven one you bought in Naxos two days ago — pulling out the bougatsa you’d grabbed at breakfast. You break off a piece and offer it to the cat, who sniffs it suspiciously before accepting.
“Good girl,” you murmur, stroking her sun-warmed fur. “Such a pretty girl.”
Sidney pulls out his phone and takes a photo, adding it to the collection he’s been building all week. You feeding cats. You laughing at a local taverna. You in that white sundress that makes you look like you belong here, among the whitewashed buildings and endless blue. You looking at him like he hung the moon when he surprised you with this trip.
The plan had been simple: skip the tourist traps, rent a yacht, and island-hop through the Cyclades the way normal people can’t. Santorini and Mykonos were beautiful, sure, but they were also Instagram factories, full of influencers and cruise ship crowds. He wanted something real. Something authentic. Something that felt like it belonged to just the two of you.
So he’d hired a captain and a small crew, and for the past week, you’d been sailing from island to island — Naxos, Paros, Antiparos, Koufonisia, and now Folegandros. Small islands. Quiet islands. Islands where locals still outnumbered tourists, where you could walk through villages and actually hear church bells instead of club music.
And watching you fall in love with each one has been the best part of the trip.
You stand up, brushing off your dress, and loop your arm through his. “Thank you for this,” you say, like you have every day. “This whole trip. It’s perfect.”
“You’ve said that about every island,” he points out, amused.
“Because it’s true about every island,” you counter. “How did you even find these places? I’ve never heard of half of them.”
“Research,” he says, which is true. He’d spent weeks reading travel blogs, watching videos, messaging people who’d been to Greece. He’d wanted to get it right.
“Well, you nailed it,” you say, squeezing his arm. “This is the best vacation I’ve ever been on.”
The ring box feels heavier in his pocket.
Tonight, he thinks. It has to be tonight.
He’d been planning to propose since the beginning of the season. Had the ring custom-made six months ago by a jeweler in New York who specialized in unique pieces. Had it designed specifically for you — a blue diamond, because you’d once mentioned in passing that you loved how unusual they were, set in platinum with cathedral details that the jeweler had called “architectural“ and “distinctive.” The kind of ring you could wear every day but that would still make people stop and stare.
He’d been carrying it for three days, looking for the perfect moment, and somehow every moment had felt both perfect and not perfect enough. Sunset in Naxos? Too crowded. That quiet beach in Antiparos? Too isolated. The yacht deck under the stars? Too predictable.
But tonight. Tonight he has a plan.
“Come on,” he says, tugging you gently down the street. “We should get ready for dinner.”
“Where are we going again?” You ask.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, which makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.
“You’ve been very mysterious about tonight,” you observe.
“Have I?” He asks innocently.
“Very,” you confirm. “Should I be worried?”
“Definitely not,” he assures you. “Just trust me.”
“I always trust you,” you say simply, and the ring box burns hotter.
Back on the yacht, you disappear into the cabin to get ready while Sidney checks in with the captain about timing. Dinner reservations are at seven-thirty — he’d made them weeks ago, calling the restaurant directly, explaining in broken English and hand gestures over video chat what he wanted. The owner, an elderly woman named Yiayia Eleni, had been delighted, conspiratorial, promising him the best table and complete discretion.
He showers and changes into the nice shirt he packed specifically for this — white linen, rolled sleeves, paired with his better shorts and the watch you got him for his birthday. He looks at himself in the mirror and takes a breath.
“You’ve played in the Olympics,” he tells his reflection. “You’ve won Stanley Cups. You can propose to your girlfriend.”
His reflection doesn’t look convinced.
When you emerge from the cabin twenty minutes later, his brain stops working entirely.
You’re wearing a dress he’s never seen before — soft blue, the color of the Aegean, with thin straps and a skirt that moves when you walk. Your hair is down, slightly wavy from the sea air, and you’re wearing the delicate gold necklace he bought you in Paros.
“Is this okay?” You ask, suddenly self-conscious. “You said nice restaurant, but I wasn’t sure how nice-”
“You’re perfect,” he interrupts. “You look perfect.”
You smile, pleased, and do a little spin. “I bought it in Naxos. I was saving it for a special occasion.”
“Good instinct,” he manages, and offers his arm.
The restaurant is a ten-minute walk from where the yacht is docked — a small, family-owned place right on the water with only six tables. Yiayia Eleni greets you at the door with enthusiastic cheek kisses and a flood of Greek that neither of you understand but that clearly means “welcome.”
She leads you to a table on the terrace, right at the edge where the stone meets the sea. It’s the best table, separated slightly from the others, with a view of the harbor and the sunset that’s just beginning to paint the sky pink and gold.
“Sidney, this is beautiful,” you breathe, sitting down. “How did you find this place?”
“I have my ways,” he says mysteriously.
Yiayia Eleni returns with wine — local, she explains in careful English, from her son’s vineyard on the island. She pours you each a glass, winks at Sidney in a way that suggests she knows exactly what’s happening tonight, and disappears back into the kitchen.
“She’s adorable,” you say, watching her go. “I love these family places. They have so much character.”
“Better than the tourist traps,” Sidney agrees.
“So much better,” you say. “I mean, I’m sure Santorini is beautiful, but this-” you gesture at the view, the quiet harbor, the locals walking past, “ — this feels real. Like we’re actually experiencing Greece, not just performing it for Instagram.”
“That’s what I was hoping for,” he admits.
You reach across the table and take his hand. “You did good, Crosby. This whole trip. It’s been incredible.”
“Yeah?” He asks, even though you’ve told him this every day.
“The best,” you confirm. “I don’t want it to end.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he says carefully. “We could come back. Make it a regular thing.”
“I’d like that,” you say, smiling. “Annual Greek island trip. I could get behind that tradition.”
The food arrives in waves — Greek salad, grilled octopus, fresh bread with olive oil, moussaka that Yiayia Eleni insists you try. Everything is perfect, simple and fresh and made with obvious care. You moan over the octopus, declare the moussaka life-changing, and insist on trying to learn the Greek words for “thank you” and “delicious.”
Sidney watches you charm Yiayia Eleni’s husband — Papou Pavlos — when he comes out to check on your meal, sees you light up when you successfully communicate that the food is incredible, and feels the ring box pressing against his leg like a heartbeat.
The sun is setting now, turning the sky into a masterpiece of orange and pink and purple. The other diners are focused on their own meals, their own conversations. Yiayia Eleni catches his eye from the doorway and gives him an encouraging nod.
It’s time.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended.
You look up from your wine, smiling. “Hey yourself.”
“I want to tell you something,” he starts, and watches your expression shift from casual to attentive.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “Should I be worried? You look very serious suddenly.”
“Not worried,” he assures you. “Just give me a second. I’ve been planning what to say for weeks and now I’m blanking.”
“Planning what to say about what?” You ask, but there’s something in your eyes now, a dawning realization.
Sidney stands up, his chair scraping against the stone, and your eyes go wide.
“Sidney-” you start.
“Let me say this,” he interrupts gently, moving around the table. “Please. I need to say this.”
He drops to one knee beside your chair, and you make a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“I had a whole speech planned,” he admits, pulling the ring box from his pocket. “I’ve been rehearsing it for days. But now I’m looking at you and I can’t remember any of it.”
“That’s okay,” you say, and your eyes are already shining with tears. “You don’t need a speech.”
“I do though,” he insists. “Because you need to understand—you need to know what you mean to me.”
He takes a breath, and the words start coming.
“I’ve been playing hockey since I was three years old,” he says. “My whole life has been about the game. About training and winning and being the best. And I love it. I love hockey. But you-” his voice catches. “You made me realize that there’s more to life than the game.”
You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face, but you’re smiling.
“You made me want things I didn’t think I wanted,” he continues. “A home that’s actually a home, not just a place I sleep between road trips. Lazy mornings and inside jokes and someone who calls me out when I’m being too intense about game film.”
You laugh through your tears. “You are too intense about game film.”
“I know,” he says, smiling. “And you’re the only person who can tell me that and make me actually listen.”
He opens the ring box, and your hand flies to your mouth.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Sidney, that’s-”
“I had it made for you,” he explains. “The blue diamond because you said you loved them. The cathedral setting because you’re always talking about architecture when we travel. I wanted it to be unique. Like you.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whisper.
“This whole trip,” he continues, “watching you fall in love with these islands, seeing you feed every cat we encounter, listening to you try to learn Greek from the locals — I’ve been falling more in love with you every single day. Which I didn’t think was possible because I was already so gone for you.”
“Sid,” you say, your voice breaking.
“You’re brilliant and funny and kind,” he says. “You’re going to finish your PhD and do incredible things and change the world with your research. And I want to be there for all of it. I want to watch you defend your dissertation and get your first academic job and publish your first book. I want to support you the way you support me.”
“You already do,” you manage.
“I want to come home to you every night,” he continues. “I want to travel the world with you. I want to have babies with you — when you’re ready — and build a family. I want to grow old with you and still be feeding Greek cats when we’re seventy.”
You’re fully sobbing now, and so is Yiayia Eleni, who’s appeared in the doorway with a handkerchief.
“You’re my home,” Sidney says, and his own voice is unsteady now. “You’re my family. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed and everything I can’t imagine living without. And I know I’m older than you, and I’m gone a lot, and my life is complicated, but-”
“Sidney,” you interrupt, your hand on his face. “Ask me. Please just ask me.”
He takes a shaky breath. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, emphatically. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”
He barely gets the ring out of the box before you’re pulling him up, kissing him with tears streaming down both your faces. He manages to slip the ring onto your finger between kisses, and it fits perfectly — of course it does, he had your ring size memorized from that time you tried on rings at a vintage store in Pittsburgh.
When you finally pull back to look at it, you make a sound that’s pure joy.
“Sidney, this is—I can’t even-” You turn your hand, watching the blue diamond catch the last of the sunset. “How did you design this? It’s perfect. The cathedral setting, the way the band has these details — it’s like it was made specifically for me.”
“It was,” he confirms. “Every part of it. I wanted you to have something no one else has.”
“Mission accomplished,” you say, kissing him again. “I can’t believe you did this. Here, on this perfect trip, at this perfect restaurant-”
“I wanted it to be special,” he says.
“It’s perfect,” you assure him. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”
Yiayia Eleni appears with champagne that Sidney definitely didn’t order but that she’s clearly been saving for this exact moment. She’s talking rapidly in Greek, gesturing at the ring, at you, at Sidney, and while you can’t understand the words, the meaning is clear: congratulations, how beautiful, how wonderful.
Papou Pavlos appears with a camera, insisting on taking photos. The other diners are applauding. Someone brings out baklava with a candle in it.
“Did you plan all this?” You ask, laughing through tears.
“I planned the proposal,” Sidney admits. “Yiayia Eleni planned the celebration.”
“I love her,” you declare, and Yiayia Eleni, understanding her name if not the words, beams and kisses both your cheeks.
You insist on taking photos of the ring against the sunset, the ring with the harbor in the background, the ring next to your wine glass. Sidney takes a photo of you wearing the ring, your smile brighter than any sunset, and knows he’s going to frame it.
“Call my parents,” you say suddenly. “And yours. We have to tell them.”
“Right now?” He asks, amused.
“Right now,” you insist. “They need to know. Your parents need to know they’re getting a daughter-in-law. My parents need to know they’re getting Sidney Crosby as a son-in-law, which they’re going to lose their minds about.”
“Your dad’s going to make daddy jokes,” Sidney realizes.
“Oh absolutely,” you confirm. “For the rest of your life. You’ve signed up for this.”
“Worth it,” he says, kissing you again.
You make the calls right there at the table, with the Aegean Sea behind you and the ring catching every light. Your mom cries. Your dad says “I knew it” and then makes exactly the joke Sidney predicted about calling him dad. Sidney’s mom cries too, and his dad gives him a gruff congratulations that sounds suspiciously emotional.
Your brother demands photos of the ring immediately and then sends back a string of all-caps messages about how Sidney BETTER TREAT HIS SISTER RIGHT OR ELSE.
“He’s twenty-one,” you point out, reading the messages. “What’s he going to do?”
“He plays college baseball,” Sidney says. “He could probably do some damage.”
“Fair point,” you concede.
By the time you finish making calls, the sky is fully dark, stars beginning to appear. Yiayia Eleni has brought out more wine, more baklava, and what looks like her entire extended family to congratulate you.
“This is the best day of my life,” you tell Sidney, your hand in his, the ring gleaming in the candlelight.
“Mine too,” he agrees.
“Better than winning the Stanley Cup?” You tease.
“So much better,” he says, and means it. “The Cup doesn’t kiss back.”
You laugh, that sound he loves, and lean your head on his shoulder. “What do we do now?”
“Now,” he says, “we finish our wine, eat more baklava than is advisable, and walk back to the yacht as an engaged couple.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we wake up and you’re still going to be my fiancée,” he says. “And I’m going to make you breakfast and probably stare at you wearing that ring for several hours.”
“Sounds perfect,” you say. “What about after this trip?”
“After this trip, we go home and you finish your PhD,” he says. “And we start planning a wedding. And we build our life together.”
“Our life,” you repeat, testing the words. “I like the sound of that.”
“Me too,” he says.
Yiayia Eleni insists on more photos — of you and Sidney, of the ring, of the whole family together. She makes you promise to send copies, to come back for your anniversary, to name your first daughter Eleni.
“She’s very invested in our future,” you observe as you finally say goodbye.
“She’s been planning this since I called to make the reservation,” Sidney admits. “I think she’s been shopping for your wedding gift.”
“I love her,” you say again. “I love this place. I love this island. I love that this is our story now — how you proposed on a quiet Greek island at a family restaurant while I was still sunburned from feeding cats all day.”
“That’s very on brand for us,” Sidney observes.
“It really is,” you agree.
The walk back to the yacht is quiet, your hand in his, the ring catching the moonlight. Other couples pass by, locals heading home from dinner, and Sidney realizes this is what he wants for the rest of his life. This. You. Quiet walks and shared moments and building something that matters more than hockey ever could.
On the yacht, you insist on modeling the ring in better lighting, taking more photos, sending them to your cohort group chat and watching the messages explode.
The yacht is anchored in the quiet harbor, the island lights twinkling on the shore. You lean against the railing and Sidney wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“I can’t believe I get to marry you,” you murmur.
“I can’t believe you said yes,” he counters.
“Of course I said yes,” you say, turning to face him. “You’re Sidney Crosby. You’re brilliant and kind and you make me laugh and you support my career and you planned this entire perfect trip just to propose to me in the most romantic way possible.”
“When you put it that way, I sound pretty good,” he says, smiling.
“You are pretty good,” you confirm. “Even if you are a dirty old man sometimes.”
“I’m your dirty old man now,” he points out.
“Fiancé,” you correct. “You’re my fiancé. My dirty old fiancé.”
“Even better,” he agrees.
You kiss him under the stars, wearing his ring, and Sidney thinks about how far they’ve come from that charity gala where you argued about hockey statistics. How you’ve gone from the girl who challenged him to the woman he can’t imagine living without.
“I love you,” he says against your lips.
“I love you too,” you say back. “Future husband.”
“Future wife,” he replies, and the words feel right in a way that makes his chest tight.
Later, in the cabin, you insist on sleeping with your left hand on his chest so you can see the ring even in the dark.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says fondly.
“I’m engaged,” you counter. “I’m allowed to be ridiculous about my engagement ring.”
“Fair,” he concedes.
“Tell me again,” you say sleepily. “About the ring. How you designed it.”
“I worked with a jeweler in New York,” he explains, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “Told him I wanted something unique. Something that represented you. He suggested the blue diamond because they’re rare and distinctive. The cathedral setting because of the structural elements, the way it frames the stone. We went through probably twenty designs before we found the right one.”
“It’s perfect,” you murmur. “I’m never taking it off.”
“You’re going to have to,” he points out. “For lab work. Research. When you’re washing dishes.”
“Okay, fine, sometimes I’ll take it off,” you concede. “But I’m going to hate every second of it.”
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I don’t like it,” you correct. “I love it. Just like I love you.”
“Love you too,” he says. “Future Dr. Crosby.”
You make a happy sound. “I didn’t even think about that. I’m going to be Dr. Crosby. That sounds so official.”
“Very official,” he agrees. “Very impressive.”
“Your wife is going to be a doctor,” you say, testing the words. “How does that feel?”
“Like I’m the luckiest man alive,” he says honestly.
You shift to kiss him properly. “We both are. Lucky, I mean.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “We really are.”
You fall asleep like that, engaged and happy and planning a future that feels bigger and brighter than anything Sidney could have imagined.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he’s spent his whole life winning.
But this — you, with his ring on your finger, saying yes to forever — this is the biggest win of all.
Summary: the one where he puts a ring on your finger
Series Masterlist
Sidney has been carrying a ring in his pocket for three days, and he’s starting to think it might burn a hole through his shorts.
The ring box is small, velvet, and currently residing in the right pocket of his linen pants while you’re six feet away, crouched down and cooing at a tabby cat on the cobblestone streets of Folegandros. This is the fourth cat you’ve befriended today — or maybe the fifth, he’s lost count — and watching you baby-talk to a stray while the Aegean Sea sparkles behind you is making his chest feel too tight.
“Sidney, look at her little face,” you call out, glancing back at him with that smile that made him buy the ring in the first place. “She’s so sweet. Do you think she’s hungry?”
“Probably,” he says, even though he has no idea. He’s been to a lot of places, done a lot of things, but Greek island cat behavior was never in his wheelhouse.
You’re already digging through your bag — the woven one you bought in Naxos two days ago — pulling out the bougatsa you’d grabbed at breakfast. You break off a piece and offer it to the cat, who sniffs it suspiciously before accepting.
“Good girl,” you murmur, stroking her sun-warmed fur. “Such a pretty girl.”
Sidney pulls out his phone and takes a photo, adding it to the collection he’s been building all week. You feeding cats. You laughing at a local taverna. You in that white sundress that makes you look like you belong here, among the whitewashed buildings and endless blue. You looking at him like he hung the moon when he surprised you with this trip.
The plan had been simple: skip the tourist traps, rent a yacht, and island-hop through the Cyclades the way normal people can’t. Santorini and Mykonos were beautiful, sure, but they were also Instagram factories, full of influencers and cruise ship crowds. He wanted something real. Something authentic. Something that felt like it belonged to just the two of you.
So he’d hired a captain and a small crew, and for the past week, you’d been sailing from island to island — Naxos, Paros, Antiparos, Koufonisia, and now Folegandros. Small islands. Quiet islands. Islands where locals still outnumbered tourists, where you could walk through villages and actually hear church bells instead of club music.
And watching you fall in love with each one has been the best part of the trip.
You stand up, brushing off your dress, and loop your arm through his. “Thank you for this,” you say, like you have every day. “This whole trip. It’s perfect.”
“You’ve said that about every island,” he points out, amused.
“Because it’s true about every island,” you counter. “How did you even find these places? I’ve never heard of half of them.”
“Research,” he says, which is true. He’d spent weeks reading travel blogs, watching videos, messaging people who’d been to Greece. He’d wanted to get it right.
“Well, you nailed it,” you say, squeezing his arm. “This is the best vacation I’ve ever been on.”
The ring box feels heavier in his pocket.
Tonight, he thinks. It has to be tonight.
He’d been planning to propose since the beginning of the season. Had the ring custom-made six months ago by a jeweler in New York who specialized in unique pieces. Had it designed specifically for you — a blue diamond, because you’d once mentioned in passing that you loved how unusual they were, set in platinum with cathedral details that the jeweler had called “architectural“ and “distinctive.” The kind of ring you could wear every day but that would still make people stop and stare.
He’d been carrying it for three days, looking for the perfect moment, and somehow every moment had felt both perfect and not perfect enough. Sunset in Naxos? Too crowded. That quiet beach in Antiparos? Too isolated. The yacht deck under the stars? Too predictable.
But tonight. Tonight he has a plan.
“Come on,” he says, tugging you gently down the street. “We should get ready for dinner.”
“Where are we going again?” You ask.
“It’s a surprise,” he says, which makes you narrow your eyes suspiciously.
“You’ve been very mysterious about tonight,” you observe.
“Have I?” He asks innocently.
“Very,” you confirm. “Should I be worried?”
“Definitely not,” he assures you. “Just trust me.”
“I always trust you,” you say simply, and the ring box burns hotter.
Back on the yacht, you disappear into the cabin to get ready while Sidney checks in with the captain about timing. Dinner reservations are at seven-thirty — he’d made them weeks ago, calling the restaurant directly, explaining in broken English and hand gestures over video chat what he wanted. The owner, an elderly woman named Yiayia Eleni, had been delighted, conspiratorial, promising him the best table and complete discretion.
He showers and changes into the nice shirt he packed specifically for this — white linen, rolled sleeves, paired with his better shorts and the watch you got him for his birthday. He looks at himself in the mirror and takes a breath.
“You’ve played in the Olympics,” he tells his reflection. “You’ve won Stanley Cups. You can propose to your girlfriend.”
His reflection doesn’t look convinced.
When you emerge from the cabin twenty minutes later, his brain stops working entirely.
You’re wearing a dress he’s never seen before — soft blue, the color of the Aegean, with thin straps and a skirt that moves when you walk. Your hair is down, slightly wavy from the sea air, and you’re wearing the delicate gold necklace he bought you in Paros.
“Is this okay?” You ask, suddenly self-conscious. “You said nice restaurant, but I wasn’t sure how nice-”
“You’re perfect,” he interrupts. “You look perfect.”
You smile, pleased, and do a little spin. “I bought it in Naxos. I was saving it for a special occasion.”
“Good instinct,” he manages, and offers his arm.
The restaurant is a ten-minute walk from where the yacht is docked — a small, family-owned place right on the water with only six tables. Yiayia Eleni greets you at the door with enthusiastic cheek kisses and a flood of Greek that neither of you understand but that clearly means “welcome.”
She leads you to a table on the terrace, right at the edge where the stone meets the sea. It’s the best table, separated slightly from the others, with a view of the harbor and the sunset that’s just beginning to paint the sky pink and gold.
“Sidney, this is beautiful,” you breathe, sitting down. “How did you find this place?”
“I have my ways,” he says mysteriously.
Yiayia Eleni returns with wine — local, she explains in careful English, from her son’s vineyard on the island. She pours you each a glass, winks at Sidney in a way that suggests she knows exactly what’s happening tonight, and disappears back into the kitchen.
“She’s adorable,” you say, watching her go. “I love these family places. They have so much character.”
“Better than the tourist traps,” Sidney agrees.
“So much better,” you say. “I mean, I’m sure Santorini is beautiful, but this-” you gesture at the view, the quiet harbor, the locals walking past, “ — this feels real. Like we’re actually experiencing Greece, not just performing it for Instagram.”
“That’s what I was hoping for,” he admits.
You reach across the table and take his hand. “You did good, Crosby. This whole trip. It’s been incredible.”
“Yeah?” He asks, even though you’ve told him this every day.
“The best,” you confirm. “I don’t want it to end.”
“It doesn’t have to,” he says carefully. “We could come back. Make it a regular thing.”
“I’d like that,” you say, smiling. “Annual Greek island trip. I could get behind that tradition.”
The food arrives in waves — Greek salad, grilled octopus, fresh bread with olive oil, moussaka that Yiayia Eleni insists you try. Everything is perfect, simple and fresh and made with obvious care. You moan over the octopus, declare the moussaka life-changing, and insist on trying to learn the Greek words for “thank you” and “delicious.”
Sidney watches you charm Yiayia Eleni’s husband — Papou Pavlos — when he comes out to check on your meal, sees you light up when you successfully communicate that the food is incredible, and feels the ring box pressing against his leg like a heartbeat.
The sun is setting now, turning the sky into a masterpiece of orange and pink and purple. The other diners are focused on their own meals, their own conversations. Yiayia Eleni catches his eye from the doorway and gives him an encouraging nod.
It’s time.
“Hey,” he says, and his voice comes out rougher than intended.
You look up from your wine, smiling. “Hey yourself.”
“I want to tell you something,” he starts, and watches your expression shift from casual to attentive.
“Okay,” you say slowly. “Should I be worried? You look very serious suddenly.”
“Not worried,” he assures you. “Just give me a second. I’ve been planning what to say for weeks and now I’m blanking.”
“Planning what to say about what?” You ask, but there’s something in your eyes now, a dawning realization.
Sidney stands up, his chair scraping against the stone, and your eyes go wide.
“Sidney-” you start.
“Let me say this,” he interrupts gently, moving around the table. “Please. I need to say this.”
He drops to one knee beside your chair, and you make a sound that’s halfway between a gasp and a sob.
“Oh my god,” you whisper.
“I had a whole speech planned,” he admits, pulling the ring box from his pocket. “I’ve been rehearsing it for days. But now I’m looking at you and I can’t remember any of it.”
“That’s okay,” you say, and your eyes are already shining with tears. “You don’t need a speech.”
“I do though,” he insists. “Because you need to understand—you need to know what you mean to me.”
He takes a breath, and the words start coming.
“I’ve been playing hockey since I was three years old,” he says. “My whole life has been about the game. About training and winning and being the best. And I love it. I love hockey. But you-” his voice catches. “You made me realize that there’s more to life than the game.”
You’re crying now, tears streaming down your face, but you’re smiling.
“You made me want things I didn’t think I wanted,” he continues. “A home that’s actually a home, not just a place I sleep between road trips. Lazy mornings and inside jokes and someone who calls me out when I’m being too intense about game film.”
You laugh through your tears. “You are too intense about game film.”
“I know,” he says, smiling. “And you’re the only person who can tell me that and make me actually listen.”
He opens the ring box, and your hand flies to your mouth.
“Oh my god,” you breathe. “Sidney, that’s-”
“I had it made for you,” he explains. “The blue diamond because you said you loved them. The cathedral setting because you’re always talking about architecture when we travel. I wanted it to be unique. Like you.”
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” you whisper.
“This whole trip,” he continues, “watching you fall in love with these islands, seeing you feed every cat we encounter, listening to you try to learn Greek from the locals — I’ve been falling more in love with you every single day. Which I didn’t think was possible because I was already so gone for you.”
“Sid,” you say, your voice breaking.
“You’re brilliant and funny and kind,” he says. “You’re going to finish your PhD and do incredible things and change the world with your research. And I want to be there for all of it. I want to watch you defend your dissertation and get your first academic job and publish your first book. I want to support you the way you support me.”
“You already do,” you manage.
“I want to come home to you every night,” he continues. “I want to travel the world with you. I want to have babies with you — when you’re ready — and build a family. I want to grow old with you and still be feeding Greek cats when we’re seventy.”
You’re fully sobbing now, and so is Yiayia Eleni, who’s appeared in the doorway with a handkerchief.
“You’re my home,” Sidney says, and his own voice is unsteady now. “You’re my family. You’re everything I didn’t know I needed and everything I can’t imagine living without. And I know I’m older than you, and I’m gone a lot, and my life is complicated, but-”
“Sidney,” you interrupt, your hand on his face. “Ask me. Please just ask me.”
He takes a shaky breath. “Will you marry me?”
“Yes,” you say immediately, emphatically. “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes.”
He barely gets the ring out of the box before you’re pulling him up, kissing him with tears streaming down both your faces. He manages to slip the ring onto your finger between kisses, and it fits perfectly — of course it does, he had your ring size memorized from that time you tried on rings at a vintage store in Pittsburgh.
When you finally pull back to look at it, you make a sound that’s pure joy.
“Sidney, this is—I can’t even-” You turn your hand, watching the blue diamond catch the last of the sunset. “How did you design this? It’s perfect. The cathedral setting, the way the band has these details — it’s like it was made specifically for me.”
“It was,” he confirms. “Every part of it. I wanted you to have something no one else has.”
“Mission accomplished,” you say, kissing him again. “I can’t believe you did this. Here, on this perfect trip, at this perfect restaurant-”
“I wanted it to be special,” he says.
“It’s perfect,” you assure him. “You’re perfect. This is perfect.”
Yiayia Eleni appears with champagne that Sidney definitely didn’t order but that she’s clearly been saving for this exact moment. She’s talking rapidly in Greek, gesturing at the ring, at you, at Sidney, and while you can’t understand the words, the meaning is clear: congratulations, how beautiful, how wonderful.
Papou Pavlos appears with a camera, insisting on taking photos. The other diners are applauding. Someone brings out baklava with a candle in it.
“Did you plan all this?” You ask, laughing through tears.
“I planned the proposal,” Sidney admits. “Yiayia Eleni planned the celebration.”
“I love her,” you declare, and Yiayia Eleni, understanding her name if not the words, beams and kisses both your cheeks.
You insist on taking photos of the ring against the sunset, the ring with the harbor in the background, the ring next to your wine glass. Sidney takes a photo of you wearing the ring, your smile brighter than any sunset, and knows he’s going to frame it.
“Call my parents,” you say suddenly. “And yours. We have to tell them.”
“Right now?” He asks, amused.
“Right now,” you insist. “They need to know. Your parents need to know they’re getting a daughter-in-law. My parents need to know they’re getting Sidney Crosby as a son-in-law, which they’re going to lose their minds about.”
“Your dad’s going to make daddy jokes,” Sidney realizes.
“Oh absolutely,” you confirm. “For the rest of your life. You’ve signed up for this.”
“Worth it,” he says, kissing you again.
You make the calls right there at the table, with the Aegean Sea behind you and the ring catching every light. Your mom cries. Your dad says “I knew it” and then makes exactly the joke Sidney predicted about calling him dad. Sidney’s mom cries too, and his dad gives him a gruff congratulations that sounds suspiciously emotional.
Your brother demands photos of the ring immediately and then sends back a string of all-caps messages about how Sidney BETTER TREAT HIS SISTER RIGHT OR ELSE.
“He’s twenty-one,” you point out, reading the messages. “What’s he going to do?”
“He plays college baseball,” Sidney says. “He could probably do some damage.”
“Fair point,” you concede.
By the time you finish making calls, the sky is fully dark, stars beginning to appear. Yiayia Eleni has brought out more wine, more baklava, and what looks like her entire extended family to congratulate you.
“This is the best day of my life,” you tell Sidney, your hand in his, the ring gleaming in the candlelight.
“Mine too,” he agrees.
“Better than winning the Stanley Cup?” You tease.
“So much better,” he says, and means it. “The Cup doesn’t kiss back.”
You laugh, that sound he loves, and lean your head on his shoulder. “What do we do now?”
“Now,” he says, “we finish our wine, eat more baklava than is advisable, and walk back to the yacht as an engaged couple.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow we wake up and you’re still going to be my fiancée,” he says. “And I’m going to make you breakfast and probably stare at you wearing that ring for several hours.”
“Sounds perfect,” you say. “What about after this trip?”
“After this trip, we go home and you finish your PhD,” he says. “And we start planning a wedding. And we build our life together.”
“Our life,” you repeat, testing the words. “I like the sound of that.”
“Me too,” he says.
Yiayia Eleni insists on more photos — of you and Sidney, of the ring, of the whole family together. She makes you promise to send copies, to come back for your anniversary, to name your first daughter Eleni.
“She’s very invested in our future,” you observe as you finally say goodbye.
“She’s been planning this since I called to make the reservation,” Sidney admits. “I think she’s been shopping for your wedding gift.”
“I love her,” you say again. “I love this place. I love this island. I love that this is our story now — how you proposed on a quiet Greek island at a family restaurant while I was still sunburned from feeding cats all day.”
“That’s very on brand for us,” Sidney observes.
“It really is,” you agree.
The walk back to the yacht is quiet, your hand in his, the ring catching the moonlight. Other couples pass by, locals heading home from dinner, and Sidney realizes this is what he wants for the rest of his life. This. You. Quiet walks and shared moments and building something that matters more than hockey ever could.
On the yacht, you insist on modeling the ring in better lighting, taking more photos, sending them to your cohort group chat and watching the messages explode.
The yacht is anchored in the quiet harbor, the island lights twinkling on the shore. You lean against the railing and Sidney wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin on your shoulder.
“I can’t believe I get to marry you,” you murmur.
“I can’t believe you said yes,” he counters.
“Of course I said yes,” you say, turning to face him. “You’re Sidney Crosby. You’re brilliant and kind and you make me laugh and you support my career and you planned this entire perfect trip just to propose to me in the most romantic way possible.”
“When you put it that way, I sound pretty good,” he says, smiling.
“You are pretty good,” you confirm. “Even if you are a dirty old man sometimes.”
“I’m your dirty old man now,” he points out.
“Fiancé,” you correct. “You’re my fiancé. My dirty old fiancé.”
“Even better,” he agrees.
You kiss him under the stars, wearing his ring, and Sidney thinks about how far they’ve come from that charity gala where you argued about hockey statistics. How you’ve gone from the girl who challenged him to the woman he can’t imagine living without.
“I love you,” he says against your lips.
“I love you too,” you say back. “Future husband.”
“Future wife,” he replies, and the words feel right in a way that makes his chest tight.
Later, in the cabin, you insist on sleeping with your left hand on his chest so you can see the ring even in the dark.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says fondly.
“I’m engaged,” you counter. “I’m allowed to be ridiculous about my engagement ring.”
“Fair,” he concedes.
“Tell me again,” you say sleepily. “About the ring. How you designed it.”
“I worked with a jeweler in New York,” he explains, his fingers tracing patterns on your back. “Told him I wanted something unique. Something that represented you. He suggested the blue diamond because they’re rare and distinctive. The cathedral setting because of the structural elements, the way it frames the stone. We went through probably twenty designs before we found the right one.”
“It’s perfect,” you murmur. “I’m never taking it off.”
“You’re going to have to,” he points out. “For lab work. Research. When you’re washing dishes.”
“Okay, fine, sometimes I’ll take it off,” you concede. “But I’m going to hate every second of it.”
He laughs, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m glad you like it.”
“I don’t like it,” you correct. “I love it. Just like I love you.”
“Love you too,” he says. “Future Dr. Crosby.”
You make a happy sound. “I didn’t even think about that. I’m going to be Dr. Crosby. That sounds so official.”
“Very official,” he agrees. “Very impressive.”
“Your wife is going to be a doctor,” you say, testing the words. “How does that feel?”
“Like I’m the luckiest man alive,” he says honestly.
You shift to kiss him properly. “We both are. Lucky, I mean.”
“Yeah,” he agrees. “We really are.”
You fall asleep like that, engaged and happy and planning a future that feels bigger and brighter than anything Sidney could have imagined.
The thing about Sidney Crosby is that he’s spent his whole life winning.
But this — you, with his ring on your finger, saying yes to forever — this is the biggest win of all.
𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐓 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: where you decide to prank logan by pretending to be excited for a date he never planned. unfortunately, your boyfriend's response to being pranked is to take you on the most thoughtful, romantic date of your life.
𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: boyfriend!john logan x fem!reader
𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.8k
𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: pure fluff, established relationship, prank gone wrong (or right?), logan being aggressively boyfriend-shaped, excessive sweetness, reader trying and failing to outsmart her boyfriend, garrett graham being a surprisingly useful best friend, bookstore dates, flowers, lots of hand-holding, kissing, logan remembering every little thing about reader, weaponized thoughtfulness, excessive use of "babe", use of she/her pronouns, reader is explicitly referred to as "girl", emotional damage via acts of service, let me know if i missed any!
all characters in this story are adults.
english is not my first language, so please forgive me for any errors.
𝐀/𝐍: alt title: john "whatever my girlfriend wants, she gets" logan. dedicated to the wonderful anon who brought to my attention that using the small font on here made fics hard to read—thank you for helping me get better <3
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓’𝐒 𝐊𝐀𝐈 𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐓𝐎: so high school by taylor swift.
18+; mdni.
The plan had seemed significantly funnier about three hours ago.
The idea started with Hannah—which, in hindsight, should've been your first warning sign.
"Hear me out," she'd said, abandoning her Philosophy textbook entirely to lean across the table toward you and Allie. "You should tell Logan you're excited for the date he planned."
You had frowned. "What date?"
"Exactly."
Across from you, Allie had immediately burst out laughing. For a long moment, you simply stared at the two of them, confused. Then, the realization dawned on you. "Oh, that's evil."
Hannah leaned back in her chair, looking mighty pleased with herself. "Why, thank you."
Now, as you stood in front of the mirror in your bedroom, half your closet scattered across the room, you were beginning to realize that there was a very real possibility that Logan would simply smile and nod. The man was impossible to prank—partly because he was so observant, partly because he was so annoyingly nice.
You lifted your favourite dress to your chest, studying it with a critical eye, just as the bedroom door creaked open.
Speak of the devil.
Logan stepped inside, hair still damp around the ends from his shower after practice. He was dressed in a Bruins t-shirt and grey sweatpants that hung low on his hips. Your eyes met his brown ones, the corner of his mouth tipped upward into that gorgeous smile.
You watched his face as gaze shifted from your face to the mess covering the bed and half of the floor space of the room, then landed right back to you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. His smile widened at the sight of you with that dress. "What happened in here, babe?"
Game time, you thought to yourself, turning to him. "Oh good, you're here."
"Yeah?" confusion flickered across his face as you held up the dress, raising your eyebrows at him in question.
"What do you think of this?" you asked, cocking your head to the side.
Logan dropped his duffel back beside the bedside table, kicking off his shoes. He walked over to you, placing a hand on your waist, pressing a soft kiss to your shoulder. "You know I love you in everything, babe. But yeah, that dress always looks incredible on you."
You smiled, turning back to the mirror. In the reflection, you could see the mattress dip beneath his weight as Logan perched on the edge of the bed, still studying you with that smile on his face.
You met his stare in the mirror, your mind playing the opening notes of your master plan. "God, I'm so excited for tomorrow."
Logan blinked. "What's tomorrow?"
You almost laughed—almost. But you were determined not to break character, so instead, you forced your face into a look of utter confusion. "What do you mean, what's tomorrow? Its the date you planned for us."
A long pause stretched out between the two of you. Then, Logan's brow creased into a tiny frown. "The... date. Right."
The words coming out of his mouth were perfectly calm, which immediately threw you off, because other than the little crease on his brow, there was no evidence of panic, or confusion—not even concern. You narrowed your eyes.
Interesting.
Logan reached for the TV remote, casually crossing his legs as he leaned back. Your suspicion deepened, because there was no way he was this calm, this collected. There was no date. No reservation, no plans, nothing.
You would've known. He would've told you... unless. A horrible possibility entered your mind, because John Logan was the kindest, most thoughtful man ever, and more importantly, he knew how much you loved surprises. So maybe, just maybe... he'd actually planned something, and you'd accidentally stumbled right into it?
The thought almost made your confidence waver, until you caught the look on his face. His eyes were fixed on the TV, but you knew the expression in his eyes. You'd seen it before—during games, while the two of you studied for finals, before presentations. John Logan was thinking.
You bit back your smile, trying not to completely ruin your own prank, especially as Logan, in the most faux-casual voice you'd ever heard, asked: "So, babe, what're you most excited about?"
Oh, he was fishing—you could almost see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out exactly what you were talking about. The realization nearly made you giddy, even as you fought to keep a straight face, shrugging. "Oh, you know what I'm most excited about."
"No, I don't know." The innocence in his voice was almost convincing—almost.
"No?" you asked, fighting to keep a straight face. The two of you stared at each other for a minute, and then—then, Logan's face split into a smile. A beautiful, Logan smile.
Suddenly, your faith in the plan working out wavered, because somehow, against all logic, it suddenly felt like he wasn't the one being set up—you were.
The second the bedroom door snapped shut behind him, Logan knew he was fucked.
Not because there was definitely a date, but because there might be. Which was, somehow, infinitely worse.
"You're pacing, man."
Logan looked up from where he'd been wearing a path into the carpet of his friend's bedroom. Garrett was sprawled across his bed, one arm tucked behind his head as he watched Logan with growing amusement.
Logan opened his mouth to protest, but Garret raised an eyebrow, glancing pointedly down at Logan's feet.
Right. He was, in fact, pacing.
Garrett sat up. "Come on, man. What's wrong."
Logan sighed, dragging a hand through his hair, contemplating whether or not he should keep the thoughts plaguing his mind to himself... then immediately abandoned that plan—because Garrett was his best friend, and he was rapidly losing his mind. "She says she's really excited for our date tomorrow."
Garrett blinked. "Is there a reason she should not be?"
"I don't even know if there's a date tomorrow," Logan sighed, running a hand through his hair.
"What the fuck?" Garrett ran a hand over his face. "How could you not know?"
Logan shrugged. "There's a possibility she might be messing with me."
Garrett nodded slowly. "Okay."
"Or," Logan sighed dramatically, collapsing onto the foot of Garrett's bed. "I forgot."
"You forgot a date?" Garrett burst out laughing, and for a moment, Logan genuinely looked around the room for something to throw at his head.
"This isn't funny."
Garrett only laughed harder. "Sorry, man. It kinda is, though."
Logan burrowed his face into the mattress, groaning. "She's picking out dresses and shit, dude."
"Huh."
Logan lifted his head. "What?"
"No idea," Garrett shrugged. "But... if she's trying to prank you, that's hilarious."
Logan narrowed his eyes at Garrett, but his grin only widened. Then, after a moment, he sighed. "Okay, worst-case scenario: you forgot a date with your girlfriend."
Logan winced. "Jesus."
Garrett leaned forward. "No, listen. This is simple. You just need to take her on the greatest date of all time."
Logan blinked. "What?"
"Yeah, man. It's the only way. You gotta plan the date to end all dates."
"Come on, man. This is serious."
"I'm being serious." Garret sat up, his brow furrowing, deep in thought. "Think about it."
Logan usually hated when Garrett said that—because it meant that his friend was about to make an annoyingly good point. And it stood true this time too. Because either way, regardless of whether he was being pranked, or if he'd actually fucked up and forgotten, his girl deserved a date. Heck, his girl deserved everything. "Fuck."
Garrett leaned, back against the headboard, smug smile on his face. "Exactly."
If there really was a date he'd somehow forgotten, this fixed the problem. And if there wasn't—well, he still got to spend a day with you. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, and Garrett smirked. "There's that face again."
"What face?"
"The one you make whenever she's involved."
Logan rolled his eyes. "Shut up."
Garrett ignored him, grabbing Logan's phone. "Okay, let's plan the greatest date ever."
An hour later, what had somehow started as a joke had somehow turned into a full-scale operation.
Logan's notebook was open between the two of them, Garrett's laptop balanced on the edge of the bed.
"What's her favorite restaurant?" Garrett asked, frowning at the listings on the screen.
"The sushi place downtown."
The keys on Garrett's keyboard clacked as he wrote it down. "Favorite dessert?"
"Cheesecake from the bakery near campus."
"Favorite flowers?"
Logan didn't even take a moment. "Pink lillies."
Garrett paused, slowly turning his head to look at Logan. "Dude, you answered that way too quickly."
Logan frowned. "I know my girlfriend."
"You know your girlfriend's favorite flower. I don't even know my favorite flower."
Logan couldn't help but let out a laugh at the genuinely offended look on Garrett's face, because it made sense. He'd never felt this way about anyone before, and he wasn't about to let anything—anything—get in the way of making you happy, not even himself.
He could already feel the tension he'd been carrying since leaving the bedroom easing slightly, because now, he had a plan.
Actually, he had several plans—dinner, dessert, a walk afterward, maybe the bookstore you'd been talking about for months. Things that might not look like grand, extravagant gestures on the outside, but things he knew you'd love anyway. Things he knew would make you smile.
He could feel Garrett's watchful eyes on him and the realization settled warmly in his chest. "You know she's probably fucking with you, right?"
Logan could feel his face splitting into a slow, soft smile, "I know."
Garrett froze, the room enveloped in silence for a moment. Then: "What do you mean, you know? You spent an hour freaking out."
"I wasn't freaking out."
"You absolutely were."
Logan ignored him—because the truth was, he'd known almost immediately. The second you said it, the second he'd seen that look in your eyes—the one you got whenever you were trying not to laugh, he knew.
But that wasn't the point, it was never going to be. Because whether there had been a date or not, now there was. If his girlfriend wanted to spend a entire day together, Logan wasn't going to complain.
Garrett groaned. "Oh, my God."
"What?
"You're so disgustingly in love with her."
Logan considered arguing but instead, he just smiled. "Yeah, man. I am."
For once, Garrett didn't make fun of him for it.
By the time Logan picked you up the next evening, you were beginning to regret everything.
Not because the prank wasn't funny—it was downright hilarious. Or at least, it had been, right until a gorgeous bouquet of pink lillies had appeared on your bedside table with a note in Logan's handwriting.
Fuck, you loved them. They were your favorite flower.
The note read, Pick you up at 8. Wear the blue dress.
Now, standing in front of your mirror, smoothing down the skirt of the blue dress you loved so much, you were beginning to suspect that somewhere along the way, things had gotten out of hand.
A knock sounded from the other side of the door, making your stomach flutter. It was ridiculous—you'd been dating Logan for three years, and yet, as you opened the door, you immediately forgot every coherent thought you'd ever had.
Logan stood in the hallway, hands shoved into the pockets of dark jeans, navy button-down rolled up to his elbows. His dark hair was falling across his forehead, his brown eyes softening the second they found you— like they always did. Every. Single. Time.
No matter how many years passed, they always softened. "Hi, babe."
A smile spread across your face automatically. "Hi."
For a second, neither of you moved. Then, Logan's gaze landed on the vase of flowers sitting on your bedside table. "You got the flowers I sent you?"
Your heart squeezed. "They're beautiful, Logan."
"I know."
You blinked, and Logan immediately cringed. "Oh, fuck. That sounded terrible.""
A laugh escaped you. "It really did."
He groaned. "I meant you're beautiful."
Your laugh grew louder, and Logan pressed his forehead against the doorframe, hiding his face and the shy, pink flush that was creeping up his cheeks. "I somehow made it worse."
"You absolutely did."
His answering grin was sheepish, beautiful. You slipped your hand into his, softly closing the door behind you. "Ready?"
Logan squeezed your fingers. "Always."
The date was perfect.
Not because of where he took you— though the restaurant was lovely. The bookstore afterward was also lovely. And the bakery where he insisted on buying three different desserts "for research purposes" was lovely.
Not because of any of it. The date was perfect because every stop felt intentional, like Logan had built the entire evening out of tiny pieces of you.
At dinner, he'd ordered an appetizer while you ducked into the restroom right after the two of you arrived, because he knew you always got hungry while looking at menus. At the bookstore, he somehow remembered the title of a novel you'd mentioned wanting to read six months ago. At the bakery, he'd walked directly to your favorite cheesecake without even glancing at the display.
By the time the two of you found yourselves walking along the Charles River, the city lights glittering across the water, you were fairly certain you'd accidentally created the best date of your life.
The realization was mildly infuriating.
Logan glanced at you. "What?"
"What do you mean, what?" you frowned.
"You've got your thinking face on."
You rolled your eyes. "I do not."
Logan laughed, the sound settling warmly in your chest. For a while, neither of you spoke. The night air was cool, your hand fit perfectly in his. The city hummed around you—comfortable, easy.
Eventually Logan guided you toward a quiet bench overlooking the water. You sat down beside him, your shoulder brushing his. You could smell his cologne, could feel your heart beginning to stutter like it always did around him.
"You know," you said, carefully. "I had a really good time tonight."
Logan smiled. "I'm glad, babe. I did too."
You sighed, because you could feel the guilt winning. "I have to tell you something."
Immediately, Logan looked concerned. Your stomach twisted at the look on his face. God, he was too nice. "I kinda feel bad."
His eyebrows lifted. "About?"
You looked away, suddenly fascinated by the water. "The date thing."
"What about it?"
"Okay," you sucked in a deep breath. "I made it up. There wasn't actually a date."
The silence stretched out between the two of you—unbearable, suffocating, until you couldn't take it anymore. A groan escaped your lips. "Oh, my God, please stop looking at me like that."
Logan laughed. You froze, because it wasn't a surprised laugh, or even a confused one. No, he sounded... amused?
Slowly, you turned toward him, meeting his eyes. He was smiling.
Your eyes narrowed. "John Logan."
His grin widened. "Yeah, babe?"
"Oh, fuck off." The pieces clicked together all at once—the confidence, the calmness, the complete lack of panic. Your jaw slacked. "You knew."
Logan laughed. "I knew."
You stared at him, horrified, offended and impressed. Mostly offended. "When did you know?"
"The moment you said it."
Your mouth fully fell open this time. "You fucking liar."
Logan's shoulders shook with laughter. "You were picking out dresses, way too excited."
"I was acting," you gasped.
"Babe, come on." The words carried approximately zero belief.
You slapped his arm, and Logan caught your wrist immediately, still laughing. "You are unbelievable. You let me think I was winning!"
His grin softened. "You looked so excited." The words came out quietly, simply, like they explained everything.
And maybe, they did.
Logan continued, like it was obvious, like anyone else would've done the same thing. "You were excited, and I like taking you on dates."
You chest tightened. "So you planned all of this?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
The answer left his lips immediately, without hesitation, without uncertainty. "Because I love you."
The words settled softly between the two of you, warm and certain.
You groaned. "Fuck off, Logan. You can't be cute when I'm being mean and trying to prank you."
Logan chuckled, leaning forward, his forehead brushing yours. "You're not mean. You're perfect. And, you're so, so impressed by the fact that I pulled this off."
"I'm not," you scoffed, but you both knew you were lying.
His grin widened knowingly. You hated it—and you hated it even more when he kissed you, slow and sweet, smiling against your mouth, his hands tangling in your hair.
When he finally pulled away, your heart was somewhere around your ankles. "You know what?"
"What?"
You jammed a finger in his chest. "This still counts as me pranking you."
Logan laughed so hard he nearly fell off the bench—and somehow, that felt like victory enough.
Summary: when a ridiculously sized water bottle hits you in the back of the head during your first week of college lectures. you never expected the culprit to become your best friend, his roommates to become brothers, and a crowded table to feel like home. everyone knew that what you and garrett had was something special. well, everyone except the both of you.
Warnings: best friends to lovers trope. no mention of y/n, but the nickname Missy is used a lot to refer to the reader. found family. seriously, so much fluff. one kiss. two rather stupid idiots in love.
a/n: i’ve risen and written this as a comeback fic. admittedly, i wrote this in a span of three days, and you can tell when i was hungry while writing it. or the fact cherry coke is my favorite. also my inspiration for the nickname came from an off campus interview where i heard stephen say missy. (let me know your thoughts on this! i would love to hear them:)
Word count: 6.9k
masterlist
Music blared as you walked into the Boys’ house, which was home to Dean Di Laurentis, John Tucker, John Logan, and Garrett Graham. A blur of drunken college students and bodies pushed together in random small spaces that they thought fit for privacy passed by as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink.
You checked in the fridge, knowing there would be a stock of mini cherry Coke cans waiting for you. A grin grew on your face as you reached for one.
“Missy!” you heard someone call from behind. You grabbed a can and turned away from the fridge to the sound of the voice. “Missy, Missy, we were wondering when you were stopping by,” Dean tutted as Beau and Logan were beside him with smugness written across their faces.
“As if I would miss seeing drunk Tucker and Logan,” you joked as you walked towards them. “Maybe we can convince Tucker to make ricotta tortellini for dinner tomorrow. You know he’ll feel bad if he agrees tonight and doesn’t go through with it.”
“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.
“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.
“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.
Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”
"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.
“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.
Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner.
“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”
“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”
You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.
“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face.
Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”
“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.
“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”
“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”
Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated.
“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.
“G, not cool, man.”
Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”
“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder.
Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”
“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear.
“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”
Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair.
“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused.
“Great, G!”
“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.
Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.
You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk.
“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.
Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”
“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out.
Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”
You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”
“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him.
“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.
Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.”
“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.
Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.
The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.
The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.
Thunk.
It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.
“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.
You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.
The expression on his face caught you off guard.
He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime.
You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad.
Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed.
“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”
You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large.
Then back at him.
“Yes, totally.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“I just hit you with my water bottle.”
You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”
He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He frowned.
You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again.
“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”
“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be.
“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped.
“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.
“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.
“Officially?”
He paused, confused, “What?”
“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”
His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”
“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.
“You’re very observant.”
“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.
He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”
“That sounds right.”
“So let me make it up to you.”
“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Coffee,” he offered.
You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.
“Coffee?” you repeated in question.
“I owe you.”
“You really don’t.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”
You smiled, “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Sure,” you answered again.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.
He followed right behind you.
The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.
Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed.
The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”
Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”
The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”
“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”
You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”
The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.
You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, beautiful.”
You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett.
Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”
From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it.
Cute. You thought to yourself.
Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”
You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”
Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”
Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”
“He basically has,” you snorted.
“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”
“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.
Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.
You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”
“What?” he tried to play it off.
“You have that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” you insisted.
Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”
That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.
Dean nearly choked.
“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.
“Don’t what?” he responded.
“That.”
“What?”
“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing.
Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing.
Garrett just shrugged.
You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.
“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.
“Coffee,” he agreed.
Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.
By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.
At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.
Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.
Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.
No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.
To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,
Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester.
You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.
Bingo.
You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her.
The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in.
The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.
The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.
“There she is!”
You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”
“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.
Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”
“She still answers it.”
You hated that he was right.
The grin he gave you says he knows it too.
A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan.
The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.
“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room.
“Excuse me?”
“I expected worse,” he shrugged.
You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”
Each of the boys quipped a response.
“A lot.”
“Enough.”
“Some would say too much.”
“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.
“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.
By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.
You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.
At some point, you realized something.
You didn’t feel like a guest.
It was almost like you’d always been there.
And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.
It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume.
When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”
“I won't forget perfume.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“Baby, it’s there just in case.”
He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room.
You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.
Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself.
As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family.
Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head.
You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.
It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds.
Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand.
“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts.
You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”
You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there.
Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.
He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester.
“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes.
You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.
You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge.
“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.
Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.
“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”
“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back.
“Whatcha got, Logan?”
“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes.
“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile.
He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy.
“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.
You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted.
“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted.
“Up in his room.”
“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.
“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.
The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.
“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter.
Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table.
“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.
“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.
You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move.
The meal was perfect.
You took one bite.
Then another.
Followed by another.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.
Tucker laughed, “What?”
“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.
“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.
“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”
You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”
“Obviously,” Garrett stated.
“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.
“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.
You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”
“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.
“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.
The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness.
The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.
If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.
Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible.
It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving.
You felt like you always belonged there.
The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.
“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular.
Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”
“A little.”
“A little means yes.”
You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”
“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.
“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it.
“It does,” Garrett nodded.
“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.
“I’m supporting you.”
“More like interrupting,” you kid.
Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”
You blinked at him, “What?”
Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”
Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”
“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.
“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.
The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”
“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence.
“You have an idea.”
The other three just watched the banter between you two.
“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.
“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.
You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.
It felt natural.
“Okay.”
“Done.”
By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed.
Every Sunday.
One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.
Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.
Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three.
The dinners became routine. Then tradition.
Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.
Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.
Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.
By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends.
Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.
Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.
Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.
You saved him a portion when he was running late.
The pair of you always sat beside one another.
Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.
But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing.
That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other.
“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.
Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.
“A shot,” Dean answered.
“Very informative.”
You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”
Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”
“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.
“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath.
Dean wiggled his shot.
You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.
“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.
“Probably.”
“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.
“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots.
“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.
“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished.
There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.
Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other.
The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot.
The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.
“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.
“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.
“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett.
“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.
Logan nearly doubled over laughing.
Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.
Dean looked personally offended.
And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met.
The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.
Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out.
Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.
Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.
You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.
You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside.
You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs.
The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall.
There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore.
Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom.
He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours.
Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other.
Neither of you said much for a while.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.
Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.
Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses.
“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.
You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away.
Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too.
Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”
The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore.
His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.
Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”
Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”
“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”
You blinked, “We are fine.”
“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”
You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second.
Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”
“Wow.”
“What?” he quirked his brow at you.
“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief.
“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.
“It definitely did.”
“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”
Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.
Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you.
Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.
Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship.
Every time he remembered something small.
Every time he made space for you in crowded places.
Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal.
Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day.
You already knew, but hearing it made it real.
“What?”
You smiled, “I know.”
His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”
“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.”
“In my defense–” you cut him off.
“You gave me a drawer.”
“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.
“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”
The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”
You snickered. “Seriously?”
“I just want confirmation.”
“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”
He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.
“So?”
“So what?”
You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”
“Missy.”
“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”
Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” you repeated.
Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”
You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”
“They’re going to be unbearable.”
“Especially Dean.”
“He’ll claim responsibility.”
“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”
He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
The agreement lasted less than eight hours.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon.
Logan was standing at the stove.
Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands.
Dean was eating cereal directly from the box.
Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual.
Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual.
Nobody paid attention.
Logan continued cooking his bacon.
Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.
Dean kept munching on the cereal.
Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.
He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.
“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.
“Morning,” You replied.
You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.
And not normal.
The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”
You immediately dropped your head. “No.”
“YES.”
“It has been like six hours.”
“I KNEW IT.”
Garrett groaned.
Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”
“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked.
“I brought you together.”
“You really didn’t,” you laughed.
Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”
Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.
Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled.
“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.
“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off.
“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett.
Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”
The room erupted.
Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”
Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”
Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”
Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two.
And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back.
You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family.
Garrett was still your favorite person.
The only difference was that now everybody knew it, including you and Garrett.
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Summary: when a ridiculously sized water bottle hits you in the back of the head during your first week of college lectures. you never expected the culprit to become your best friend, his roommates to become brothers, and a crowded table to feel like home. everyone knew that what you and garrett had was something special. well, everyone except the both of you.
Warnings: best friends to lovers trope. no mention of y/n, but the nickname Missy is used a lot to refer to the reader. found family. seriously, so much fluff. one kiss. two rather stupid idiots in love.
a/n: i’ve risen and written this as a comeback fic. admittedly, i wrote this in a span of three days, and you can tell when i was hungry while writing it. or the fact cherry coke is my favorite. also my inspiration for the nickname came from an off campus interview where i heard stephen say missy. (let me know your thoughts on this! i would love to hear them:)
Word count: 6.9k
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Music blared as you walked into the Boys’ house, which was home to Dean Di Laurentis, John Tucker, John Logan, and Garrett Graham. A blur of drunken college students and bodies pushed together in random small spaces that they thought fit for privacy passed by as you made your way to the kitchen to grab a drink.
You checked in the fridge, knowing there would be a stock of mini cherry Coke cans waiting for you. A grin grew on your face as you reached for one.
“Missy!” you heard someone call from behind. You grabbed a can and turned away from the fridge to the sound of the voice. “Missy, Missy, we were wondering when you were stopping by,” Dean tutted as Beau and Logan were beside him with smugness written across their faces.
“As if I would miss seeing drunk Tucker and Logan,” you joked as you walked towards them. “Maybe we can convince Tucker to make ricotta tortellini for dinner tomorrow. You know he’ll feel bad if he agrees tonight and doesn’t go through with it.”
“I’m picking up what you’re putting down, and I will go find Tucker to give him another beer.” Logan saluted you as he went to grab a new beer and locate Tucker.
“Am I invited to this dinner tomorrow?” Beau quipped to Dean.
“I don’t know, man. Are you?” Dean teased. “Missy, here is the woman of the house. You’ll have to ask her,” Dean jutted his thumb in your direction.
Beau turned to face you and pouted as he asked, “May I please come over for dinner tomorrow night?”
“Excuse me, I do not live here,” you mocked in defense. “But, yes, you are invited to family dinner.”
"Don't even start with that," Dean waved you off.
“Family dinner?” Beau questioned you and Dean.
Dean let out a laugh, “Yeah, Tucker and Missy have been alternating in cooking on Sundays, and now it’s family dinner,” as if that explained why you and the boys considered it family dinner.
“Garrett invited me over to dinner at the beginning of sophomore year, and Tucker was cooking tortellini. We were all hanging out afterward, and I told them how I would cook more if I wasn’t in the dorms. I hated cooking in the dorms because the smell lingered way too long,” you started. “Anyways, he cooked dinner that night, and the next weekend I cooked, so it just kind of became a cycle. A routine.”
“Why haven’t I been invited to family dinners until now?” Beau raised a brow at Dean. “I would’ve brought something!”
You let out a giggle at his dramatics. “Yeah! Why didn’t you invite Beau?” you goaded.
“Not you too, Missy,” Dean groaned into his drink. The red solo cup is blocking the view of his face.
Allie approached you guys and poked at Dean’s side, causing him to choke on his drink. You and Beau try not to laugh, but the second you look at each other, the laughter spills out. “What are you guys going on about?”
“Family dinner,” Dean answered her.
“Is Tucker cooking tomorrow or Missy?” Allie pondered for a moment. “Oh, wait! She cooked last weekend, so Tucker’s definitely cooking.”
“Missy wants to get him drunk tonight, so we can get him to agree to make tortellini tomorrow,” Dean explained the plan to Allie as he pulled her into his side. “You know he’ll feel bad if Missy asks and he doesn’t follow through with it since she made her famous dish last week per his request.”
Beau quit mid-laugh the second he comprehended that Allie had been attending these family dinners. “Am I the only one not attending these dinners?” he called out, exasperated.
“Dean should’ve invited you earlier.” Garrett slapped a hand to Dean’s shoulder as he joined you all.
“G, not cool, man.”
Garrett made his way to you with a new can of cherry Coke in hand. “For the lady,” he presented it to you and took the empty can. He set it down on the counter before turning back to you. “I’ve been wondering where you were, but I found you with these bozos and Allie.”
“Beau is very upset that he hasn’t been in attendance for family dinners on Sundays,” you whispered to him as he snuck an arm around your shoulder.
Your eyes were on Dean and Beau as they started going at it again, but this time Allie joined Beau’s side. Dean’s eyes flared open with joking betrayal. “Babydoll, not you too. Please.”
“You want to make rounds?” Garrett asked softly, leaning down to speak into your ear.
“Yeah, I want to check in with Tucker. Make sure Logan is getting him drunk, so we can get Tuck’s delicious ricotta tortellini.”
Garrett guided you away from the group in the kitchen. You both navigated through the living room in search of the fellow housemates. You see Tucker downing a beer and Logan immediately offering him another, which Tucker greedily took into his hands. Logan winked at you knowingly as you and Garrett approached the pair.
“How you feeling, Tucker?” Garrett asked him, amused.
“Great, G!”
“You’re cooking dinner tomorrow, right?” you questioned, trying to seem like you weren’t sure.
Tucker scratched his head and looked at Logan, who gave him a nod. “Yeah! Of course I am,” he blurted out.
You unconsciously leaned your head against Garrett’s shoulder. “Do you have anything specific in mind?” You glanced over to Logan with a slight smirk.
“Dude, you should totally make tortellini again!” Logan suggested.
Tucker immediately started shaking his head, “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how long that takes to make?”
“But, Tuck, you know how that’s my favorite! Won’t you even think about it?” You pull away from Garrett’s side to go to Tucker with the biggest pout you managed to put out.
Tucker took one look at your face, then another at Garrett, and he folded quickly. “Yes, I will,” he sighed, knowing there was no point in saying no to you. “Only because you’re my favorite.”
You let a short cheer out and pressed a kiss to Tucker’s cheek. “You’re the best, Tuck!”
“Enough of that,” Garrett interjected you two, and he gently grabbed your hip to pull you back beside him.
“Mr. Best Friend is jealous that I’m going to steal your heart, Missy,” Tucker joked.
Logan doubled over in laughter, fully shaking with amusement, “Oh, you know that a way to a woman’s heart is food.”
“Might just take Missy right from you.” Tucker playfully reached out for you with a smirk, pinching at his cheeks.
Garrett’s grip on your hip tightened just enough for you to notice. Heat flooded your cheeks, and you felt like the room was getting hotter by the second. You should’ve been used to the jokes by now, but being Garrett Graham’s best friend since freshman year came with lots of teasing.
The day you and Garrett met was in a history lecture, and he was sitting behind you. When class ended on the last day of the first week, you were still gathering your stuff, and Garrett was getting up to head out. In a rush to grab his ginormous water bottle, he brought it up, and it hit you right in the back of the head.
The professor whose name you hadn’t quite remembered yet just dismissed class, and the usual chaos of shuffling backpacks with everyone gathering their things filled the room. You remained seated as you were putting away your notebook and trying to search for your headphones in your backpack. With your head slightly tucked down, you weren’t really too aware of your surroundings, and something had smacked into the back of your head.
Thunk.
It wasn’t hard enough to hurt badly. Just hard enough that it made you jump. You let out a surprised yelp and gently rubbed the sore spot before putting your arm back down.
“Oh shit.” You heard some mutter behind you. Garrett instinctively reached to touch the back of your head with his free hand but retracted, realizing it probably isn’t appropriate to do that to someone you’ve just met, even less so after you accidentally hit them in the head. “I’m so sorry,” he blurted out.
You turn around, and a guy is staring at you in complete horror. It was only a few seconds later when you realized that he was the new hot shot hockey player. Which from what you’ve seen on The Fifth Line, there was a bit of emphasis on the player part.
The expression on his face caught you off guard.
He genuinely looked like he thought he just committed a crime.
You shook your head, amused despite the small sting. “It’s okay! Things happen.” You laughed off, softly giving him a smile, trying to let him know you weren’t mad.
Somehow, the poor guy looked even more distressed.
“No, seriously,” he says. “Are you okay?”
You glanced at the water bottle that is ridiculously large.
Then back at him.
“Yes, totally.”
“No, seriously.”
“I am serious.”
“I just hit you with my water bottle.”
You laughed at the redundancy. “It was a light tap.”
He doesn’t seem reassured whatsoever. “I know that’s got to hurt a bit.”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He frowned.
You could practically see him trying to decide whether you’ve secretly suffered a concussion. The thought almost made you laugh again.
“Seriously,” you told him. “It’s okay.”
“Why do you have to be so nice?” he grumbled, and the look on his face made this far funnier than it should be.
“You seem to be more upset about this than I am,” you teased, watching as his shoulders slumped.
“That’s probably true,” he mumbled softly as he kept eye contact with you. There was a twinkle in his eye that you just knew was trouble.
“There he is.”
“What?”
“The normal person.” You get a laugh from that, escaping before he could stop it.
“I should probably introduce myself.” His lips quirked into a smile as he shook his head.
“Officially?”
He paused, confused, “What?”
“I know who you are, Garrett Graham.”
His expression fell blank for a split second before he quickly recovered it with a grin. “So you do.”
“People tend to know you when that’s the only name you hear people cheering at hockey games this year,” you confessed to Garrett.
“You’re very observant.”
“More like I have eyes and ears,” you grinned back at him.
He dropped his head into one hand with a slight chuckle. “Well, I apparently know much less about you than you know about me.”
“That sounds right.”
“So let me make it up to you.”
“By how exactly?” You quirked an eyebrow at him.
“Coffee,” he offered.
You pretended to think about it, but mostly because you’re curious what he would do.
“Coffee?” you repeated in question.
“I owe you.”
“You really don’t.”
“Oh, c’mon. I’m buying you coffee.”
You smiled, “Okay.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Okay?”
“Sure,” you answered again.
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
He looked suspicious for a moment, like he thought there was a catch. You decided not to tell him there is one. Namely, that he still didn’t know your name. And you’re not intentionally volunteering it. You finished gathering your stuff and started to head toward the exit.
He followed right behind you.
The hallway outside is crowded with students weaving between classes. He made a quick step around you to be ahead, so he could hold the door open for you as you left the lecture hall.
Still no name. You took a short look at him, and you could tell he’d noticed.
The occasional glance he sent your way confirmed it.
You don’t say anything.
Neither does he.
The silence stretched all the way out of the building. Then a voice called out, “There you are, G!” A tall blond jogged towards you two. “Thought you vanished.”
Your water bottle assailant immediately groaned, “Unfortunately not.”
The blond glanced between you and Garrett. His gaze immediately stuck to you, and a faint smirk played at the corner of his lips. “Oh.”
“No.” Garrett immediately shut him down.
“Oh, absolutely.”
“It’s not–” Garrett was cut off, and the blond ignored him completely. You could tell that they were good friends.
“Who’s your friend?” he asked Garrett with a growing smile. A dangerous smile. Before either of you could answer, he added, “And why does she look like she knows every embarrassing thing you’ve ever done, G?”
You laughed, and Garrett pointed at you. “That’s exactly the problem.”
The blond stuck out his hand. “I’m Dean,” he introduced himself jokingly formally.
You reciprocated by shaking his hand, “Nice to meet you.”
“You too, beautiful.”
You playfully rolled your eyes and decided that it was time to put the poor guy out of his misery. You tell Dean your name while purposely trying to keep your attention on him rather than Garrett.
Dean repeated your name out loud. “Nice.”
From the corner of your eye, you caught Garrett repeating your name quietly to himself like he was trying to memorize it.
Cute. You thought to yourself.
Then Dean glanced between the two of you again, “So what happened with Missy here?”
You blinked at the nickname. “Missy?”
Garrett groaned again, and you were ignored by the two. “No.”
Dean pointed at him knowingly, “You did something! Because when I walked up, you looked like you’d spent the last ten minutes apologizing.”
“He basically has,” you snorted.
“Exactly,” Dean grinned. “So I figured he’d messed something up.”
“Maybe not messed anything up but a first impression,” you pretended to ponder as you rubbed the back of your head, hoping that it would mess with Garrett. You hid your laugh when you saw that he noticed your little joke.
Garrett looked ready to walk directly into traffic just to distance himself from the embarrassment from you and Dean.
You laughed, and when you glanced back over to Garrett, you caught a look on his face. A wide grin. The one that says he’s just had an idea. Probably a terrible one while you guys were at it.
You narrowed your eyes at him, “What now?”
“What?” he tried to play it off.
“You have that look.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do,” you insisted.
Dean stopped mid-walk as he burst out laughing, “Oh shit, G. She’s already figured you out.”
That’s when Garrett said, “Nothing, Missy.” You stopped walking. He kept going.
Dean nearly choked.
“Don’t.” You shook your head at him, but you were talking to Garrett.
“Don’t what?” he responded.
“That.”
“What?”
“Missy.” Garrett’s smile turned innocent. Entirely too innocent. “You literally just learned my name,” you told him.
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“And that’s not it,” he said as if it were the most obvious thing.
Dean was at the point of laughing so hard that he was barely breathing.
Garrett just shrugged.
You should probably have been annoyed. Instead, despite yourself, you fought a smile. Because somehow the nickname sounded ridiculous enough to work. Then, judging by the look on Garrett’s face, there was no chance he was going to let it go.
“Coffee,” you said, shaking your head.
“Coffee,” he agreed.
Somehow, before you’ve even made it to the coffee shop, the nickname Missy is already stuck.
By the time that Garrett invited you to hang out with his friends in his line, the two of you had long since become inseparable.
At some point, coffee turned into study sessions.
Study sessions turned into lunch, which led to spending entire afternoons together.
Somewhere along the way, the nickname still followed you.
No matter how many times you complain. No matter how many times you reminded Garrett, you did have an actual name.
To Garrett (plus Dean), you would always be Missy,
Which is why you weren’t surprised when he texted you one Friday afternoon midway through the semester.
You rolled your eyes as you read his last text and scanned around your room to search for this man’s colossal bottle. How did he forget it? Beats you.
Bingo.
You found the bottle and headed out to finally make introductions to Garrett’s friends. Who has been bugging Garrett the moment they found out he was hanging out with a girl and not hooking up with her.
The house itself is exactly what you would have expected when four college freshmen are given a place together. It’s not particularly messy, but it felt lived in.
The kind of place where people actually spend time together and enjoy each other’s company instead of disappearing into separate rooms 24/7.
The front door barely closed behind you before Dean appeared.
“There she is!”
You pointed at him, “You’re responsible for the nickname.”
“And proud of it,” he cheesed, that kind smile that is always so infectious that you felt your own lips curling.
Garrett appeared behind him. “You absolutely should not be.”
“She still answers it.”
You hated that he was right.
The grin he gave you says he knows it too.
A few moments later, you’re introduced to the remaining roommates. John and John, or better known as Tucker and Logan.
The pair bombarded you with questions, and within five minutes, they somehow learned your major, favorite coffee order, and your favorite drink.
“You seem normal enough,” Logan deemed as a proclamation as you guys talked in the living room.
“Excuse me?”
“I expected worse,” he shrugged.
You looked at Garrett and asked the other boys, “What exactly has he been saying about me?”
Each of the boys quipped a response.
“A lot.”
“Enough.”
“Some would say too much.”
“I hate all of you,” Garrett muttered under his breath.
“You’ll fit right in,” Logan finished.
By the end of the night, you all were sprawled across the living room arguing over movies and laughing so hard at shared stories that your stomachs started to hurt.
You sat on one side of the couch with Garrett. You were leaning against him while you were talking to Tucker and Logan about the best Batman movie. Garrett was talking to Dean about some girl Dean saw working at Malone’s. Garrett had his arm loosely wrapped around your waist, and his hand was messing with the hem of your shirt.
At some point, you realized something.
You didn’t feel like a guest.
It was almost like you’d always been there.
And judging by the way nobody bothered treating you differently, the guys seemed to feel the same way too.
It was the start of sophomore year, and your presence in the Boys’ house was now such a regular occurrence that you had a drawer in Garrett’s room, a toothbrush next to his, and under the sink, he had a bottle of your perfume.
When you’d pointed it out the first time, he’d shrugged. “You forget stuff.”
“I won't forget perfume.”
“You might.”
“I won’t.”
“Baby, it’s there just in case.”
He claimed that he just wanted you to be comfortable and feel at home, but you knew one of the real reasons was that he was obsessed with seeing your stuff in his room.
You thought that people would get better about your and Garrett’s friendship, but it seemed that people could never fathom the fact that Garrett Graham had a girl best friend.
Frankly, sometimes you couldn’t believe it yourself.
As much as the rest of the boys in the line teased you, they were fiercely protective of you and defended you against any rumors that people tried to start. It is endearing how much you and the boys treated each other like family.
Something you would never admit out loud is the fact you knew that you and Garrett crossed the boundary of best friends a long time ago. Sure, you were attracted to him and cared for him like no other, but his constant saying that he doesn’t have time for a girlfriend really messed with your head.
You loved him. There was no doubt about it. You tried putting yourself out there and dating, but a lot of the time, guys weren’t interested when they found out your best friend was Garrett Graham.
It didn’t help that Garrett’s love language is physical touch. He constantly found ways to be close and touch you, whether it was an arm around your shoulder, holding your hand in his lap under the table when you and the boys hung out at Malone’s, or a hand that always found your back or hip when you guys navigated through crowds.
Even with that, there were the puck bunnies to consider, the numerous girls who seemed to gravitate to Garrett the second he flashed that damned smile. But they wouldn’t be able to say they knew him. They didn’t know his favorite band, what major he’s pursuing, how he liked his coffee, or what his mother’s name was. But you did. Of course, you knew him like the back of your hand.
“Missy, do you know where my–” Garrett’s voice from the bathroom snapped you out of your thoughts.
You responded before he even finished his sentence: “Bub, your phone is still charging by the bed.”
You were sitting by the window, and the book you were reading had long been forgotten in your hands. You set it aside near a couple of other books you kept there.
Garrett walked out of the bathroom with his hair still damp from the shower he had just taken, and a towel wrapped around his waist. You hadn’t looked over to him yet as you were folding a blanket that you kept by the window. He watched you with a soft gaze, and a smile budded on his lips.
He went over to the bed and tapped on his phone to check the time. His wallpaper flashed at him. It was a photo of you in the kitchen blowing out your birthday cake candles when he and the boys surprised you with a mini celebration last semester.
“Hey, we should probably head down soon. I think Tuck is done cooking dinner,” he suggested. “Let me put something on, and we can go.” He went to his closet to grab some clothes.
You nodded at him and grabbed your phone. “I’m going to head down now to see if he needs any help.” You pressed a kiss on his jawline when you headed out of the room.
You wandered down to the kitchen. “It smells like a restaurant in here.”
“Of course, with Tuck cooking,” Dean said as he carried a case of beers to the fridge.
“I’m making tortellini,” Tucker called out on the stove.
Your eyes scanned the room and saw several pots going at once and the counters covered with ingredients. It almost looked suspiciously professional.
“You need any help with anything, Tuck? I’m all yours.”
“Don’t let G hear you say that.” Logan chuckled as he walked into the kitchen, holding something behind his back.
“Whatcha got, Logan?”
“You know we’d never forget about you.” Logan brought his arm around to his front, revealing a case of mini cherry cokes.
“You guys are the best.” You buttered them up with a cheesy smile.
He took one from the case before handing it to Dean to put in the fridge. “For the lady,” he exaggeratedly presented the can to you while bowing.
“Why, thank you, kind sir.” You accepted the drink in curtsy.
“Where’s G, man? Foods ready to be served, and his ass is still in his room,” Tucker howled out as he started serving the plates.
You expected to hear a response, but you noticed the silence rather quickly. You looked up from opening your can and saw all three of the guys staring at you for a response. “Why are you guys looking at me?” You blurted.
“Well, where is he?” Dean prompted.
“Up in his room.”
“Why is he not down here with us?” Logan added.
“You guys know that I’m not his keeper, right?” you groaned exasperated.
The boys all mirrored the same look that screamed, “Are you being serious right now?”
“I’m not!” Your voice cracked at the delivery, causing the others to laugh.
“What are you all laughing about?” Garrett’s voice broke through the laughter.
Silence fell upon the room for a few short moments before Dean made a joke: “Just about Missy’s obsession with cherry cokes.” He held up another can to set on the table.
“G took you long enough, man,” Logan greeted Garrett.
“We were just about to start with you,” Tucker playfully told him.
You all crowded around the old kitchen table. Nobody bothered about matching plates or utensils. One of the chairs wobbled, and Dean had the luck of getting it for the night. You were seated next to Garrett, close enough for your knees to knock into each other and neither of you cared to move.
The meal was perfect.
You took one bite.
Then another.
Followed by another.
“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” you praised.
Tucker laughed, “What?”
“I’m not kidding, this is heaven,” you hummed happily.
“Babe, if you think this is heaven, maybe I can show you what real heaven feels like,” Dean dramatically winked at you knowing that it would get on Garrett’s nerves.
“Quit it,” Garrett told him but turned his attention to Tucker, “I told you she’d love it.”
You narrowed your eyes between the pair, “You discussed this beforehand?”
“Obviously,” Garrett stated.
“You are all weird,” you declared to the room.
“And yet you’re here with us on a Sunday night,” Logan bemused.
You pointed your fork at each of the boys, “I regret befriending you all.”
“No, you don’t,” Garrett affirmed.
“No, I don’t,” you admitted with a smile creeping on your lips.
The table fell quiet for a half second. Not awkward. Just one of those moments that everyone wanted to take in and keep as a treasured memory. Everyone glanced at each other with fondness.
The moment faded when Dean threw a bread roll at Garrett.
If someone were to ask you what your favorite meal is, this would still be the answer.
Maybe not fully because of the tortellini. Which was genuinely incredible.
It was because of this. The table. The laughter. Logan arguing with Dean. Tucker pretending not to be pleased with himself that everyone kept going back for seconds (and thirds and fourths for the fellow hockey men). Garrett stealing food directly off your plate despite having an identical serving.
You felt like you always belonged there.
The tortellini just became attached to the memory. After dinner, everyone helped to clean up. Or at least claimed to. Dean somehow managed to disappear. Tucker offered moral support rather than actual labor for once in the night as he sat on the counter, keeping you guys company. You and Garrett ended up doing most of the dishes. Logan cleaned the counters quietly.
“You know I wish I cooked more,” you said to no one in particular.
Tucker glanced over. “You cook?”
“A little.”
“A little means yes.”
You shrugged, “I used to a lot when I was home, but with the dorms the smells lingered too long, and just not enough space.”
“That’s fair,” Tucker hummed.
“And cooking for one kind of sucks,” you whispered but it was loud enough for the boys to catch it.
“It does,” Garrett nodded.
“Nobody asked you, bub,” you retorted.
“I’m supporting you.”
“More like interrupting,” you kid.
Tucker laughed, you brought your gaze to him. “You should cook here.”
You blinked at him, “What?”
Dean chose that exact moment to reappear, “Absolutely.”
Logan pointed dramatically, “I second this.”
“You guys haven’t even tasted my cooking,” you cautioned them.
“We’re willing to take risks,” Garrett grinned at you.
The look made you suspicious. “Oh no.”
“What?” Garrett questioned with false innocence.
“You have an idea.”
The other three just watched the banter between you two.
“I always have ideas,” Garrett claimed.
“That’s worse,” Logan whispered to Tucker.
You looked around the kitchen. At the house. At the boys who were crowded into it. There was a familiar comfort that you don’t remember forming. And for the first time, the idea didn’t feel strange.
It felt natural.
“Okay.”
“Done.”
By the end of the night, Sunday family dinners existed.
Every Sunday.
One week Tucker cooked. The next week you did. On a rare occasion, Dean, Garrett, and Logan teamed up to cook for the night.
Nobody was allowed to skip without a legitimate emergency.
Dean attempted to argue that hungry bunnies counted as an emergency. That one earned him a slap on the back of the head from the other three.
The dinners became routine. Then tradition.
Followed by something more. People started planning their schedules around them. Sometimes new people were invited.
Bad weeks felt easier knowing when Sunday was coming.
Good weeks feel better when there are others to celebrate with.
By the end of the semester, everyone stopped pretending. Not about the dinner, but about you and Garrett. The two of you still insisted that you were strictly best friends.
Everyone else nodded along, desperately waiting for one of you to say something about it.
Because whenever someone looked around the table, the picture was always the same.
Garrett grabbed you a cherry Coke every time he reached for his one beer for the night without thinking.
You saved him a portion when he was running late.
The pair of you always sat beside one another.
Nobody said anything. Mostly because they knew that you both would deny it.
But every Sunday, around that crowded table, the rest of the house watched the two of you and thought the same thing.
That you two loved each other. That you lived better being next to each other.
“Yo! Missy, do a shot with Beau and me,” Dean shouted from the kitchen, setting out the shot cups.
Before you replied, you looked to Garrett, and as if he could read your mind. “Just spend the night. It's not like you were planning to go home anyway. Go enjoy yourself.”
“Thanks, handsome.” You pressed a quick kiss against the edge of his jaw. “What is it?” you questioned when you went over to Dean and Beau.
“A shot,” Dean answered.
“Very informative.”
You looked toward Beau, maybe the only responsible person in the house right now. He glanced up to hand you the shot. “Don’t ask me. This was all him.”
Dean’s grin was concerning. You groaned dramatically, “I feel like this is a bad idea.”
“It absolutely is,” Logan agreed.
“Not helping, Logan,” you murmured under your breath.
Dean wiggled his shot.
You turned your head to look back at Garrett. Automatically. The same way you always did. In a way, you didn’t realize you did so often, but Garrett noticed. One look and he already knew exactly what you were asking.
The corner of his mouth lifted. “You’ll be okay. I’ll take care of you, baby,” he reassured you.
“Will I?” You smelled the shot, causing your nose to scrunch up.
“Probably.”
“Probably?” He laughed at your echo as he shuffled over to you guys.
“If Dean somehow tricks you into doing more than one…” he trailed off, looking at Dean, who was setting up even more shots.
“I heard that, G,” Dean quipped at him.
“I’ll drag you upstairs before you make any life-ruining or altering decisions,” Garrett finished.
There was a certainty in it that made you smile. It was the thing that always settled something inside you. No matter the situation, you knew that Garrett would take care of you.
Not because he thought you couldn’t take care of yourself. Just because that’s what the two of you did for each other.
The same way you always made sure he wasn’t overworking himself with practices, games, studying, etc. The same way you brought him his protein shakes to practice when he forgot.
The same way you both somehow always knew when the other needed support before having to ask for it.
“You ready, Missy?” Dean winked at you.
“Yup,” you cheered with Beau and Dean. You downed the shot, and Garrett was already next to you with a chaser to help.
“One day you’re going to explain this thing between you two,” Dean pointed at you and Garrett.
“Never,” you and Garrett said simultaneously.
Logan nearly doubled over laughing.
Tucker giggled to himself, having found his way over to the kitchen a few moments before.
Dean looked personally offended.
And Garrett just looked at you with the same twinkle in his eye from the moment you first met.
The party died slowly with people filtering out in groups. The music was playing low. Empty cups and bottles accumulated on every available surface. By three in the morning, the Boys’ house was mostly quiet.
Tucker was passed out on the couch nearly an hour ago. He mumbled something about tortellini right before knocking out.
Around the same time, Logan disappeared upstairs after making sure everyone downed a water bottle and some ibuprofen.
Dean was last seen stealing leftover pizza before vanishing into his room.
You were gathering the scattered trash left around the house, with Garrett following you with a trash bag in hand. You two worked your way around the house, making sure that nobody broke anything and didn't say anything about it.
You headed upstairs when Garrett went to throw out the bag outside.
You found yourself curled into the corner of Garrett’s bed, wearing one of his hoodies that ended up living in your drawer here just for you to wear. You nursed another bottle of water. Not because you got particularly drunk. Because Garrett had handed it to you without asking before you went upstairs.
The room was dim except for his lamp. Your drawer was half-open. A pair of your socks were sticking out. Your charger is plugged into the wall.
There is so much evidence of you in this room now that it would be impossible to explain away. Not that either of you really tried to anymore.
Garrett entered the room and headed straight to grab a pair of sweats. He went over to the bathroom.
He came back out now shirtless, just in his sweats, and he threw his clothes into the hamper, which landed right on top of yours.
Garrett sat beside you on the bed. Close enough that your arms brushed against each other.
Neither of you said much for a while.
The silence wasn’t awkward. It never really was. It was one of your favorite things about him. The ability to simply coexist together.
Eventually, he glanced over, “Tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Did you have fun tonight?”
“I always do with you.” Your body started to lean into him.
Garrett brought you into his chest. The smell of your perfume overtook his senses.
“Ready to go to bed?” he hummed into your hair.
You nodded gently and tore yourself from his grasp to look him in the eyes. Your gaze traveled from his lips to his eyes. Suddenly, neither of you was looking away.
Something shifted. Not all at once. Just enough. Enough that you felt it, and you knew he did too.
Garrett exhaled slowly. “Can I tell you something?”
The question snapped you out of your daze because Garrett sounded nervous. He never sounded like that around you, not anymore.
His laugh was quiet. A little disbelieving. Like he was debating with himself.
Then he shakes his head, “I think I’ve been trying not to say this for months, hell, since the moment you cooked dinner for all of us while we were at practice back in sophomore year.”
Your heart immediately started beating faster. “Okay.”
“I keep telling myself we’re fine just the way we are.”
You blinked, “We are fine.”
“We are,” he smiled. “That’s part of the problem.”
You stared at him, and the room felt like it was getting warmer by the second.
Garrett ran a hand through his hair. “I like you.”
“Wow.”
“What?” he quirked his brow at you.
“That sounded odd,” you giggled to yourself in disbelief.
“It didn’t,” he defended weakly.
“It definitely did.”
“It really didn’t.” he shifted closer. “I mean it.”
Your chest hurts in the best possible way. “I know you do.” He froze at your confession.
Not because he’s told you before, but because he’d shown you.
Every coffee he gave you when he knew you stayed up late studying.
Every late-night conversation in his room pretending that what you guys had was a normal friendship.
Every time he remembered something small.
Every time he made space for you in crowded places.
Every time his eyes searched for yours after he scored a winning goal.
Every time he looked at you like you were the best part of his day.
You already knew, but hearing it made it real.
“What?”
You smiled, “I know.”
His expression looked almost offended. “You were supposed to be surprised.”
“You have a bottle of my perfume under your sink.”
“In my defense–” you cut him off.
“You gave me a drawer.”
“You needed a drawer. How else were you supposed to stay over so often?” he shrugged.
“Maybe.” You reached for his hand. The movement was natural, like everything else with him. “I like you too.”
The room went still. Garrett stared back at you. “You do?”
You snickered. “Seriously?”
“I just want confirmation.”
“You have been my favorite person since the moment you almost concussed me freshman year.”
He covered his eyes with his hand. “Okay, moment ruined.” But when he uncovered his face, the smile that spread across his lips was devastating. Warm and content. Happy.
“So?”
“So what?”
You shifted closer. “What does this mean for us?” You pretended to ponder. “Hm.”
“Missy.”
“I think…” You cocked your head to the side. “This means we should probably stop pretending we’re just friends.”
Garrett laughed. A real laugh. The kind that only came out around people he felt completely comfortable with. “Yeah.”
“Yeah?” you repeated.
Then he leaned forward, slowly. His hand settled against your cheek. And when he kissed you, it didn’t feel new. It felt like something you’ve been waiting for a very long time.
When you finally pull apart, both of you are smiling. A little stunned. Definitely giddy. Garrett rested his forehead against yours. “So we’re not telling them.”
You softly chuckled to yourself, “Absolutely not.”
“They’re going to be unbearable.”
“Especially Dean.”
“He’ll claim responsibility.”
“Too bad it’s thanks to your ridiculous bottle.”
He groaned, “We are keeping this to ourselves.”
“Agreed.”
The agreement lasted less than eight hours.
The next morning, the kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon.
Logan was standing at the stove.
Tucker was sitting by the counter with his head in his hands.
Dean was eating cereal directly from the box.
Nobody looked particularly awake. You shuffled into the kitchen wearing another one of Garrett’s hoodies, which wasn't unusual.
Garrett followed a minute later. Also not unusual.
Nobody paid attention.
Logan continued cooking his bacon.
Tucker still hadn’t lifted his head up yet.
Dean kept munching on the cereal.
Garrett walked directly to the coffee pot. Also normal.
He poured a cup. He added exactly the amount of cream and sugar you liked. He carried it over to you. Still normal.
“Morning, Missy.” You heard Logan call from the stove.
“Morning,” You replied.
You accepted the mug from Garrett. And without thinking or planning, you leaned up and pecked his lips. Quick. Easy.
And not normal.
The room went silent. The silence lasted exactly two seconds.
Then Dean practically launched out of his chair, “I KNEW IT!”
You immediately dropped your head. “No.”
“YES.”
“It has been like six hours.”
“I KNEW IT.”
Garrett groaned.
Dean pointed to himself, “This happened because of me.”
“It absolutely did not,” Garrett remarked.
“I brought you together.”
“You really didn’t,” you laughed.
Tucker finally lifted his head and studied you and Garrett for a moment. Then nodded, “About time.”
Garrett pointed at him, “Thank you.”
“No problem,” Tucker muttered as he dropped his head back down.
Dean looked betrayed. “That’s all you have to say?”
“What else is there to say?” Tucker’s voice was muffled.
“They’re dating!” Dean proclaimed.
“They’ve been emotionally dating for like over a year,” Logan shrugged off.
“Fair,” you mouthed to Garrett.
Logan flipped another piece of bacon, completely unfazed. “Bacon’s almost done.”
The room erupted.
Dean started shouting. Garrett was laughing. You nearly spilled your coffee when Dean came up to pick you up in a spin, barely giving you time to set down the mug. Garrett made quick work of grabbing it out of your hands. “I call being the godfather to your future children.”
Life seemed to be put back into Tucker, and Logan flipped around, pointing the tongs at Dean. “No man, that’s not how that works.”
Tucker looked more alive than ever. “My sous chef would never pick you, dude.”
Dean sat you down on the counter and immediately started arguing with the other two.
And standing next to you was Garrett. His shoulder pressed against yours while he handed your coffee back.
You realized something. Nothing felt different. Not really. The house was still home. The boys are still family.
Garrett was still your favorite person.
The only difference was that now everybody knew it, including you and Garrett.
✶ you prank garrett by calling him your “current boyfriend”.
002. WARNINGS !
✶ another tiktok trend, some kissing. really just pure fluff.
word count : 1k
gif by @sophie-baek
Garrett isn’t really on social media.
He posts the occasional photo dump every six months, maybe a story when the two of you go out on dates, but for the most part, he stays far away from it.
Which means you can pull practically any trending prank on him, and he’ll never see it coming.
Getting him to agree had been easy. One kiss to his pouty lips and he caved. Garrett never needs much convincing when it comes to you. If you asked him to jump, he’d probably ask how high.
Which is exactly why he’d agreed to your mysterious “lip balm challenge” without so much as a question.
So now you’re sitting on his lap on the desk chair in his room, your phone propped up on a stack of textbooks and random notebooks. Various flavoured lip balms are scattered across the desk between his laptop with the unfinished essay he’d been working on before you barged in and distracted him.
Not that he seemed to mind.
“What are we doing again?” Garrett murmurs against the shell of your ear, his voice low.
One arm is wrapped loosely around your waist, his thumb absentmindedly tracing circles against your side beneath your shirt while his other hand rests possessively on your thigh, giving it an occasional squeeze. He’s buried his face in your neck, clearly much more interested in kissing you than filming anything.
You laugh softly.
“I bought some lip balms and you have to guess the flavour,” you explain, trying—and failing—not to smile at the thought of the reaction you know is coming.
“Hm, okay.”
He presses a lingering kiss beneath your ear with a content sigh, his chin resting on your shoulder while he waits patiently for you to start.
You hit record and brighten immediately, holding up the collection of colorful tubes.
“So, I’ll be testing these flavoured lip balms and my current boyfriend, Garrett, has to guess the flavour,” you say smoothly, feeling the way he freezes beneath you. “They’re pretty wacky flavors, so we’ll see how well he does.”
For a moment, he’s completely silent. But then, without a word, Garrett reaches around you and presses stop to the recording.
“I’m sorry,” he says slowly, his eyebrows drawing together. “What did you just say?”
You roll your eyes in mock annoyance. “Baby, I already explained the trend to you. Keep up.”
His expression somehow becomes even more offended when you ignore him and press record again, popping open one of the lip balms.
“Here,” you say, turning toward him after applying it.
But, to your surprise, he dodges your kiss.
“Garrett, come on,” you whine, puckering your lips.
“I’m not kissing you if you think I’m your ‘current boyfriend’.”
His pout is ridiculous.
“It’s just a saying,” you huff, desperately trying not to laugh.
“Well, I don’t like it.” He removes his hands from you and crosses his arms dramatically. “Do you have a list somewhere? Future boyfriends lined up for when you get tired of your ‘current’ one?”
You nearly lose it.
Instead, you bite the inside of your cheek and turn further in his lap, your phone continuing to record in the background, utterly forgotten.
“It was a joke, baby.”
“Don’t call me that,” he mutters.
His eyes soften immediately afterward, though, because apparently even fake indignation has limits when he’s looking at you.
“Only my forever partner gets to call me that.”
“Aww,” you coo, heart melting at his words. You wrap your arms around his neck and press a kiss to the tip of his nose.
He watches you carefully, his expression suspicious but completely helpless when you smile at him.
“It was a prank,” you whisper, your lips brushing his.
“Not a very funny one,” Garrett grumbles.
“No, like, that's the only reason we’re recording something.”
You nod toward your phone with a grin, which is when understanding dawns on his face.
“I knew you were being sneaky,” he whispers back, shaking his head fondly.
Garrett smiles, and it isn’t one of his cocky grins or the easy smile he gives reporters and teammates. It’s the smile that only ever belongs to you, the one reserved for quiet moments and whispered confessions, and it makes your heart squeeze because you know you’re one of the very few people who get to see it.
“There’s nothing current about us,” you confess softly, playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. “I hope you know that.”
“Oh, I know that.” He then smirks. “Already bought a ring, so you can’t get rid of me now.”
“What?!” Your shriek echoes through the room, earning a burst of laughter from him when you smack his shoulder with a little too much force.
“Yeah, but since you already told everyone I’m your ‘current boyfriend’, I guess I’ll have to take it back…”
You stare at him. “I can’t tell if you're joking.”
“Guess you’ll have to find out.”
His grin widens at your expression, leaning forward and reaching past you to stop the recording. His hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers tangling gently in your hair as he finally kisses you.
And apparently, he’s been waiting. Because the second your lips touch, he deepens the kiss, pulling you flush against him with a pleased hum.
The chair squeaks beneath the two of you as he stands, effortlessly lifting you along with him.
By the time he finally pulls away, you’re slightly breathless and staring at him with flushed cheeks.
“Hm,” he says thoughtfully.
“What?” You murmur, watching as his tongue darts out to lick his lips.
“Cherry cola?”
“Huh?”
“The lip balm.”
Your brows furrow for a second before realization dawns on you. Right, the stupid challenge. The whole reason you'd dragged Garrett away from his homework and set your phone up in the first place had almost completely slipped your mind after he'd kissed you senseless.
“Um, yeah,” you answer after a beat. “It was.”
“It’s nice,” he says, his eyes sparkling mischievously. And before you can even process it, he tosses you onto the bed with a laugh.
The playful look on his face—and the unmistakable glint in his eyes—tell you that he definitely hasn't forgotten your little “current boyfriend” comment just yet.
NOTE : i really debated if it should say ‘forever girlfriend’ or ‘forever partner’ but to me forever girlfriend implies like never changing that status or getting married so idk i decided on partner. call me the woker i guess. also kinda hate this but oh well 🙃
pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader
summary – figure skating should not look like that, garrett decides. it also shouldn't involve another guy dropping his girlfriend.
warnings – figure skating injury, failed lift, pain, brief panic, jealousy, protective behaviour, strong language
notes from me – based on a couple of requests that i combined!! i hope u enjoy babes!!
word count – 4.9k
navigation – masterlist |
The problem, Garrett thinks, is that figure skating shouldn't look like that.
It looks too good. It looks like somebody took all the brutal, ugly, body-destroying parts of being an athlete and then had the nerve to cover them in clean lines and soft music and a little white practice skirt that keeps flicking up every time she turns.
It looks like balance and force and trust all disguised as something delicate enough that the idiots sitting beside him have started making wounded animal noises every time she glides past the boards.
Which is, obviously, not helping.
“She’s kind of insane, dude,” Logan says from Garrett’s left, elbows planted on his knees, chin tipped up toward the ice with the open, helpless awe of a man watching someone do something he understands is hard, but absolutely cannot personally replicate without dying.
Garrett doesn't look at him. Garrett is busy being mature. Calm. Supportive. A boyfriend who understands that his girlfriend is a collegiate athlete with a partner and a routine and years of training that existed before him and will continue to exist regardless of whether or not Garrett Graham’s lower intestine has decided to twist itself into a knot every time another man puts both hands on her waist.
“Yeah,” he says, flatly. “She’s good.”
Dean snorts from the other side of Tucker. “She’s good,” he repeats. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Garrett’s jaw works once. Out on the ice, she pushes backward into a clean, sweeping curve, one arm extended, the other caught in Avery’s hand.
Avery. Stupid fucking name.
Garrett has nothing against the guy as a person, technically, except for the obvious crimes of being tall, male, decent on skates, and currently in possession of his girlfriend’s hand while she looks like that.
He's probably fine. He'd introduced himself with a friendly enough smile, had called Garrett man in the harmless athlete way, had been polite to her, had checked the lift timing twice, hadn't done a single thing wrong besides existing in a category Garrett has recently decided is aggressive.
“She’s better than good,” Tucker says, because Tucker is nice and honest and willing to throw gasoline onto a very controlled, very internal fire. “That edge thing she did before? That was wild.”
“It’s called a bracket,” Garrett says automatically.
All three of them turn to look at him.
He keeps staring forward. “What?”
Dean’s grin arrives slowly, the way bad weather rolls in. “Sorry, Professor Blades. Didn’t know we were dealing with a scholar.”
“She tells me stuff.”
“Oh, I bet she does.”
Garrett finally cuts his eyes over. “You wanna finish that thought?”
Dean lifts both hands, delighted. “Nope. Not at all.”
Logan leans forward a little more, squinting through the glass. “Is this the guy you hate?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“You called him Pairs Boy for, like, two weeks.”
“That’s not hate. That’s identification.”
Tucker makes a low sound that is either agreement or an attempt not to laugh directly in his captain’s face. “He seems okay.”
“He’s fine,” Garrett says, and because the universe is committed to ruining him, this is the exact moment Avery’s hands settle firmly at her waist.
It's choreography. It's positioning. It's the same neutral athletic contact Garrett himself has done a thousand times on the ice, shoulder checks and glove taps and hands braced briefly on teammates during drills, bodies moving in proximity because sports are, unfortunately, made of bodies.
Avery’s fingers spread at her ribs and Garrett’s brain, which has survived championship pressure, Phil Graham, playoff overtime, and Dean Di Laurentis explaining the plot of a reality show with no women wearing full shirts, immediately becomes a smoking hole in the ground.
Dean sees his face and actually laughs. “Oh my God,” he says. “You’re gonna chip a tooth.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to challenge him to a duel.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You know he has to touch her, right?” Logan asks, which is such an obviously Logan thing to say that Garrett considers shoving him off the bench on principle. “Like, that’s the sport.”
Garrett turns his head very slowly. “Thank you, John. I had no idea.”
Logan grins. “Just checking.”
On the ice, she and Avery pick up speed.
That shuts them all up for a few seconds. Even Dean stops being Dean long enough to watch properly, because the room changes when she moves like this.
It isn’t the careful, slow, rehab-framed skating Garrett first learned with her, those early mornings when every lap felt like something fragile being carried across a room full of sharp corners.
This is different. This is closer to what she must have been before the injury took a bite out of her life and made her body something she had to negotiate with instead of command.
She’s still not reckless. Garrett can see the slight caution in her landings if he looks for it, the tiny guarded shift in the knee, the way she checks her weight for half a breath before trusting it fully.
He knows her well enough now to read the places other people would only call graceful. But she’s fast. Controlled. Her face has gone focused in that quiet, inward way that makes everyone else on the rink feel briefly less important.
Her hair is twisted back, pieces coming loose at the sides from exertion, cheeks pink from cold and work, mouth parted around her breath. The skirt moves around her thighs, pale against the black of her tights, and every time she extends a leg behind her the line of her body looks so clean it makes Garrett’s chest do something weird and unpleasantly sincere.
She's incredible. That's the other problem. The bigger one, maybe. Jealousy is stupid, and he knows it. The part underneath is worse.
The part where he watches her fly across the ice with another person’s timing stitched into hers and feels, not excluded, but confronted by the fact that there are whole languages of her body he's only just beginning to learn.
Avery lifts one arm. She takes it. They turn together, close enough now that their shoulders almost brush, her hand sliding to his forearm, his other hand at the back of her waist as he guides her through the entry into a spin.
Garrett’s fingers curl against the edge of the bench.
Dean, of course, whispers, “Thoughts and prayers.”
“I will bench you.”
“We’re not even playing.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Tucker’s mouth twitches. “You know she can see you through the glass, and you keep making that face.”
That, unfortunately, makes Garrett straighten his expression through sheer force of will. It's one thing to be jealous in the privacy of his own horrible little skull. It's another to have her look over and catch him visibly sulking because her skating partner is doing skating partner things during skating partner practice.
She would get that soft, amused little crease between her brows. She would try not to laugh because she’s nice, and then she would laugh anyway because she's less nice when she feels safe, which is one of his favourite things about her.
Out on the ice, the music shifts. Avery says something too low to hear, and she nods once.
Garrett recognises the setup before he knows the name of it. The lift is one they've been talking about all week. In careful little fragments she gives him when they’re lying in his bed or sitting in the dining hall with her knee tucked against his under the table.
Avery keeps rushing the entry. My timing feels off. It’s fine, it’s just annoying. Cam said I’m cleared for it, so don’t do your face. No, not that face. Garrett.
He does his face now without meaning to.
Avery’s hands settle. She bends her knees slightly, finding the rhythm. She looks tiny beside him for one ridiculous second, which Garrett knows isn't fair because she's not fragile, she's made of muscle and skill and sharp, quiet stubbornness, but then Avery’s hands are around her waist and she’s stepping into the lift and Garrett’s entire body goes tense in immediate, full-system objection.
“Jesus,” Logan mutters, not joking now.
For one second, it works. Avery lifts her cleanly, and she rises above the ice in this stunning, impossible line, one leg extended, arms reaching like the whole cold room has opened under her.
Even Garrett, in the middle of hating every single element of this, feels the breath leave him. She looks unreal up there, like every hard thing she's ever done to herself has learned how to look effortless for four seconds at a time.
Then the timing goes wrong.
It's fast enough that Garrett almost doesn’t understand it until his body has already moved. Avery’s grip shifts. Her hip drops half an inch. One blade catches air wrong, then ice, then panic flickers across Avery’s face in a way Garrett sees with awful clarity through the boards.
He tries to save it. Garrett will give him that later, maybe. The guy tries. His arms clamp, one hand catching at her side, but the lift has already fallen out of itself.
She hits the ice hard. Her shoulder takes too much of it, then her hip, the sound of her body striking the surface sharp enough to cut through the rink, and she slides several feet before stopping near the circle with one leg bent under her and one arm curled instinctively against her chest.
For half a second nobody moves, then Avery's on his knees beside her, white-faced. “Oh my God. Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Garrett's already over the boards.
He doesn't remember deciding to move. One second he's sitting with the boys, the next his skates hit the ice, and he's crossing the rink with the kind of speed that makes somebody behind him swear. The cold air tears at his face. His stomach has dropped so far through the floor it feels like it’s somewhere under the zamboni bay.
She's moving by the time he reaches her, which helps and also doesn't help at all. She’s rolled slightly onto her back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open around a low, annoyed groan that's very much alive and very much in pain.
“Fuck,” she says, small and furious. “Ow.”
Garrett drops beside her so fast his knees bite cold through the fabric of his sweats. “Hey. Hey, baby.” His hands hover for one tight second because everything in him wants to touch and check and gather, and the athlete in him knows better than to start hauling someone up after a fall like that just because his heart has decided to behave like an idiot. “Look at me. You good?”
Her eyes open. They find him, which helps more than anything else has so far. The first breath she takes after that is shaky, but it comes with a little grimace that's nearly a smile if someone is generous and afraid enough.
“Hi,” she says, like this is a normal location for him to appear.
His laugh comes out once, breathless and not remotely amused. “Hi. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah.” She blinks hard and shifts her shoulder, immediately regretting it if the way her face pinches means anything. “Same.”
Avery's still crouched on the other side of her, hands hovering with the horror of a man who's just dropped another human being and may never psychologically recover. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I had it and then I– I don’t know, my grip slipped or the entry was–”
She turns her head toward him, eyes sharpening through the pain. “You told me you had it.”
“I thought I did,” Avery says, miserable. “I swear to God, I thought I did. I’m so sorry.”
This is a deeply inconvenient combination and he has no interest in processing it while his girlfriend is still on the ice looking small and pissed off and hurt enough that her fingers have curled tight against the front of her own practice jacket.
“Can you move everything?” Garrett asks, voice lower now, controlled in the way it gets when it has no other choice.
She gives him a look, faintly offended even from the ice. “Everything?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m not being cute. I’m on the floor.”
“You’re on the ice.”
She rolls her eyes. “That feels like a technicality.”
Behind him, there's the scrape and scatter of hockey skates as the boys come closer but not too close. Tucker’s voice arrives first, careful in a way Garrett appreciates even while wanting everyone to shut up. “She good?”
“Give her a sec,” Garrett says without looking back.
“I’m good,” she calls, and then winces immediately because calling anything anywhere has apparently pulled at her shoulder. “Ow. Okay. Medium good.”
Logan makes a strangled sound from near the boards. “Medium good is not good.”
She lifts her uninjured hand in a weak thumbs-up anyway, because she would rather die than have a group of hockey players start treating her like a tragic little rink casualty. “All good.”
Dean, quietly but with feeling, says, “That was a fucking wipeout.”
Garrett shoots him a look over his shoulder.
Dean lifts both hands.
Garrett turns back to her. His palm has found her knee by then, not the bad one, not the one with all the old history in it, the other knee through the smooth chill of her tights. “Can you sit up?”
She nods once. “Yeah. Just… slow.”
“Okay.” He slides one hand behind her upper back, careful to avoid the shoulder she landed on, the other catching her hand. “Use me.”
Avery shifts like he wants to help too, and Garrett feels something ugly and immediate move through him before he can civilise it. She must feel it too, because her fingers tighten around Garrett’s and she says, softly but clearly, “I've got Garrett.”
It shouldn't feel as good as it does, considering the circumstances. Garrett doesn't smile, because he's not a monster. But something in his chest unlocks by one hot, stupid notch anyway.
Avery sits back at once, nodding too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Garrett helps her upright with as little jostling as possible. Even so, her breath catches when her body comes vertical, a sharp little inhale through her teeth that goes straight under his ribs and turns his voice gentler by force.
“I know,” he murmurs, close enough that only she gets it. “I know. Easy.”
Her forehead nearly touches his shoulder for half a second. Not fully leaning, because they're still in the middle of the rink and there are people watching and she has pride in places that don't always serve her. But her weight tips toward him, just enough for his hand to firm at her back.
“Grazed,” she says after a second. “Hip and shoulder, I think. Maybe elbow. Nothing dramatic.”
Garrett looks at the angry red scrape already showing near the edge of her sleeve where the fabric has ridden up. “That looks dramatic.”
“It’s not.”
“You say that about everything.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You’re very concussed if you think I’m not taking you to the medic.”
“I’m not concussed.” She blinks up at him, and there's enough irritation in her face now that some of the worst fear unclenches in his spine. “My head didn’t hit.”
“Good. Great. Love that. Still getting checked.”
She exhales, then nods, giving in faster than he expected, which tells him it hurts more than she wants to say. “Yeah. Okay. Fuck, it hurts. What the hell.”
Avery makes a wounded sound. “I’m so sorry.”
She looks back at him, and the edge in her face softens slightly, not enough to let him off the hook completely but enough to keep him alive. “I know. I know you didn’t mean to.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I just–”
“But don’t tell me you have it if you don’t have it,” she says, quieter now. “I would’ve bailed out sooner.”
Avery’s face goes worse. “Yeah. No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Garrett’s hand has settled more securely at her waist now, partly because she's upright and partly because his body has decided that if Avery’s hands can be there for choreography then Garrett’s hands can be there for literally all other reasons, including medical evacuation and personal sanity.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Use me,” he says again.
This time, she does. Fully. One hand grips his forearm, the other hooks around the back of his shoulder, and Garrett rises with her slowly, keeping his stance solid beneath them both.
Her skates scrape once, finding balance. Pain flashes across her face and disappears fast, tucked away with the efficient misery of someone who has been trained too well in performing fine.
He doesn’t call her on it in front of everyone. He only bends his head close to hers and murmurs, “Don’t do that.”
Her eyes flick to him. “Do what?”
“Act fine for my idiot friends.”
That gets the smallest laugh out of her. It costs her. He sees that too.
“I’m fine-ish,” she says.
“Fine-ish gets you benched.”
“I already hate this relationship.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” she agrees, and the smile, tiny as it is, makes his chest hurt. “I don’t.”
They start toward the boards slowly, her weight tucked carefully into his side. Garrett matches her pace without making a production of it, one arm around her waist, his other hand ready in front of her in case she wobbles.
It's the slowest he's ever crossed this rink while this angry. Somewhere behind them, Avery's still apologising to the coach who's come over with a clipboard and the pinched expression of a woman already mentally rewriting half a practice schedule.
The hockey boys part like they're witnessing royalty or an injured woodland creature with blades strapped to its feet.
“You okay?” Tucker asks when they get near enough, his face open and genuinely concerned.
She nods, giving them another thumbs-up that is less convincing now but still valiant. “All good.”
Logan’s eyes drop to her shoulder and back up, wince already forming. “That was insane.”
“Very helpful review,” she says, breath catching at the end but her mouth quirking anyway.
Dean points at her, solemn. “I would like to say, from the bottom of my heart, that I did not know your sport was trying to murder you guys like that.”
She looks at him for half a second, then actually laughs, soft and pained. “What did you think was happening?”
“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Sparkles. Vibes.”
Garrett would laugh if he weren’t currently busy hating the fact that she's leaning heavier against him with every inch they get off the ice. Instead he hooks his arm more firmly around her and guides her through the little gate to the bench area.
The second she sits, the composure slips by a degree. Her shoulders drop first, then her jaw loosens, then her eyes shut for one breath too long as if sitting down has given the pain permission to arrive properly.
“Yeah,” he says, already crouching in front of her. “Okay. Skates off.”
Her eyes open. “You don’t have to.”
“Baby.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” He looks up at her from where he’s already reaching for the laces. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She stares at him for a second, then her face gives in first, softening around the mouth in a way that still seems to surprise her when it happens in public. “Okay.”
Garrett unties her skates carefully, working the damp laces loose with fingers that are still colder than he expected them to be. Her tights are scraped at one hip, a pale line of ice burn visible beneath the torn fabric, and the sight makes his jaw tighten all over again.
From somewhere above them, Dean says, “G, buddy, you look like you’re about to commit a rink crime.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that today.”
Logan leans one hip against the boards, trying and failing not to grin now that the immediate terror has passed. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t hate Avery, you did kind of look like you were about to bodycheck a figure skater.”
“I still might.”
She snorts, then immediately presses her lips together and lifts one hand to her shoulder. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”
Garrett looks up fast. “Stop moving.”
“I laughed, Garrett. I didn’t run a marathon.”
Garrett slides one skate off and sets it beside the bench, then starts on the other.
His hands are gentle, but his mood isn’t, and she clearly knows it because she nudges his stomach lightly with the toe of her sock. “Don’t be mad.”
He glances up. “At you?”
“No.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the ice, where Avery's still standing with both hands on top of his head, looking like guilt has physically aged him. “At him.”
Garrett follows her gaze, then looks back down at the laces because his face has not yet been cleared for public use. “I hate that guy.”
She giggles, quick and helpless, then winces so sharply his hands stop. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” he says, standing at once. “Okay. No more giggling. Sit still.”
“You’re so bossy.”
He can't bite back his smirk. “You like it when I’m bossy.”
Dean makes a choking sound. Tucker immediately says, “Nope. We’re all walking away.”
“We’re in skates,” Logan says.
“Then glide away, bro.”
Her cheeks have gone pink, partly from pain and partly, Garrett suspects with a grim little flicker of satisfaction, from him. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny.”
“You’re jealous and annoying.”
“I’m emotionally injured.”
That gets her again, a tiny laugh she tries to swallow and mostly fails, one hand going carefully to her ribs as if holding herself still will make humour less dangerous. Garrett shakes his head, but his mouth betrays him.
“Seriously,” she says, quieter now, once the boys have drifted a few feet away under the very weak pretence of giving them privacy. “He didn’t mean to drop me.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I can know something and still want to punch it.”
Her eyes warm at the edges. “Very evolved.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You were watching like you wanted to climb through the glass even before I fell.”
Garrett peels off her second skate and sets it beside the first. “Was not.”
“Garrett.”
He looks up at her. She’s sitting there with one socked foot slightly tucked under the bench, practice jacket unzipped at the throat, hair escaping its bun in soft, sweaty pieces.
Her face is still a little pale under the pink of exertion, and there's a scrape blooming angry at her elbow now, and somehow she's looking at him with this small, fond amusement like his jealousy is ridiculous and known and maybe, God help him, a little liked.
He sighs. “Fine. Maybe I wasn't enjoying the... artistic integrity of the waist-grabbing.”
Her mouth curves. “The artistic integrity?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s part of the choreography.”
“I’m aware.”
“You know that?”
“I can understand waist contact.”
“Can you?”
“No,” he says. “But I’m being brave.”
Her laugh comes out softer this time, careful, and she reaches with her good hand to brush the back of her fingers over his cheek. It’s small. Barely anything. But doing it here, in front of the rink and the boys and Avery still looking like he might throw himself into traffic, makes something stupid and warm move under his ribs.
“My brave hockey boy,” she says, very quietly, almost teasing but not only.
Garrett catches her hand before she can pull it away and presses his mouth to her knuckles. “Don’t be cute. I’m mad at you.”
She blinks, amused. “At me?”
“For getting dropped.”
“I’ll try not to be so inconsiderate next time.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll schedule the fall.”
“That’d help.”
She smiles, then it fades when she shifts her shoulder again, pain moving through her face in a duller, heavier wave. Garrett’s body reacts before his thoughts do. He straightens, one hand going carefully to the back of her head, thumb near her temple.
“Hey,” he says, softer. “No more jokes. Where’s it hurt worst?”
She exhales through her nose. “Shoulder. Hip. Elbow’s just gross.”
“Head?”
“No.”
“Neck?”
“Nope.”
“Knee?”
She pauses, and his stomach drops. Then she shakes her head. “No. Scared it for a second, but no. It’s okay.”
He believes her because she knows that part of her body too well to lie casually about it. Still, his thumb moves once near her hairline, and her eyes flicker as if the touch has landed somewhere bigger than the question.
“Okay,” he says. “We’re going to the medic.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You think I’m sending you with Pairs Boy?”
Her mouth twitches. “He has a name.”
“I’ve chosen not to use it.”
“It’s Avery.”
“Mm.”
“Garrett.”
“What?”
“Say his name.”
He looks at her for one long second. “Fine. We’re not sending you with Avocado.”
She stares at him, then has to press her lips together so hard it nearly ruins him. “That's not his name.”
He shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”
Tucker steps forward at once, practical as ever. “Want me to grab your bag?”
She looks up at him, surprised by the immediate offer, then nods. “Please. It’s the black one near the far bench.”
“Got it.”
Dean points vaguely toward the hallway. “You want, like, ice? Not rink ice. Regular ice. Medical ice.”
She gives him a small, pained smile. “That would actually be good.”
Dean nods with great seriousness, thrilled to have been assigned a useful task instead of just standing there making jokes around mild trauma. “I can do that.”
Logan looks between them all. “What do I do?”
Garrett says, “Nothing.”
She says, at the same time, “Maybe tell Avery I’m not dead.”
Logan points at her. “On it.”
Garrett helps her stand, this time in sneakers because Tucker has reappeared with her bag and Garrett has made quick work of getting her feet into something that doesn’t involve blades.
She leans into him more openly now, one arm around his waist, her head tipping for one second against his shoulder when she thinks the boys aren't looking. Garrett doesn't tell her they definitely are. He only tightens his arm around her and lets her have the illusion.
As they start toward the hall, Avery calls her name from the ice, still pale, still stricken. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’ll– I’ll text you later, okay? Or call. Whatever. Just… I’m sorry.”
She turns as much as her shoulder allows, Garrett’s arm still keeping her close. “It’s okay,” she says, then amends with a wince and a little honesty, “It’s not okay, actually, but we’ll talk later.”
Avery nods fast. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”
Garrett feels her hand press once into his side, a warning without looking at him. Behave.
He looks at Avery and gives the tightest nod known to man. Avery, wisely, accepts that as mercy.
“You’re really jealous,” she says, softly enough that it isn’t quite an accusation.
Garrett lets out a breath and looks down at his hand. “Yeah.”
“It’s kind of stupid.”
“I know.”
“You know I have to do partner work.”
“I know that too.”
“And Avery isn’t–”
“I know,” he says again, then looks up at her properly because she deserves that much, even if it is embarrassing and he would rather be hit by a slow-moving Zamboni than have Dean hear any of it. “I know. It’s not about him. Not really.”
Her expression shifts, the teasing thinning into something gentler.
Garrett drags a hand through his hair. “I just hate watching somebody else be the one who catches you.” His mouth twists because that sounds bigger than he meant it to, but it's out now. “And then he didn’t.”
Her face goes very still.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “That was–”
“No,” she says. “No, I get it.”
“You do?”
She nods once, slow. “I like that you want to be the one who catches me.”
Garrett stares at her.
Her cheeks colour almost immediately, but she holds his gaze anyway, shy and sore and sitting in terrible fluorescent lighting with a scraped elbow and ice melt dampening one side of her tights, and somehow she has the nerve to look at him like that. Like he's something she trusts even when the day has literally dropped her onto a rink.
Then, because she clearly cannot survive sincerity for more than seven seconds without offering herself an exit, she adds, “Even if you’re being a psycho about waist contact.”
Garrett laughs, low and helpless. “I’m not being a psycho.”
“You called him Avocado.”
“Yeah, well.” He lifts his head, mouth curving despite himself. “He dropped my girlfriend.”
She softens again at the word. My girlfriend still does that to her sometimes, which Garrett has noticed and absolutely files away like a criminal. Her fingers squeeze his.
“Your girlfriend is okay,” she says.
“Your boyfriend is not.”
“Poor thing.”
“Thank you.”
“You should get him looked at.”
“Too late.”
She smiles then, small and lovely and a little wincing at the edges, and Garrett ducks his head just enough to kiss her. It’s careful because of the shoulder, because of the hallway, because the boys could come back any second with ice and concern and eleven jokes between them.
But it’s still enough. His mouth presses to hers once, warm and grounding, and she exhales into it like the day has finally found a softer place to land.
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pairing – garrett graham x figure skater!reader
summary – figure skating should not look like that, garrett decides. it also shouldn't involve another guy dropping his girlfriend.
warnings – figure skating injury, failed lift, pain, brief panic, jealousy, protective behaviour, strong language
notes from me – based on a couple of requests that i combined!! i hope u enjoy babes!!
word count – 4.9k
navigation – masterlist |
The problem, Garrett thinks, is that figure skating shouldn't look like that.
It looks too good. It looks like somebody took all the brutal, ugly, body-destroying parts of being an athlete and then had the nerve to cover them in clean lines and soft music and a little white practice skirt that keeps flicking up every time she turns.
It looks like balance and force and trust all disguised as something delicate enough that the idiots sitting beside him have started making wounded animal noises every time she glides past the boards.
Which is, obviously, not helping.
“She’s kind of insane, dude,” Logan says from Garrett’s left, elbows planted on his knees, chin tipped up toward the ice with the open, helpless awe of a man watching someone do something he understands is hard, but absolutely cannot personally replicate without dying.
Garrett doesn't look at him. Garrett is busy being mature. Calm. Supportive. A boyfriend who understands that his girlfriend is a collegiate athlete with a partner and a routine and years of training that existed before him and will continue to exist regardless of whether or not Garrett Graham’s lower intestine has decided to twist itself into a knot every time another man puts both hands on her waist.
“Yeah,” he says, flatly. “She’s good.”
Dean snorts from the other side of Tucker. “She’s good,” he repeats. “That’s what you’re going with?”
Garrett’s jaw works once. Out on the ice, she pushes backward into a clean, sweeping curve, one arm extended, the other caught in Avery’s hand.
Avery. Stupid fucking name.
Garrett has nothing against the guy as a person, technically, except for the obvious crimes of being tall, male, decent on skates, and currently in possession of his girlfriend’s hand while she looks like that.
He's probably fine. He'd introduced himself with a friendly enough smile, had called Garrett man in the harmless athlete way, had been polite to her, had checked the lift timing twice, hadn't done a single thing wrong besides existing in a category Garrett has recently decided is aggressive.
“She’s better than good,” Tucker says, because Tucker is nice and honest and willing to throw gasoline onto a very controlled, very internal fire. “That edge thing she did before? That was wild.”
“It’s called a bracket,” Garrett says automatically.
All three of them turn to look at him.
He keeps staring forward. “What?”
Dean’s grin arrives slowly, the way bad weather rolls in. “Sorry, Professor Blades. Didn’t know we were dealing with a scholar.”
“She tells me stuff.”
“Oh, I bet she does.”
Garrett finally cuts his eyes over. “You wanna finish that thought?”
Dean lifts both hands, delighted. “Nope. Not at all.”
Logan leans forward a little more, squinting through the glass. “Is this the guy you hate?”
“I don’t hate him.”
“You called him Pairs Boy for, like, two weeks.”
“That’s not hate. That’s identification.”
Tucker makes a low sound that is either agreement or an attempt not to laugh directly in his captain’s face. “He seems okay.”
“He’s fine,” Garrett says, and because the universe is committed to ruining him, this is the exact moment Avery’s hands settle firmly at her waist.
It's choreography. It's positioning. It's the same neutral athletic contact Garrett himself has done a thousand times on the ice, shoulder checks and glove taps and hands braced briefly on teammates during drills, bodies moving in proximity because sports are, unfortunately, made of bodies.
Avery’s fingers spread at her ribs and Garrett’s brain, which has survived championship pressure, Phil Graham, playoff overtime, and Dean Di Laurentis explaining the plot of a reality show with no women wearing full shirts, immediately becomes a smoking hole in the ground.
Dean sees his face and actually laughs. “Oh my God,” he says. “You’re gonna chip a tooth.”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like you’re about to challenge him to a duel.”
“I said I’m fine.”
“You know he has to touch her, right?” Logan asks, which is such an obviously Logan thing to say that Garrett considers shoving him off the bench on principle. “Like, that’s the sport.”
Garrett turns his head very slowly. “Thank you, John. I had no idea.”
Logan grins. “Just checking.”
On the ice, she and Avery pick up speed.
That shuts them all up for a few seconds. Even Dean stops being Dean long enough to watch properly, because the room changes when she moves like this.
It isn’t the careful, slow, rehab-framed skating Garrett first learned with her, those early mornings when every lap felt like something fragile being carried across a room full of sharp corners.
This is different. This is closer to what she must have been before the injury took a bite out of her life and made her body something she had to negotiate with instead of command.
She’s still not reckless. Garrett can see the slight caution in her landings if he looks for it, the tiny guarded shift in the knee, the way she checks her weight for half a breath before trusting it fully.
He knows her well enough now to read the places other people would only call graceful. But she’s fast. Controlled. Her face has gone focused in that quiet, inward way that makes everyone else on the rink feel briefly less important.
Her hair is twisted back, pieces coming loose at the sides from exertion, cheeks pink from cold and work, mouth parted around her breath. The skirt moves around her thighs, pale against the black of her tights, and every time she extends a leg behind her the line of her body looks so clean it makes Garrett’s chest do something weird and unpleasantly sincere.
She's incredible. That's the other problem. The bigger one, maybe. Jealousy is stupid, and he knows it. The part underneath is worse.
The part where he watches her fly across the ice with another person’s timing stitched into hers and feels, not excluded, but confronted by the fact that there are whole languages of her body he's only just beginning to learn.
Avery lifts one arm. She takes it. They turn together, close enough now that their shoulders almost brush, her hand sliding to his forearm, his other hand at the back of her waist as he guides her through the entry into a spin.
Garrett’s fingers curl against the edge of the bench.
Dean, of course, whispers, “Thoughts and prayers.”
“I will bench you.”
“We’re not even playing.”
“I’ll find a way.”
Tucker’s mouth twitches. “You know she can see you through the glass, and you keep making that face.”
That, unfortunately, makes Garrett straighten his expression through sheer force of will. It's one thing to be jealous in the privacy of his own horrible little skull. It's another to have her look over and catch him visibly sulking because her skating partner is doing skating partner things during skating partner practice.
She would get that soft, amused little crease between her brows. She would try not to laugh because she’s nice, and then she would laugh anyway because she's less nice when she feels safe, which is one of his favourite things about her.
Out on the ice, the music shifts. Avery says something too low to hear, and she nods once.
Garrett recognises the setup before he knows the name of it. The lift is one they've been talking about all week. In careful little fragments she gives him when they’re lying in his bed or sitting in the dining hall with her knee tucked against his under the table.
Avery keeps rushing the entry. My timing feels off. It’s fine, it’s just annoying. Cam said I’m cleared for it, so don’t do your face. No, not that face. Garrett.
He does his face now without meaning to.
Avery’s hands settle. She bends her knees slightly, finding the rhythm. She looks tiny beside him for one ridiculous second, which Garrett knows isn't fair because she's not fragile, she's made of muscle and skill and sharp, quiet stubbornness, but then Avery’s hands are around her waist and she’s stepping into the lift and Garrett’s entire body goes tense in immediate, full-system objection.
“Jesus,” Logan mutters, not joking now.
For one second, it works. Avery lifts her cleanly, and she rises above the ice in this stunning, impossible line, one leg extended, arms reaching like the whole cold room has opened under her.
Even Garrett, in the middle of hating every single element of this, feels the breath leave him. She looks unreal up there, like every hard thing she's ever done to herself has learned how to look effortless for four seconds at a time.
Then the timing goes wrong.
It's fast enough that Garrett almost doesn’t understand it until his body has already moved. Avery’s grip shifts. Her hip drops half an inch. One blade catches air wrong, then ice, then panic flickers across Avery’s face in a way Garrett sees with awful clarity through the boards.
He tries to save it. Garrett will give him that later, maybe. The guy tries. His arms clamp, one hand catching at her side, but the lift has already fallen out of itself.
She hits the ice hard. Her shoulder takes too much of it, then her hip, the sound of her body striking the surface sharp enough to cut through the rink, and she slides several feet before stopping near the circle with one leg bent under her and one arm curled instinctively against her chest.
For half a second nobody moves, then Avery's on his knees beside her, white-faced. “Oh my God. Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”
Garrett's already over the boards.
He doesn't remember deciding to move. One second he's sitting with the boys, the next his skates hit the ice, and he's crossing the rink with the kind of speed that makes somebody behind him swear. The cold air tears at his face. His stomach has dropped so far through the floor it feels like it’s somewhere under the zamboni bay.
She's moving by the time he reaches her, which helps and also doesn't help at all. She’s rolled slightly onto her back, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open around a low, annoyed groan that's very much alive and very much in pain.
“Fuck,” she says, small and furious. “Ow.”
Garrett drops beside her so fast his knees bite cold through the fabric of his sweats. “Hey. Hey, baby.” His hands hover for one tight second because everything in him wants to touch and check and gather, and the athlete in him knows better than to start hauling someone up after a fall like that just because his heart has decided to behave like an idiot. “Look at me. You good?”
Her eyes open. They find him, which helps more than anything else has so far. The first breath she takes after that is shaky, but it comes with a little grimace that's nearly a smile if someone is generous and afraid enough.
“Hi,” she says, like this is a normal location for him to appear.
His laugh comes out once, breathless and not remotely amused. “Hi. You scared the shit out of me.”
“Yeah.” She blinks hard and shifts her shoulder, immediately regretting it if the way her face pinches means anything. “Same.”
Avery's still crouched on the other side of her, hands hovering with the horror of a man who's just dropped another human being and may never psychologically recover. “Dude, I’m so sorry. I had it and then I– I don’t know, my grip slipped or the entry was–”
She turns her head toward him, eyes sharpening through the pain. “You told me you had it.”
“I thought I did,” Avery says, miserable. “I swear to God, I thought I did. I’m so sorry.”
This is a deeply inconvenient combination and he has no interest in processing it while his girlfriend is still on the ice looking small and pissed off and hurt enough that her fingers have curled tight against the front of her own practice jacket.
“Can you move everything?” Garrett asks, voice lower now, controlled in the way it gets when it has no other choice.
She gives him a look, faintly offended even from the ice. “Everything?”
“Don’t be cute.”
“I’m not being cute. I’m on the floor.”
“You’re on the ice.”
She rolls her eyes. “That feels like a technicality.”
Behind him, there's the scrape and scatter of hockey skates as the boys come closer but not too close. Tucker’s voice arrives first, careful in a way Garrett appreciates even while wanting everyone to shut up. “She good?”
“Give her a sec,” Garrett says without looking back.
“I’m good,” she calls, and then winces immediately because calling anything anywhere has apparently pulled at her shoulder. “Ow. Okay. Medium good.”
Logan makes a strangled sound from near the boards. “Medium good is not good.”
She lifts her uninjured hand in a weak thumbs-up anyway, because she would rather die than have a group of hockey players start treating her like a tragic little rink casualty. “All good.”
Dean, quietly but with feeling, says, “That was a fucking wipeout.”
Garrett shoots him a look over his shoulder.
Dean lifts both hands.
Garrett turns back to her. His palm has found her knee by then, not the bad one, not the one with all the old history in it, the other knee through the smooth chill of her tights. “Can you sit up?”
She nods once. “Yeah. Just… slow.”
“Okay.” He slides one hand behind her upper back, careful to avoid the shoulder she landed on, the other catching her hand. “Use me.”
Avery shifts like he wants to help too, and Garrett feels something ugly and immediate move through him before he can civilise it. She must feel it too, because her fingers tighten around Garrett’s and she says, softly but clearly, “I've got Garrett.”
It shouldn't feel as good as it does, considering the circumstances. Garrett doesn't smile, because he's not a monster. But something in his chest unlocks by one hot, stupid notch anyway.
Avery sits back at once, nodding too fast. “Yeah. Yeah, of course.”
Garrett helps her upright with as little jostling as possible. Even so, her breath catches when her body comes vertical, a sharp little inhale through her teeth that goes straight under his ribs and turns his voice gentler by force.
“I know,” he murmurs, close enough that only she gets it. “I know. Easy.”
Her forehead nearly touches his shoulder for half a second. Not fully leaning, because they're still in the middle of the rink and there are people watching and she has pride in places that don't always serve her. But her weight tips toward him, just enough for his hand to firm at her back.
“Grazed,” she says after a second. “Hip and shoulder, I think. Maybe elbow. Nothing dramatic.”
Garrett looks at the angry red scrape already showing near the edge of her sleeve where the fabric has ridden up. “That looks dramatic.”
“It’s not.”
“You say that about everything.”
“I’m very brave.”
“You’re very concussed if you think I’m not taking you to the medic.”
“I’m not concussed.” She blinks up at him, and there's enough irritation in her face now that some of the worst fear unclenches in his spine. “My head didn’t hit.”
“Good. Great. Love that. Still getting checked.”
She exhales, then nods, giving in faster than he expected, which tells him it hurts more than she wants to say. “Yeah. Okay. Fuck, it hurts. What the hell.”
Avery makes a wounded sound. “I’m so sorry.”
She looks back at him, and the edge in her face softens slightly, not enough to let him off the hook completely but enough to keep him alive. “I know. I know you didn’t mean to.”
“I didn’t. I swear. I just–”
“But don’t tell me you have it if you don’t have it,” she says, quieter now. “I would’ve bailed out sooner.”
Avery’s face goes worse. “Yeah. No, you’re right. I’m sorry.”
Garrett’s hand has settled more securely at her waist now, partly because she's upright and partly because his body has decided that if Avery’s hands can be there for choreography then Garrett’s hands can be there for literally all other reasons, including medical evacuation and personal sanity.
“Can you stand?” he asks.
She nods. “Yeah.”
“Use me,” he says again.
This time, she does. Fully. One hand grips his forearm, the other hooks around the back of his shoulder, and Garrett rises with her slowly, keeping his stance solid beneath them both.
Her skates scrape once, finding balance. Pain flashes across her face and disappears fast, tucked away with the efficient misery of someone who has been trained too well in performing fine.
He doesn’t call her on it in front of everyone. He only bends his head close to hers and murmurs, “Don’t do that.”
Her eyes flick to him. “Do what?”
“Act fine for my idiot friends.”
That gets the smallest laugh out of her. It costs her. He sees that too.
“I’m fine-ish,” she says.
“Fine-ish gets you benched.”
“I already hate this relationship.”
“No, you don’t.”
“No,” she agrees, and the smile, tiny as it is, makes his chest hurt. “I don’t.”
They start toward the boards slowly, her weight tucked carefully into his side. Garrett matches her pace without making a production of it, one arm around her waist, his other hand ready in front of her in case she wobbles.
It's the slowest he's ever crossed this rink while this angry. Somewhere behind them, Avery's still apologising to the coach who's come over with a clipboard and the pinched expression of a woman already mentally rewriting half a practice schedule.
The hockey boys part like they're witnessing royalty or an injured woodland creature with blades strapped to its feet.
“You okay?” Tucker asks when they get near enough, his face open and genuinely concerned.
She nods, giving them another thumbs-up that is less convincing now but still valiant. “All good.”
Logan’s eyes drop to her shoulder and back up, wince already forming. “That was insane.”
“Very helpful review,” she says, breath catching at the end but her mouth quirking anyway.
Dean points at her, solemn. “I would like to say, from the bottom of my heart, that I did not know your sport was trying to murder you guys like that.”
She looks at him for half a second, then actually laughs, soft and pained. “What did you think was happening?”
“I don’t know,” Dean says. “Sparkles. Vibes.”
Garrett would laugh if he weren’t currently busy hating the fact that she's leaning heavier against him with every inch they get off the ice. Instead he hooks his arm more firmly around her and guides her through the little gate to the bench area.
The second she sits, the composure slips by a degree. Her shoulders drop first, then her jaw loosens, then her eyes shut for one breath too long as if sitting down has given the pain permission to arrive properly.
“Yeah,” he says, already crouching in front of her. “Okay. Skates off.”
Her eyes open. “You don’t have to.”
“Baby.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can.” He looks up at her from where he’s already reaching for the laces. “I’m doing it anyway.”
She stares at him for a second, then her face gives in first, softening around the mouth in a way that still seems to surprise her when it happens in public. “Okay.”
Garrett unties her skates carefully, working the damp laces loose with fingers that are still colder than he expected them to be. Her tights are scraped at one hip, a pale line of ice burn visible beneath the torn fabric, and the sight makes his jaw tighten all over again.
From somewhere above them, Dean says, “G, buddy, you look like you’re about to commit a rink crime.”
“I’m fine.”
“You keep saying that today.”
Logan leans one hip against the boards, trying and failing not to grin now that the immediate terror has passed. “You know, for a guy who doesn’t hate Avery, you did kind of look like you were about to bodycheck a figure skater.”
“I still might.”
She snorts, then immediately presses her lips together and lifts one hand to her shoulder. “Ow. Don’t make me laugh.”
Garrett looks up fast. “Stop moving.”
“I laughed, Garrett. I didn’t run a marathon.”
Garrett slides one skate off and sets it beside the bench, then starts on the other.
His hands are gentle, but his mood isn’t, and she clearly knows it because she nudges his stomach lightly with the toe of her sock. “Don’t be mad.”
He glances up. “At you?”
“No.” Her eyes flick briefly toward the ice, where Avery's still standing with both hands on top of his head, looking like guilt has physically aged him. “At him.”
Garrett follows her gaze, then looks back down at the laces because his face has not yet been cleared for public use. “I hate that guy.”
She giggles, quick and helpless, then winces so sharply his hands stop. “Shit.”
“Yeah,” he says, standing at once. “Okay. No more giggling. Sit still.”
“You’re so bossy.”
He can't bite back his smirk. “You like it when I’m bossy.”
Dean makes a choking sound. Tucker immediately says, “Nope. We’re all walking away.”
“We’re in skates,” Logan says.
“Then glide away, bro.”
Her cheeks have gone pink, partly from pain and partly, Garrett suspects with a grim little flicker of satisfaction, from him. “You’re not funny.”
“I’m a little funny.”
“You’re jealous and annoying.”
“I’m emotionally injured.”
That gets her again, a tiny laugh she tries to swallow and mostly fails, one hand going carefully to her ribs as if holding herself still will make humour less dangerous. Garrett shakes his head, but his mouth betrays him.
“Seriously,” she says, quieter now, once the boys have drifted a few feet away under the very weak pretence of giving them privacy. “He didn’t mean to drop me.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“I can know something and still want to punch it.”
Her eyes warm at the edges. “Very evolved.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You were watching like you wanted to climb through the glass even before I fell.”
Garrett peels off her second skate and sets it beside the first. “Was not.”
“Garrett.”
He looks up at her. She’s sitting there with one socked foot slightly tucked under the bench, practice jacket unzipped at the throat, hair escaping its bun in soft, sweaty pieces.
Her face is still a little pale under the pink of exertion, and there's a scrape blooming angry at her elbow now, and somehow she's looking at him with this small, fond amusement like his jealousy is ridiculous and known and maybe, God help him, a little liked.
He sighs. “Fine. Maybe I wasn't enjoying the... artistic integrity of the waist-grabbing.”
Her mouth curves. “The artistic integrity?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s part of the choreography.”
“I’m aware.”
“You know that?”
“I can understand waist contact.”
“Can you?”
“No,” he says. “But I’m being brave.”
Her laugh comes out softer this time, careful, and she reaches with her good hand to brush the back of her fingers over his cheek. It’s small. Barely anything. But doing it here, in front of the rink and the boys and Avery still looking like he might throw himself into traffic, makes something stupid and warm move under his ribs.
“My brave hockey boy,” she says, very quietly, almost teasing but not only.
Garrett catches her hand before she can pull it away and presses his mouth to her knuckles. “Don’t be cute. I’m mad at you.”
She blinks, amused. “At me?”
“For getting dropped.”
“I’ll try not to be so inconsiderate next time.”
“Good.”
“Maybe I’ll schedule the fall.”
“That’d help.”
She smiles, then it fades when she shifts her shoulder again, pain moving through her face in a duller, heavier wave. Garrett’s body reacts before his thoughts do. He straightens, one hand going carefully to the back of her head, thumb near her temple.
“Hey,” he says, softer. “No more jokes. Where’s it hurt worst?”
She exhales through her nose. “Shoulder. Hip. Elbow’s just gross.”
“Head?”
“No.”
“Neck?”
“Nope.”
“Knee?”
She pauses, and his stomach drops. Then she shakes her head. “No. Scared it for a second, but no. It’s okay.”
He believes her because she knows that part of her body too well to lie casually about it. Still, his thumb moves once near her hairline, and her eyes flicker as if the touch has landed somewhere bigger than the question.
“Okay,” he says. “We’re going to the medic.”
“We?”
“Yes, we. You think I’m sending you with Pairs Boy?”
Her mouth twitches. “He has a name.”
“I’ve chosen not to use it.”
“It’s Avery.”
“Mm.”
“Garrett.”
“What?”
“Say his name.”
He looks at her for one long second. “Fine. We’re not sending you with Avocado.”
She stares at him, then has to press her lips together so hard it nearly ruins him. “That's not his name.”
He shrugs. “Agree to disagree.”
Tucker steps forward at once, practical as ever. “Want me to grab your bag?”
She looks up at him, surprised by the immediate offer, then nods. “Please. It’s the black one near the far bench.”
“Got it.”
Dean points vaguely toward the hallway. “You want, like, ice? Not rink ice. Regular ice. Medical ice.”
She gives him a small, pained smile. “That would actually be good.”
Dean nods with great seriousness, thrilled to have been assigned a useful task instead of just standing there making jokes around mild trauma. “I can do that.”
Logan looks between them all. “What do I do?”
Garrett says, “Nothing.”
She says, at the same time, “Maybe tell Avery I’m not dead.”
Logan points at her. “On it.”
Garrett helps her stand, this time in sneakers because Tucker has reappeared with her bag and Garrett has made quick work of getting her feet into something that doesn’t involve blades.
She leans into him more openly now, one arm around his waist, her head tipping for one second against his shoulder when she thinks the boys aren't looking. Garrett doesn't tell her they definitely are. He only tightens his arm around her and lets her have the illusion.
As they start toward the hall, Avery calls her name from the ice, still pale, still stricken. “Seriously, I’m sorry. I’ll– I’ll text you later, okay? Or call. Whatever. Just… I’m sorry.”
She turns as much as her shoulder allows, Garrett’s arm still keeping her close. “It’s okay,” she says, then amends with a wince and a little honesty, “It’s not okay, actually, but we’ll talk later.”
Avery nods fast. “Yeah. Yeah, totally.”
Garrett feels her hand press once into his side, a warning without looking at him. Behave.
He looks at Avery and gives the tightest nod known to man. Avery, wisely, accepts that as mercy.
“You’re really jealous,” she says, softly enough that it isn’t quite an accusation.
Garrett lets out a breath and looks down at his hand. “Yeah.”
“It’s kind of stupid.”
“I know.”
“You know I have to do partner work.”
“I know that too.”
“And Avery isn’t–”
“I know,” he says again, then looks up at her properly because she deserves that much, even if it is embarrassing and he would rather be hit by a slow-moving Zamboni than have Dean hear any of it. “I know. It’s not about him. Not really.”
Her expression shifts, the teasing thinning into something gentler.
Garrett drags a hand through his hair. “I just hate watching somebody else be the one who catches you.” His mouth twists because that sounds bigger than he meant it to, but it's out now. “And then he didn’t.”
Her face goes very still.
“Sorry,” he mutters. “That was–”
“No,” she says. “No, I get it.”
“You do?”
She nods once, slow. “I like that you want to be the one who catches me.”
Garrett stares at her.
Her cheeks colour almost immediately, but she holds his gaze anyway, shy and sore and sitting in terrible fluorescent lighting with a scraped elbow and ice melt dampening one side of her tights, and somehow she has the nerve to look at him like that. Like he's something she trusts even when the day has literally dropped her onto a rink.
Then, because she clearly cannot survive sincerity for more than seven seconds without offering herself an exit, she adds, “Even if you’re being a psycho about waist contact.”
Garrett laughs, low and helpless. “I’m not being a psycho.”
“You called him Avocado.”
“Yeah, well.” He lifts his head, mouth curving despite himself. “He dropped my girlfriend.”
She softens again at the word. My girlfriend still does that to her sometimes, which Garrett has noticed and absolutely files away like a criminal. Her fingers squeeze his.
“Your girlfriend is okay,” she says.
“Your boyfriend is not.”
“Poor thing.”
“Thank you.”
“You should get him looked at.”
“Too late.”
She smiles then, small and lovely and a little wincing at the edges, and Garrett ducks his head just enough to kiss her. It’s careful because of the shoulder, because of the hallway, because the boys could come back any second with ice and concern and eleven jokes between them.
But it’s still enough. His mouth presses to hers once, warm and grounding, and she exhales into it like the day has finally found a softer place to land.
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Prompt: you’ve hit the stage of your pregnancy when your body demands the weirdest food combinations ever. your brother macklin hasn’t said anything about them, until now
requested!
Mack knows you’re pregnant. It’s not exactly a fact he forgot when you and Sidney flew to San Jose just for a ‘family dinner’, but told them the news. It’s not exactly something he can forget when everyday he thinks of something he feels the pressing need to tell you. And now, it’s not something he can forget as you and Sid come to your parent’s house in the summer.
In fact, Macklin has found that he’s more protective over you than he’s ever been. If you need anything, him and Sidney are there at the drop of a hat, even though you reassure them constantly that you can still exist.
The thing that stops Mack in his tracks however isn’t the fact that you cry at anything, can fall asleep anywhere, or the fact that you’re five months pregnant which means you can’t even see your feet. It’s the food. Specifically, the food combinations.
“Sid.” You whisper, the room completely dark except for the light of the moon. “Sidney.” You whisper again a little louder.
His eyes open, and he turns quickly to you. Registering your voice.
“Are you okay? The-“
You cut him off before he can panic that something’s wrong, a smile on your face at his concern. “I’m fine Sid, I’m just starving.” You whisper with that innocent face you get when you totally want something weird in the middle of the night.
“What do you have in mind?” He asks making sure to school his expression, not that he wants to laugh at you. But sometimes he can’t help but let out a chuckle as he sees how giddy you are.
“It’s normal I promise.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.” He mumbles back, causing you to swat at his arm in defense. He laughs again, his hand going down to rest on your stomach.
“Chocolate covered goldfish?” You say almost in a questioning tone.
It takes no time for Sidney to respond, no sigh of annoyance or groan. He only stands, coming around to your side of the bed to help you up. Which you’ve scolded him for because you’re not that pregnant, but you appreciate it all the same.
“Don’t forget your slippers.” Sidney says, and even in the dark you could tell he was watching you slip your feet into the fuzzy pink slippers Mack got you for your birthday.
And as you and Sidney get downstairs, and he moves around the kitchen, melting a bowl of chocolate chips in the microwave and grabbing the huge box of goldfish, you smile. Your hand resting on your stomach as you look at the man you’re in love with, the man who’s going to be the father of your child and you think, we’re going to be okay.
—
The morning sun slowly wakes everyone up. First, it is you and Sidney. You wake up as he’s pulling you closer to him, your bump getting in the way due to the angle you’re at.
“Mmm.” You mumble as you shift, shoving your face into Sidney’s chest. You guys lay there for a while, listening to the sounds of birds and of the wind through trees.
“How are you feeling?” Sidney mumbles out, sounding sleepy still.
“Hungry.” You say, kissing a small path from his neck to his collar bones. He pulls back just enough to see your face.
“Okay.” He says, kissing you now. “What sounds good this morning?” He asks, and you instantly cringe as the combination hits you.
A few seconds pass, and you decide to say something normal. Something easy. “Pancakes.”
“And?” Sidney asks, sitting up and stretching out his shoulders. The muscles in his back moving, causing you to forget what he was asking you. He looks back, and sees you watching him. Your eyes roaming over planes of muscle from years of hockey. “If I remember right this is how we got into this situation.”
You gape at the comment, knowing full well he’s right. But it doesn’t stop you from sitting up fully and grabbing your pillow to smack him with. “Sidney Crosby!” You say, laughing as he grabs the pillow out of your grasp.
“Come on,” he says, throwing a shirt over his skin. “Let’s get you guys fed.”
You sit at the island as Sidney starts complying everything he needs to make the entire family pancakes. You both know as soon as the smell hits the air your siblings will come down. But you enjoy the silence as your legs kick lazily, hanging off the tall bar stool. You’re staring at your phone, responding to a text from your best friend that has you smirking.
“What’s so funny over there?”
“Nothing.” You say with a shrug, setting your phone down and smiling at him. “Just girl talk.” But then your eyes catch on something as Sidney turns back around to heat up the griddle. A jar of peanut butter, a severely large jar that you honestly have no idea where it came from. But, it sits perfectly on the counter, taunting you.
“Sid?” You ask, and he turns around. “Do you think you could put that on top?” You ask, motioning to the peanut butter.
“Of course.” He says, twisting the cap off and getting a knife. And just like you both could have predicted, movement is heard from upstairs. Whether it be from your parents or one of your siblings you aren’t sure.
You plop yourself out of the stool, walking over to the fridge as you go to get your creamer. Decaf took a while for you to get used to, but now it’s just another thing set into your daily routine. You stand next to Sidney as you mix together your coffee, and you plant a small kiss to his bicep as you move away. As you open the fridge to put the creamer back, something in the door catches your eye. A small jar containing pickle relish from the grill night you guys had a few days prior.
The immediate horror hits you for only a second, before the normal feeling of craving something so severely hits you. You know somewhere, deep down that it’s disgusting, but your baby wants what it wants.
“Don’t judge me.” You say, and you hold out the jar of relish to Sidney. Luckily, since you’re with the most perfect man alive, he doesn’t even ask. He only eyes the jar for a millisecond, before adding it to the row of things on the counter top.
“Never.” He says, like you didn’t just ask for a gross combination of things.
But to Sidney, he didn’t care what you wanted, didn’t care if he would never put two things together. All he cares about is that you are happy, and if this is what you want, this is what he will do.
It doesn’t take Sidney long to finish making your plate. Two pancakes, peanut butter in the middle, and on top of the first one, and a small dollop of sweet relish on top. He only put a little, knowing sometimes as soon as you actually see what you asked for it can make you so sick you lose your appetite. But, you just smile as he hands you the plate, and you motion for a kiss.
“Thank you.” You say, grabbing a fork and slowly getting back to your stool.
“Morning.” The voice of your little brother sounds from the stairwell, and he’s rubbing his eyes as you and Sidney both say good morning back.
Macklin looks up, smiles at you, and then he freezes. His eyes squinting at your plate. He rubs them, then squints again.
“Sis.” He says, wide eyed and more awake than he was 30 seconds ago.
“What?” You ask him at the same time Sidney silently stares at him in warning.
“What do you mean what?” Mack asks, like it’s impossible for you not to think this is disturbing. Sidney turns slowly from where he’s standing in front of the counter and griddle.
“Macklin.” Sidney says carefully, but it’s a bit too late.
“I’ve been supportive, I brought you cornbread and Nutella, and I drove to the gas station out of town for that blue slushie because the one here you said tasted like burnt plastic.”
“It did.” You say, shrugging your shoulders a bit.
“But the pickles?” Mack asks again, and that’s when he notices the look on your face. He knows you’re pregnant, knows that cravings are a weird thing, and he doesn’t mean to be rude to you. He really doesn’t, but the pickles caught him so off guard he couldn’t help it.
Sidney sighs, closing his eyes for a second before giving your little brother a firm glare that says, shut up and let her eat. But it is too late, his words already said, and the embarrassment already flooding into your body. Macklin and Sidney can both see as you tense a little, before slowly pushing the plate away from you.
Sidney’s face drops, as does Mack’s stomach.
“Oh no-“ Mack says, moving to stand by you. “No, no. That wasn’t-“ He stops like he’s trying to find the right words. “I didn’t mean-“
But you set your fork down, and if they could, Sidney’s eyes would be burning holes into your little brother.
“Baby-“ Sidney starts to say, very calmly.
“It just sounded good.” You say quietly. And you recognize this normally isn’t you. Not pregnant you would have told your brother to suck it or flung a bit of the food off your fork to hit him. But pregnant you didn’t have that normal grip on your emotions.
“It does sound good.” Mack says, and all of you know it’s a lie.
“Baby, it doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. If you want it, you have it. We don’t care, we love you all the same.” Sidney says, pushing the plate back in front of you. “Please eat something. And if you truly hate it I’ll make whatever else you want, even if I have to send Mack an hour away to get it.”
You look up at Sidney, his face shows nothing but warm comfort. “You don’t think it’s gross?” You ask him.
He bends down, kissing your temple before smiling to you. “I think you’re growing an entire human in there. So if baby wants pickles on pancakes, then I’m putting some pickles on pancakes.” You smile warmly at him. “It’s whatever you want baby, always.”
Mack feels like he should leave, feels like this is a private moment he shouldn’t have access to. But his guilt keeps his feet rooted to the floor. And he watches as Sidney comforts you, doing exactly what he knows he needs to do to make you happy. And Macklin will be damned if he’s the one who hurts your feelings. So he does the impossible. He goes to the drawer with the silverware, pulling out a clean fork.
You and Sid both watch him, eyes a little shocked as he comes to stand next to you.
“It’s so not gross that I want to eat it.” He says, and he cuts down, making sure there’s pancake, peanut butter and a touch of relish on his fork.
“More.” You say before Macklin can take the bite.
He freezes at your command, and Sidney presses his lips together tightly to try not to laugh. Mack knows you’re doing it on purpose, he’s only known you every day of his life after all. But now he’s committed, so he swipes even more relish onto his fork.
He looks at you before taking the bite. He looks at your raised eyebrow in a challenge, he looks at his idol turned family, he looks to your stomach, and then back to you. His older sister, the person who sacrificed so much for this family. The person who cut crusts of sandwiches, missed out on your own activities and hobbies to take him to practices, and make sure he was staying up to date in school. So for all of those reasons, for everything you’ve done in the name of loving him, Mack put his fork in his mouth.
Mack could puke. No seriously, he might puke. But he looks into your eyes again, seeing the same color as his, and he chews and swallows.
“Honestly, you’re ahead of your time, Sis.” He says, actively fighting a gag as he speaks.
A quiet laugh breaks out of Sidney for the first time, it’s warm and helpless. He leans down once more, kissing you again, before he says, “eat your pancakes sweetheart.”
You sigh contently before digging in. Mack watches, before going over to grab you the jar just in case you wanted to add more.
“Mack?” You ask, and he turns, waiting to listen to whatever it is you want. “Maybe the spicy one in the fridge?”
Mack almost makes a face, but Sidney, who’s back is now faced towards you as he’s back to flipping pancakes for the family, gives Macklin that same stare from earlier.
“You want the spicy relish?” He asks out of shock but covering it as he just didn’t hear you right.
“Mack.” Sid says, and Macklin laughs as he goes into the fridge to grab the new jar.
“Yeah, yeah. I know. Shut up and get the pregnant lady her pickle relish.”
Sidney nods with a smirk like that is the first acceptable thing Macklin has said since coming down this morning. And as you eat, and the rest of the family slowly filters in, grabbing pancakes and thanking Sidney, Macklin watches you. He watches the way Sidney gravitates towards you, how he grabs things for you before you ask for them. So as Mack skips breakfast, because honestly that bite might come up later, he feels peace knowing you’ll never go a day not being loved.
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Summary: Dean has never held on to anything — not girls, not feelings, not the memory of a childhood best friend who disappeared across an ocean at fourteen. Then you walk back into his life on a brisk October morning, and every carefully constructed wall he never knew he had built comes down in an instant. You came to Briar to disappear. You didn’t count on being found
Warnings: 18+ content
The late October air sweeping across the Briar University quad is brisk enough to make a normal person shiver, but Dean runs hot. He always has.
Right now, he’s walking backward, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, completely ignoring the fact that he’s navigating a crowded campus blind. But then again, Dean rarely has to watch where he’s going. People naturally move out of his way.
“I’m just saying,” Dean says, raising his coffee cup to emphasize his point, his voice carrying that familiar, effortless charm that makes half the girls within a fifty-foot radius turn their heads. “It’s not about the quantity, gentlemen. It’s about the experience. The mutually beneficial exchange of joy.”
Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”
“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”
“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.
“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.
And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?
“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”
“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”
“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully.
“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way.
“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building.
Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with.
That’s when he sees you.
Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale.
Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners.
But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face.
He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.
You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school.
That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London.
The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?
But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.
“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”
“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes.
“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.
“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment.
Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her.
Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.
It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air.
Dean drops his coffee.
The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.
“Y/N?” Dean breathes.
He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen.
“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.
Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.
“Y/N!”
You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus.
Then, your eyes land on him.
Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back.
You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.
“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.
“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”
Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.
For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation.
The entire courtyard seems to stop.
“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”
“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”
“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”
Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief.
When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.
“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”
You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”
Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.
Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor.
“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”
“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”
“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”
“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up.
Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer.
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”
Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes.
“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”
You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”
Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”
“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”
“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”
“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”
Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”
“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed.
Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing.
“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”
You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you.
“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”
The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid.
“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”
“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”
You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”
Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest.
“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours.
“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”
Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment.
“Where are you living?” Dean asks.
“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”
Dean makes a split-second decision.
“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively.
You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”
“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”
“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”
“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”
Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”
“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”
“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”
“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue.
Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”
You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”
“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”
You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch.
“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis.
He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”
“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains.
Dean shoots him a dark look.
“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”
Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”
As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis.
You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours.
Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all.
***
The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands.
“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”
“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”
You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”
“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently.
Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”
“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”
“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder.
“I took pity on you,” you reply primly.
Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”
“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans.
“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”
You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”
“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”
You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”
“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”
“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”
Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”
“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.
“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”
His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected.
You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor.
When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor.
Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”
“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase.
“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”
Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags.
“Is this everything?” Dean asks.
You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”
“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.
“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”
You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil.
“I know,” you whisper.
For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it.
Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house.
As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact.
Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.
The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”
“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”
“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”
“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”
“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly.
You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more.
“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home.
Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first.
You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater.
“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside.
“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”
“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs.
Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”
He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his.
At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door.
“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”
You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes.
You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine.
“Look at me,” he commands gently.
You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes.
“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”
His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance.
“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”
He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”
For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls.
When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself.
You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision.
“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest.
Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”
He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn.
“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”
“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively.
Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room.
“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”
“I love pepperoni,” you say softly.
“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house.
“Welcome home, Y/N.”
And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart.
You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes.
But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound.
For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid.
By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM.
You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style.
When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen.
You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate.
Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled.
Then he spots you.
The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch.
“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife.
The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you.
“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust.
“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”
“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”
“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”
“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite.
“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”
Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”
You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”
Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”
You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”
“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”
His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you.
“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”
“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”
The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife.
Someone clears their throat loudly.
You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows.
“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”
“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”
Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”
“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”
“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza.
“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”
“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”
The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”
The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks.
As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study.
Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean.
You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements.
“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”
“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours.
“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious.
“Y/N. Come here.”
He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”
You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here.
“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”
Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white.
“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”
Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”
“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”
You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”
“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely.
“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”
You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”
“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”
You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away.
“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”
Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender.
“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”
Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes.
The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames.
Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours.
BANG.
The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass.
You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily.
Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”
Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder.
“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained.
Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”
“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”
Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside.
Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips.
“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”
You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”
He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”
As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened.
You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus.
Welcome to Briar University.
***
It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon.
There is simply no other logical explanation.
“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”
Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”
“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”
“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.
“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists.
Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”
They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room.
You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean.
And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious.
“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”
“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”
“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”
In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus.
“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble.
You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”
Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”
“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book.
“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”
As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle.
You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking.
Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you.
You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”
“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder.
“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”
Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”
Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks.
“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”
The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you.
When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory.
“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out.
You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”
You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust.
But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored.
“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation.
“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”
Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”
The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room.
“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was.
“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”
You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.
Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party.
The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are.
You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you.
“Are you okay?”
You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens.
“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”
“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”
You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”
Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”
“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you.
“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”
The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering.
Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean.
“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”
She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them.
You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this.
But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid.
“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth.
“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”
“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”
He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it.
“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”
Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd.
You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”
“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”
“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes.
“Hey, lovebirds!”
The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers.
“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand.
“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”
You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”
“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”
Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you.
Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest.
“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious.
Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”
As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London.
You feel entirely safe.
The next evening is the first official home game of the season.
The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air.
You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate.
The door swings open, and Dean steps out.
He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you.
He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats.
“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you.
“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”
Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”
“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully.
Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly.
“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion.
You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”
“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”
“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”
“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”
The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely.
But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.
You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears.
Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in.
“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”
He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”
“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly.
Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent.
“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”
When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing.
“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”
The puck drops, and the game begins.
It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards.
But Dean is a revelation.
He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless.
Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway.
Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove.
The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts.
You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air.
On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench.
But he doesn’t stop at the bench.
He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you.
He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you.
The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.
Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors.
You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait.
The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud.
When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder.
He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides.
“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you.
“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”
“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else.
“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly.
The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles.
“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker.
“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you.
The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks.
Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey.
“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”
You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship.
“Dean,” you whisper.
You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt.
Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away.
You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway.
You press your lips to his.
It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud.
It lasts only three seconds.
When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction.
When you finally open them, you gasp.
Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated.
He looks like he has died and gone to heaven.
His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back.
“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips.
He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened.
“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”
“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest.
“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”
“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning.
“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”
The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade.
You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”
Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender.
“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”
He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours.
“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”
You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely.
You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.
***
The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind.
It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.
It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind.
You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.
A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.
“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”
“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”
A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands.
“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”
“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”
At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”
You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder.
You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp.
Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”
The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”
“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward.
Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest.
“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm.
Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms.
You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle.
“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”
The transformation is instantaneous.
The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away.
“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”
“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”
Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”
He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy.
The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers.
“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”
“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”
Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date.
You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying.
The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering.
In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to.
But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness.
You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed.
He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light.
“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core.
You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”
“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”
Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses.
“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips.
“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently.
You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time.
He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee.
You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …”
He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly.
“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”
“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders.
You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now.
Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points.
“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”
His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders.
The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze.
Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach.
Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”
He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower.
He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind.
“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin.
“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”
He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you.
He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat.
He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you.
“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty.
“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”
That is all it takes.
Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you.
You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate.
Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”
He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”
And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck.
He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot.
You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”
“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”
The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him.
Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout.
He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze.
Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth.
“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”
“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”
“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep.
The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos.
Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome.
You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical.
You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter.
As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you.
“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out.
Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide.
Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away.
But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips.
Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment.
But Dean knows the truth.
He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark.
The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”
Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple.
“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”
You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further.
“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips.
“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”
You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.
***
The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow.
You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder.
“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”
“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”
“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”
“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”
Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad.
“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”
A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion.
“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”
Dean’s words cut off abruptly.
You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat.
Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism.
“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock.
Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile.
“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement.
You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.
“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”
“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”
You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector.
“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious.
Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”
“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly.
You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”
Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”
Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat.
“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”
Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”
“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”
You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder.
“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”
“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”
A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob.
Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable.
“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”
“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”
You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University.
“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”
The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic.
Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely.
The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there.
Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar.
Leave him.
Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest.
He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours?
It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover.
Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science.
You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap.
Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do.
You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes.
Then, you turn your head to look at Dean.
He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted.
A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest.
You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl.
And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning.
You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father.
“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady.
Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression.
Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”
“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”
“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”
“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline.
You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away.
You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”
Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him.
A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face.
“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”
You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”
It isn’t a request.
Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”
The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain.
Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back.
As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension.
He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart.
Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you.
“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”
“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”
“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”
“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”
Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth.
“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”
Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”
It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket.
“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”
Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”
You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly.
“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”
You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you.
But your father doesn’t look angry.
Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect.
“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”
Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”
“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”
Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest.
“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”
Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”
You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”
“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”
Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”
Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”
“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”
Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”
“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”
The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening.
Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father.
“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”
“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”
Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace.
He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today.
He finally realized he was worthy of her.
***
Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions.
But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore.
When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness.
Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook.
Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill.
The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth.
But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past.
“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”
You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”
Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning.
“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”
“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder.
“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”
You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way.
“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”
“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open.
The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back.
Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds.
“Y/N? Is that you?”
The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub.
You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins.
You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward.
Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being.
“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”
Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”
His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”
“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”
A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air.
The grip is visibly bone-crushing.
Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right.
Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage.
“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up.
Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step.
Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline.
“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”
Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”
“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”
Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side.
Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”
Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard.
“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”
Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face.
You stare at Dean, absolutely floored.
Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”
Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle.
Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover.
He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”
“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”
Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours.
It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing.
When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet.
Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory.
“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans.
He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust.
The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur.
You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core.
The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters.
Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door.
You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood.
“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”
“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire.
You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy.
“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”
“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to.
You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his.
Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed.
You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes.
Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey.
“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed.
“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”
Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt.
In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze.
“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”
He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head.
Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him.
“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums.
He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth.
You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind.
“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”
You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat.
Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover.
He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal.
He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw.
“Look at me,” Dean commands softly.
You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze.
“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow.
He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust.
You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you.
Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room.
“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin.
“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”
“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”
Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars.
You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love.
“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”
“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”
Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours.
The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer.
For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people.
Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own.
You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow.
Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth.
He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist.
“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”
“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”
Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”
“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”
Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek.
“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”
Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy.
“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”
Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich.
He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face.
“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”
You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room.
“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”
“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer.
As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home.
You had crossed an ocean to escape your past, but in the end, it was your past that had caught you, held you safe, and given you the most beautiful, chaotic, perfect future you could ever ask for.
summary: Dean DiLaurentis gives you the "I don't do relationships" speech, and you say okay and come back the next day to fix Tucker's cooking. Turns out the most dangerous thing you can do to a man like that is simply not need him.
word count: 11.5k
warnings: 18+ explicit sexual content, minors do not interact. situationship dynamics, brief angst, dean being cruel in a moment he regrets, dirty talk, slow burn, eventual fluff.
Daily calls with your mother had become more sparse over the course of your college years. They started daily and had slowly tapered to every other Saturday, which, in all honesty, was a bit of a shock given that she wasn't the type to loosen her grip easily. She had always been overprotective, and when you announced you weren't going to Texas University but to a college in Massachusetts, she had genuinely flipped her shit. Two years later she seemed kind of cool about it. Just texting. Sending random updates about your dog, like the Halloween costume from last year that you'd screenshot and saved.
You were sitting in your room in the sorority house, legs extended and resting on the desk, phone propped against your water bottle while you FaceTimed her and tried to paint your nails without smudging anything. The room was quiet except for your mom stirring something on the stove.
"So I ran into Olivia Tucker — you remember her, right? From church? She had a son named John," she said, not looking at the camera.
You had learned years ago that it was easier to say yes, of course than to endure five minutes of your mom describing a person like she was giving a statement to the police.
"Yeah, of course. I remember Mrs. Tucker."
"She mentioned her son John is attending the same college as you." She said it like she was reading off a notecard. Matter of fact. "She said he's playing hockey now."
Oh. That John Tucker.
"Yeah, I know who he is," you said, cleaning up the mess on your middle finger.
"Isn't that a big coincidence?"
"I mean, not really — he's like a year younger than me, right?"
"Yes, but you two used to play together when you were kids. At church, remember?" You did not remember. Your family went to church maybe twice a year. "Anyway, I gave her your number so she could pass it along to him. So you two could talk."
"Mom — what, that's not really —"
"She's probably not even going to use it."
She used it. Mrs. Tucker called three days later, and with the grace of a good Southern woman, she asked you to keep an eye on John — not in so many words, of course. She said he'd moved into a house with some of the other players and she just wanted to know he was taking care of himself. She didn't want you to do much. Just stop by, take a look around, report back. She'd handle the rest by phone.
What she did not tell you was that Tucker already knew about her plan.
He opened the door looking completely unsurprised to see you, leaned against the frame with his arms crossed and a grin that said nice try. He was, it turned out, perfectly capable of taking care of himself and, annoyingly, other people too.
Which is how you ended up here, almost a year later, sitting on one of the stools at the kitchen island in the off campus house, crying into an onion.
"I'm just saying, get a dicer," you said, keeping your eyes on the knife because you had to. "This is inhumane."
"A real chef doesn't use those kinds of things," Tucker said from across the kitchen, doing significantly less chopping than you were.
"Well, good thing you're not a real chef then."
He turned around, visibly offended. "What did you just say?"
You opened your mouth to repeat it — and then Garrett wandered in from the living room, grabbed an apple from the counter, looked at Tucker's side of the kitchen and then at yours, and pointed at you. "She's doing all the work," he said, to no one in particular, and wandered back out.
"He's right," you said.
"He's a traitor," Tucker said.
You opened your mouth to agree and then the sound of footsteps came down the hallway, and Dean came around the corner fresh out of the shower, towel low on his hips and water still tracking down his chest.
You sniffed, eyes watering, nose red.
Dean stopped. Looked at you. And then let out a slow, deeply entertained laugh.
"Well," he said, "I've heard a lot of reactions from girls seeing me like this. But crying might be a first." He tilted his head. "You alright there, sweet pea?"
"It's the onion," you said flatly. "Tucker's making me cut it."
"Sure." He was already turning toward the stairs, completely unbothered. "Whatever floats your boat."
He winked at you over his shoulder as he disappeared around the corner.
You looked back down at the onion.
Tucker was very pointedly not looking at you.
"Not a word," you said.
"I didn't say anything," he said, in the tone of someone who was saying everything.
The party invitation from Tucker arrived as a single text on a Thursday night.
party saturday, be here, i made a playlist
You were in the middle of your readings and you looked at the message for a moment before typing back: do I need to bring anything?
yourself and good energy
You put your phone face down and went back to your reading. Then picked it up again.
what time
nine but come at eight so we can hang before it gets loud
That was Tucker's way of saying he wanted to cook with you beforehand, which you appreciated more than you would ever tell him out loud because he would absolutely use it against you. You sent back a thumbs up and returned to your notes, and you did not think about the fact that Dean would be there, because that was not a relevant consideration.
You thought about it the entire rest of the week.
Not in a dramatic way. Just in the quiet, persistent way of something you kept putting down and finding in your hand again. You were honest with yourself about Dean, had been from the beginning. You knew what he was. Charming in a way that looked effortless because it mostly was, easy with people, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. You'd watched him for almost a year. You knew the way he talked to people, the way he leaned in when something was funny, the way he'd come into the kitchen sometimes when you were there and open the fridge and just stand there for a full thirty seconds like the answer to whatever he was looking for might eventually appear.
You knew that he'd noticed you too. That wasn't ego, just observation. The way his eyes would find you first when he walked into a room where you already were. The way he'd aim a comment at you specifically when he had a whole group to choose from. The way he'd said I've heard a lot of reactions like your reaction was the one that mattered.
You'd been sensible about it for a year. You'd made the choice, every single time, to not do anything about it. And you were fine. You were genuinely fine with that. You knew what Dean was, knew what it would be, and you'd decided the math didn't work out in your favor so you'd left it alone.
It was just that sometimes, quietly, in the back of your head, a voice said but what if you didn't.
You got dressed Saturday night and told that voice to shut up, and went to the party anyway.
Tucker met you at the door at eight on the dot, already in a good mood, which meant either the playlist was really good or he'd already had a drink.
"You look great," he said, holding the door open.
"You say that every time."
"Because it's true every time." He handed you a beer from the counter as you came into the kitchen, already comfortable, already home in the easy way the house had started to feel over the past year. "I was thinking we do something with the leftover rice from yesterday, I got peppers —"
"Tucker."
"What."
"We're not cooking. There are already people here."
He looked genuinely confused. "So?"
You took the beer from him and looked around the kitchen. Logan was leaning against the far counter talking to someone from the team, and Garrett was already in the living room, and the house had that particular pre-party hum to it, not yet loud, still settling into itself.
Dean wasn't in the kitchen.
You noted this the way you noted a lot of things quietly, without making anything of it.
Logan glanced over when Tucker handed you the beer. "You're here early."
"She's basically a resident," Tucker said, like this was a fact.
"I'm a guest," you said.
"Guests don't know where we keep the good knives," Logan said and winked, and went back to his conversation.
You spent the next hour in that easy pre-party mode, moving between the kitchen and the living room, talking to people you knew by name now, accepting a second drink from someone who was mixing them near the back. Tucker orbited you loosely the way he always did at these things, appearing at your elbow every twenty minutes or so to say something that made you laugh and then disappearing again. This was one of your favorite things about him, he was never clingy, never needed to keep you close, just checked in like punctuation.
Dean appeared sometime around ten.
He came down the stairs and into the living room and you saw him before he saw you, which felt important. He was wearing a dark green shirt, sleeves pushed to the elbows, and he had that easy unhurried way of moving through a room like it had already arranged itself around him. He said something to Garrett near the bottom of the stairs and laughed, and you looked away before he could look up.
So. He was here. That was fine. That was completely normal and fine.
You went to find Tucker.
The next hour you spent being very deliberate about not being obvious. You talked to people on the back porch when Dean was in the living room. You came inside when he drifted toward the kitchen. You were not proud of it exactly, but you were not going to stand around waiting for him to decide whether tonight was a night he felt like paying attention to you. You'd done a lot of things in your life. That was not going to be one of them.
Your friend Anna, a sorority sister, texted at eleven: how's the party
You typed back: fine. dean's here.
Three seconds.
oh. OH. okay. call me tomorrow.
maybe
that means yes. don't do anything I wouldn't do
You locked your phone and put it in your pocket and thought about the specific, limited list of things Anna wouldn't do and found it unhelpfully short.
The thing was, and you'd been over this, you'd been reasonable about this, you knew what it would be. A night, maybe a few nights, comfortable and uncomplicated and then done. Dean DiLaurentis didn't do anything that looked like what came after. You'd watched him long enough to know that too. And you'd decided that wasn't what you wanted, so you'd kept your distance, and that had been the right call, and it remained the right call.
You were in college at a party on a Friday night and you had been sensible about this for almost an entire calendar year.
The voice in the back of your head said but you knew that going in and it doesn't have to mean anything you don't want it to mean.
You told it to shut up.
It had a point though.
You refilled your drink. Stood near the back door where the air was a little cooler and the noise slightly less consuming. Watched the party happen around you. Thought, very clearly and deliberately: you know what it is. you've always known. that doesn't have to be the reason not to.
You were still working through the logic of that when you felt someone come to stand beside you.
"(Y/N). You've been avoiding me."
Dean. Not accusing, just observing, the same way he did most things, like he was simply noting a fact about the universe. He had a drink in one hand and he wasn't looking at you yet, eyes scanning the room like he'd just happened to end up here beside you, which you both understood wasn't true.
"I've been talking to people," you said.
"You've been talking to people on the opposite side of every room I was in."
"Maybe I just like that side of the room."
He looked at you then. Really looked, in that direct way of his that felt like being assessed and appreciated at the same time. The music was loud enough that the conversation existed in its own small space, just between you.
"You've been doing that for a year," he said.
"Has it been a year?" You kept your voice light.
"Almost." He took a drink. "I've been patient."
The word landed simply, without performance. Patient. Like he'd been waiting. Like the last year had been something he'd noticed too, kept track of, decided to let run its course.
You looked at him for a long moment. The party moved around you, loud and warm, and you stood in it and made the decision clearly, with both eyes open, which felt like the important part.
"Bathroom's upstairs," you said.
Something shifted in his expression, not surprise, just confirmation. Like he'd known, and now he knew for certain.
"Yeah," he said.
He followed you up the stairs without touching you, which felt somehow more loaded than if he had. You could feel him behind you the whole way, that particular awareness of someone close, and by the time you reached the top of the stairs your heart was doing something inconvenient.
The upstairs bathroom was at the end of the hall. You went in, he came in behind you, and you turned to click the lock and found him already there, close enough that turning around put you nearly chest to chest with him, close enough that you could feel the warmth coming off him before he'd laid a hand on you.
He didn't kiss you right away.
That was the first thing. You'd expected him to, he'd been patient for a year, you'd just told him where the bathroom was, you'd expected him to close the distance immediately. Instead he just looked at you, and the looking was its own thing, slow and deliberate, like he was taking his time now that he finally had you here and he wanted you to know it.
"You made me wait a long time," he said.
"You could have said something sooner," you said.
"I said something tonight."
"Barely."
Something shifted in his expression, not quite a smile, more like he'd just decided something. He reached up slowly and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers grazing your jaw, and the touch was so light it was almost nothing, which somehow made it worse.
"You're going to be like that," he said. Quiet. Certain.
"I don't know what you mean," you said, which was a lie and you both knew it.
He tilted your chin up with two fingers, not roughly, just — directing. Making you look at him. "Yeah you do," he said, and then he kissed you.
It wasn't tentative. It was a kiss from someone who had thought about this specifically, who knew what he wanted and had decided tonight was when he was going to have it, and you kissed him back and felt a year's worth of deliberate distance dissolve somewhere at the back of your mind.
He walked you backward until your hips met the bathroom counter and left you there, stepped back just enough to look at you again with that same unhurried attention, and you understood then that he wasn't in a hurry. That he'd waited this long and now he was going to enjoy it, and you were going to have to let him.
"Take your jacket off," he said.
You did.
He watched you do it. That was all — just watched, arms loosely crossed, completely at ease, like this was exactly where he'd planned to be tonight. You set the jacket on the counter and looked at him and he looked back.
"Good," he said, like that meant something.
Your heart was doing the inconvenient thing again.
He came back to you slowly, hands finding your waist, and kissed you again, deeper this time, one hand sliding into your hair and gripping, not painfully, just holding you exactly where he wanted you. You made a small sound against his mouth and felt him smile.
"There it is," he murmured.
"Shut up," you said.
"Make me," he said against your jaw, and then his mouth was on your throat and the option to respond coherently became briefly unavailable.
He took his time with your throat, your collarbone, the soft place below your ear that made your fingers curl into his shirt without your permission, and every time you moved to pull him closer he'd ease back just enough to remind you that he was running this. Not mean about it. Just clear.
"Dean —"
"I've got you," he said, against your skin. "I'm not going anywhere."
His hands moved to the hem of your top, pulling it up slowly, and he stepped back to pull it over your head and dropped it somewhere on the floor and looked at you again with that particular focus, and you had to actively resist the urge to cover yourself, because that was not what you did, but the way he was looking at you made you feel like you were already coming apart.
"You have no idea," he said quietly, more to himself than you, and then his mouth was on your collarbone and his hands were at your waist and you gave up on dignity entirely.
His hands moved to the button of your jeans, unhurried, and he looked up at you first — not asking exactly, just checking — and you nodded and he undid it and crouched down to pull the fabric down your legs with a thoroughness that felt like a point being made. He looked up at you from there, and whatever was on your face made him look deeply, quietly satisfied.
"You've been thinking about this," he said. Not a question.
"Don't," you said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't be smug about it."
"I'm not being smug." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, which short-circuited something. "I'm just paying attention."
He stood back up slowly, hands trailing up the outside of your thighs, and lifted you onto the counter like it was nothing, stepping between your knees. You pulled him back in by the collar of his shirt and kissed him harder than you'd meant to and he made a low sound and kissed you back the same way, one hand flat against the small of your back pulling you closer.
"Tell me what you want," he said, against your mouth.
"You know what I want."
"I want to hear you say it."
You pulled back and looked at him. He looked back, completely unbothered, and you understood that he meant it, that he was going to stand here all night if he had to, patient as anything, until you said it out loud.
"Dean."
"I'm right here," he said pleasantly.
"You're so —"
"Tell me."
You told him.
"Please"
The expression that crossed his face was worth it. He kissed you once, hard, like a reward, and said good against your mouth, and then his hand moved and all the words you'd been planning to say next went somewhere inaccessible.
He knew what he was doing in a way that felt almost unfair, thorough, attentive, like he'd already decided exactly how this was going to go and was now simply executing. When you tried to rush it he slowed down. When you made a sound he filed it away and came back to it. The tile was cold at your back and his hands were warm on your thighs and his mouth was at your cunt and the things he said there were quiet and precise and designed specifically to ruin you.
"You've been driving me crazy," he said. Low, unhurried. "All year. You know that."
"Dean —"
"Every time you walked into a room." His hand didn't stop. "Every time you looked at Tucker instead of me. Every single time."
"That's your fault," you managed.
"I know," he said. "I know it is." Something almost rueful in it. "Doesn't change the fact."
When you finally came it was with your head hitting the mirror behind you and holding his shoulder and his name somewhere in the middle of it, and he stayed with you through the whole thing, unhurried, like he had nothing else in the world to do.
He gave you a moment. Then he pulled back and looked at you with an expression that you could only describe as thoroughly pleased with himself, which should have been annoying and wasn't.
"Don't," you said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"I was going to ask if you were okay," he said, which was such an obvious lie that you laughed, and the laugh broke something open in the room, and he grinned, a real one, unguarded in a way you hadn't seen before, and kissed you again before it could turn into a whole thing.
You worked his belt with hands that weren't entirely steady and he helped without comment, and then his hands were at your hips and he pressed his forehead to yours for just a second.
You watched him look for a condom on his backpocket.
"Yeah?" he said quietly. All the performance gone.
"Yeah," you said.
He pushed into you slow and you exhaled against his jaw, fingers gripping his shoulders, adjusting to the feeling of him. He gave you a moment, forehead still to yours, patient, present, and then he moved and everything else became temporarily beside the point.
It was charged the way it only gets when two people have been waiting too long. Not frantic but urgent, with a focused intensity that felt like something being resolved. His grip was firm and deliberate and you pulled him closer when he slowed down and he got the message and didn't slow down again. The mirror was fogging and somewhere below you the party was still happening and it was completely irrelevant.
"Look at me," he said.
You did. He held your gaze and something passed between you that neither of you named, and you felt it in your chest more than anywhere else.
"Months," he said again. Quieter now.
"I know," you said. "I know."
When he came he buried his face in your neck and went quiet and still, one hand flat against the small of your back holding you against him, and you held onto him too because it seemed like the thing to do, and because you wanted to, and those were the same thing tonight.
You stayed like that for a moment longer than necessary.
Then you both exhaled at roughly the same time, which broke the tension, and Dean huffed a quiet laugh into your shoulder.
You untangled carefully, straightened yourselves out. You hopped off the counter and turned to the mirror, fixing your hair, smoothing your top back into place. He leaned against the wall watching you do it, arms crossed loosely, shirt back on. His hair was a mess and he didn't appear concerned about it.
You met his eyes in the mirror.
"This doesn't have to be a thing," you said. Even, matter of fact. Not cold, just clear. You were giving him an out because you'd rather give it than have him feel like he needed to take it badly.
Something moved across his face. He pushed off the wall slightly. "What if I want it to be a thing?"
You turned around. "What kind of thing?"
He held your gaze. Didn't answer right away, which was an answer, and you'd known it would be, you'd known before you came upstairs, and still it took a small quiet moment to settle.
"Right," you said simply.
Not angry. Not hurt, or at least not visibly. You'd gone in with both eyes open and you'd meant it, and the math was what you'd always known it was. That was fine. You were fine.
You unlocked the door.
"Hey," Dean said.
You looked back.
He opened his mouth, closed it. Something in his expression that you couldn't entirely read. "Nothing," he said finally. "Never mind."
You nodded once and stepped out into the hallway.
Downstairs, the party had peaked without you. The music was louder and the living room was full and Tucker was in the kitchen, which is where Tucker always ended up at some point. He took one look at your face when you appeared in the doorway and turned to open the fridge and produced a beer, which he held out without a word.
You took it.
"Having fun?" he asked, very casually, eyes on the fridge.
"Yeah," you said. "Party's good."
"Cool." He closed the fridge. "I made queso."
"Tucker."
"It's in the pot on the back burner."
You looked at him for a second. He looked back, perfectly neutral, perfectly unbothered, and completely full of information he was choosing not to say.
"Thank you," you said.
"Don't mention it," he said. "Seriously, don't. I have a reputation."
You laughed despite yourself, and some of the tightness in your chest loosened, just a little.
Tucker handed you a chip.
You both stood at the stove and ate queso and said nothing about any of it, and that was, genuinely, one of the nicest things anyone had done for you in a while.
Dean came downstairs eleven minutes later, you weren't counting, you just noticed, and grabbed a beer from the fridge and leaned against the counter across from you, and the three of you stood in that kitchen like nothing had happened at all.
Dean looked at the pot on the stove. "Is that queso?"
"Made it myself," Tucker said.
"You absolutely did not."
Tucker looked at you. You said nothing, scooping queso onto another chip. Dean's eyes moved between you both and landed on you with something unreadable in them.
"Can I have some?" he asked.
"It's your house," you said.
He got a chip. Ate it. Looked at the pot. "That's really good."
"I know," you said.
Tucker stared directly at the wall and smiled at absolutely nothing.
It didn't have a name. That was the thing , it never got one, and neither of you tried to give it one, and somehow that made it easier to just let it exist.
It started simply enough. A week after the party, Dean texted you at eleven on a Tuesday night. Just: you up?
The second text was a trailer link. No context, no explanation, just: this.
You watched it once. Typed back: that looks pretentious.
i know. yes or no.
fine.
The house was quiet when you got there , Garrett's door closed, Tucker apparently out, and Dean was on the couch with a beer and the energy of someone who had been waiting without admitting to waiting.
You sat in the middle of the couch.
He pulled up the movie without comment.
It was pretentious and it was also actually good, and you told him so twenty minutes in when he glanced over to see what you thought. He said told you without looking back at the screen. You said you said it looked pretentious, which is not the same as saying it wasn't good. He said that's a very specific distinction. You said I'm a specific person. He didn't say anything for a moment, and then said: yeah.
Somewhere around the third act the distance between you closed. You weren't sure who moved, maybe both of you, gradually. His arm along the back of the couch and your shoulder under it and neither of you addressed it.
The movie ended and neither of you moved.
He found something else. A documentary, shorter, that turned out to be genuinely interesting. You watched most of it. Somewhere in the second half you were closer still his arm properly around you now, your feet tucked up beside you — and the lamp in the corner was the only light, and in here it was warm, and you were paying attention to about thirty percent of the documentary.
You woke up at two in the morning with a blanket over you that hadn't been there before. Dean was asleep at the other end of the couch, head back, completely unconscious. The TV was still on. You looked at him in the blue light of the screensaver, the line of his jaw, the stillness of someone actually asleep and felt the quiet weight of something you were not going to examine.
Then you got up, folded the blanket, left it on the cushion, and walked home.
You didn't text him about it. He didn't text you about it. Two days later he sent: you around tonight? and you said depends and he said on what and you said what's the plan and he said no plan and you said okay.
That was how it started.
By November it had a shape, even if it didn't have a name.
You came over two or three times a week. Sometimes it was a movie, sometimes it was just you in the kitchen making something with whatever was in the fridge while Dean sat at the counter with his phone and ate everything you put in front of him without comment except occasionally this is really good in a tone that suggested he was a little annoyed about it. Sometimes the whole house was there, Tucker loud and cheerful, Garrett and Logan drifting in and out, the TV on in the background and sometimes it was just the two of you and the house was quiet and those evenings had a quality to them that you tried not to examine too closely.
He texted you things that weren't questions. A link to an article about something you'd both argued about in passing. A photo of a sunset he'd apparently seen from the library roof, no caption. A voice memo once, at midnight, that was just him reading something in the flat unimpressed tone he used when something was genuinely getting on his nerves — listen to this, the message said, and you did, and you laughed, and he sent back a single: right?
You sent him things back. A recipe you thought he'd actually like. A clip of something that reminded you of a conversation you'd had. He always answered. Not immediately, not performatively, just he answered.
Garrett had noticed, in his way. He'd stopped doing double-takes when you were in the kitchen on a Tuesday night, had started just saying hey and opening the fridge like your presence was a given. Logan was less subtle, he'd caught your eye once across the living room when Dean laughed at something you'd said, and raised an eyebrow, and you'd looked away and he'd had the decency not to push it.
You talked to Anna about it on a Sunday afternoon in November, feet up on her bed, staring at the ceiling while she did her readings across from you.
"So it's a situationship," she said, not looking up.
"I didn't say that."
"You described a situationship."
"I described two people who spend time together."
"With benefits."
"Occasionally."
She finally looked up. "How often is occasionally?"
You said nothing.
"That's what I thought." She went back to her reading. "Are you okay with it?"
You thought about it honestly, the way you tried to think about most things. "Yeah," you said. "I went in knowing what it was."
"That's not what I asked."
You looked at the ceiling. "I'm fine," you said. "It's fine. I know what it is."
Anna made a small noncommittal sound that you chose not to interpret.
The physical part of it was easy in a way you hadn't entirely expected. Comfortable in a way that felt like it should have taken longer to get to. He knew what you liked with an attentiveness that might have been alarming if you'd let yourself think about it, and you knew what worked for him, and there was none of the awkwardness of newness anymore.
The only thing you were consistent about was the condom. Every time, without exception. Until one night in late November when Dean caught your wrist gently before you could reach for the nightstand.
"Why do you always —" He stopped. Nodded toward it. "Every time."
"Because I'm not stupid," you said. "You were getting around a lot before this and I don't know what this is and I'm not asking but I'm also not —"
"I haven't," he said. "Since the party. I haven't slept with anyone else."
The room went quiet.
"Oh," you said. A beat. "Me neither."
Something moved across his face that he didn't entirely manage to control. His thumb traced a slow absent line against the inside of your wrist.
"Okay," he said quietly.
"Okay," you said.
The air in the room changed into something neither of you was going to name. Then he kissed you, and it was different, slower, more careful, like something had been confirmed that he hadn't known he was waiting to confirm, and you let yourself feel it without examining it too closely, because that felt fair.
The first sign was the texts.
Not that they stopped completely, that would have been obvious, and Dean was too smart for obvious. They just slowed. A reply that came four hours later instead of forty minutes. A shorter answer where there used to be a real one. The voice memos stopped. The links stopped. You'd send something and get back a single word where there used to be a sentence, and you'd look at it and feel the shape of what was happening without being able to name it yet.
You told yourself it was school. Exams were coming, everyone was disappearing into the library, that was normal. You told yourself he was busy, stressed, in his head about the end of semester and the hockey team. You were busy too. You had your own readings, your own papers, your own life that existed completely separately from the off campus house and always had.
You kept coming over. Tucker needed someone to watch the game with and you'd promised him a recipe you'd been meaning to show him and you were not going to rearrange your life over a shift in text frequency.
But you noticed.
You noticed the way Dean would come into the kitchen when you were there and open the fridge and not look at you the way he used to. Not hostile, just absent. Like you were furniture. Like the awareness he'd always had of you in a room had been switched off at a source you couldn't locate. He ate the food you made without commenting on it. He answered direct questions. He didn't start anything.
You didn't push. That wasn't who you were.
But by the second week of December you were lying in your room at night doing the math and the math was not coming out well, and you were tired of pretending it wasn't.
You went over on a Thursday.
Tucker was at a class. You'd known that, you'd checked, because you wanted the house quiet, because you wanted five minutes of honesty without an audience. Garrett's truck wasn't in the driveway either. You knocked on Dean's door and he opened it in sweats and a Briar hoodie, textbook open on his desk, and the look on his face when he saw you was almost nothing, which was its own answer.
"Hey," you said.
"Hey." He stepped back to let you in, which you took as an invitation, and you came in and stood in the middle of his room and he closed the door and leaned against his desk with his arms crossed. Not aggressive. Just closed.
You looked at him for a moment.
"What's going on with you?" you asked. Quiet, direct. No accusation in it, just the question.
He shrugged one shoulder. "Nothing. Finals."
"Okay," you said. "That's not what I mean and you know it."
A beat. Something moved behind his eyes and then went still.
"I don't know what you want me to say," he said.
"I want you to say what's actually happening."
He looked at you. Then he looked away, jaw tightening slightly, and you recognized the particular quality of someone deciding something, not discovering it, deciding it, and some quiet part of you braced.
"I think this has run its course," he said. Flat. Careful.
You kept your face even. "Okay. What does that mean."
"It means —" He stopped. Started again. "I don't want this anymore. Whatever this is. I don't want it."
"Okay," you said.
He looked at you, and something in your steadiness seemed to irritate him, which you hadn't expected, and that was maybe the thing that cracked something open in him that should have stayed closed.
"I don't know what you thought this was," he said, and his voice had an edge now, "but it wasn't — I wasn't —" He made a short, almost contemptuous gesture. "You've been coming over here for months like you live here. Cooking, watching movies, acting like this is some kind of —"
"I never called it anything," you said.
"No, but you acted like it was something. You act like everything is fine and nothing bothers you and you're so —" He stopped, and the word he landed on was quiet and precise and clearly chosen to land: "You're so comfortable here. Like you belong here. And you don't."
The room was very quiet.
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the moment he heard what he'd just said, saw something flicker across his face that might have been regret but came too late to matter.
"You're right," you said. Your voice was completely level. "I don't."
He opened his mouth.
"I'm not going to make this into something," you said. "You don't want it, that's fine. I went in knowing what it was." You picked up your jacket from where you'd set it on the edge of his bed. "I hope finals go okay."
"Hey —"
"Good night, Dean."
You left. You closed the door behind you, not hard, just closed, and you walked down the stairs and through the front door and out into the December cold and you kept your shoulders straight the whole way home.
You didn't cry until you were in your own room with the door locked, and even then it wasn't for very long, because you'd known, you'd always known, and knowing didn't make it nothing but it made it survivable.
You texted Anna: you were right.
She called immediately. You let it ring twice, then picked up.
"I'm okay," you said, before she could ask.
"I know you are," she said. "Tell me anyway."
The hard part came later, at midnight.
You were lying in bed and you saw a link, a restaurant that had just opened, a tasting menu you'd been meaning to mention and you had his name pulled up in your contacts before you caught yourself. Thumb over send. The restaurant unremarkable and the gesture everything.
You put your phone face down on the mattress and looked at the ceiling for a while.
You'd known. You'd always known. That didn't make it nothing. It made it survivable, which was what you'd agreed to, and you were keeping that agreement.
The next afternoon you went to the off campus house.
Not because of Dean. Tucker had texted you at noon — i made something and i think i made it wrong, come look at it — and you'd said what did you make and he'd sent a photo that made you genuinely concerned for his wellbeing, and you'd said I'm coming over because that was what you did.
You showed up at three in the afternoon in your good boots and your coat, hair done, bag over your shoulder, because you had a study session after and you were not rearranging your life. You walked into the kitchen and Tucker was standing over something on the stove that smelled questionable and turned around with the expression of a man who needed saving.
"What is that," you said.
"I was trying to do the thing you showed me with the —"
"Tucker."
"I know."
You put your bag down and took your coat off and hung it over the stool and rolled up your sleeves and looked at whatever was happening in the pot, and Tucker stood next to you like a man watching a surgeon assess a patient.
"It's salvageable," you said.
He exhaled. "I knew it."
"Get me the garlic."
You cooked. Tucker hovered and passed things when you asked and made commentary that you ignored selectively and the kitchen filled up with something that smelled the way the kitchen was supposed to smell, and it was normal. It was completely normal. You were fine.
Logan came through at some point, stopped in the doorway, looked at the pot. "That smells good." Then he looked at Tucker. "Did you make that?"
"We're collaborating," Tucker said.
Logan looked at you. You said nothing. He grabbed a water from the fridge and left, which was exactly the right thing to do.
Dean came downstairs at some point, and you heard him stop at the bottom of the stairs, and you stirred the pot and didn't turn around.
"Hey," Tucker said, in the careful voice of someone being very casual.
"Hey." Dean's voice from the doorway. A pause. "What are you making?"
"She's fixing what I made," Tucker said.
You felt Dean's eyes on your back. You reached past the stove for the spice rack.
"Smells good," Dean said.
You said nothing. Not pointedly — just nothing. Tucker handed you the paprika.
Dean didn't leave. You could feel him still standing there, which told you something you set aside for later. You plated what you'd made, put Tucker's portion in front of him, put the extra in a container that you labeled with a piece of tape and a marker the way you always did, and started washing the pan.
"There's extra," Tucker said, to the room.
"I can see that," Dean said.
Tucker ate a bite. Made a sound of profound relief. "You're genuinely talented, you know that?"
"I know," you said, drying the pan.
You stayed another forty minutes, finishing your tea, going over the recipe with Tucker so he could try again, answering a text from Anna. Normal. Easy. The house the same as it had always been, Tucker the same as he'd always been, you the same as you'd always been.
When you left you said, "Bye Tuck, don't touch the leftovers until tomorrow, they're better the next day."
"Noted," Tucker said.
You pulled on your coat. Picked up your bag. "Later," you said, generally, to the room, and you walked out.
Dean stood in the kitchen after the front door closed.
Tucker was eating. Not looking at him. The kitchen smelled incredible and there was a labeled container in the fridge and the pan you'd used was clean and back on the rack like you'd never been there.
"She labeled it," Dean said.
"She always labels it," Tucker said.
Dean looked at the fridge. "For who."
"I don't know, Dean." Tucker turned a page in whatever he was reading. "Whoever wants it, I guess."
He couldn't focus in class the next morning.
The professor was talking and Dean had his laptop open and his notes half-started and none of it was going in because he kept coming back to the same thing, the same image, which was you standing at his stove with your back to him like nothing had happened.
Not performing like nothing had happened. Actually fine. The difference between those two things was something he understood logically and couldn't reconcile emotionally and it was making him insane.
He'd expected — he didn't know what he'd expected. Something. Some sign that what he'd said had mattered, that he had mattered, that the months of you being in his space and in his kitchen and in his bed and knowing how he took his coffee and showing up when Tucker texted you and falling asleep on his couch and leaving your chapstick on his nightstand —
You'd taken the chapstick. He'd noticed.
You'd taken it and labeled the leftovers and said later to the room and walked out and that was it, apparently. That was the whole thing. He'd said you don't belong here and you'd said you're right and you'd meant it, and that was the part he couldn't get past. You'd meant it not because you believed it but because you weren't going to fight him on it. Because you didn't need to.
You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He'd said that. He'd actually said that.
He stared at his laptop screen.
You'd been coming to that house since before he'd ever spoken a full sentence to you. Tucker's mom had called you, you'd shown up, you'd been folded into the house slowly and completely the way only people who actually fit somewhere ever are, Tucker texting you unprompted, Garrett knowing your coffee order, Logan moving over on the couch without being asked, and Dean had stood in his own room and told you that you didn't belong there and you'd looked at him like you were giving him the chance to hear what he was saying and he hadn't taken it and you'd left.
And then you'd come back the next day and cooked Tucker's disaster and labeled the leftovers and said later.
Later. Like you'd see them around. Like the house was still just a place you came to, unconnected to Dean, existing independently of whatever he'd decided.
Because it was. Because Tucker was your friend. Because you'd built something there that had nothing to do with Dean DiLaurentis and apparently had no intention of dismantling it on his account.
He wrote something down without reading it.
The thing was and this was the part that was sitting in his chest like something he couldn't shift, he'd ended it because it was getting too real. That was the honest answer, the one he hadn't said out loud to anyone including himself until approximately right now, which was not ideal timing. He'd felt it getting heavier and closer and more like something that had a name and he'd panicked, and when Dean DiLaurentis panicked he went cold, and when he went cold long enough he said things he couldn't take back.
You don't belong here.
He closed his laptop. Opened it again.
You hadn't fought for it. He'd said something genuinely cruel and you'd said you're right and you'd left, and the version of events he'd been running in his head where you'd be upset, where you'd pull back from the house, where he'd see the evidence of having mattered somewhere in your behavior, none of that had happened. You'd come back with your boots and your coat and your labeled container and your later and you were fine.
He was not fine.
That felt deeply, profoundly unfair, and he was self-aware enough to recognize that he had no one to blame for it but himself, which made it worse.
Wait, said something in the back of his head, quiet and inconvenient.
He picked up his pen. Put it down.
Wait.
He didn't finish the thought. He stared at his notes until they stopped meaning anything, and outside the window the Briar campus went on being cold and grey and completely indifferent to the fact that Dean DiLaurentis was sitting in class slowly understanding something he wasn't ready to understand yet.
The problem with ending things, Dean was discovering, was that it only worked if the other person let it end.
You hadn't made a scene. Hadn't texted him anything he had to respond to, hadn't shown up at his door, hadn't done a single thing that gave him something to push against. You'd just continued. Existing in the house, in the kitchen, in Tucker's orbit, completely unchanged, like Dean's opinion of the situation was one data point you'd received and filed appropriately and moved on from.
He ate everything you made. That was the humiliating part. Every single time you left something in the fridge he ate it, sometimes within the hour, standing at the counter in the kitchen alone like some kind of punishment he was administering to himself. Tucker never commented on this. Tucker never commented on anything, which was its own form of commentary.
You'd left soup once. Labeled, like always — back burner, twenty minutes, don't let Tucker have more than one bowl he'll eat the whole thing. Dean had read the label four times. Eaten two bowls. Stood at the sink washing the pot afterward feeling like a man losing an argument he wasn't allowed to be having.
Garrett had found him standing there once, staring at nothing, and said "you good?" and Dean had said "yeah" and Garrett had looked at the labeled container still on the counter and said nothing further, which somehow made it worse.
He started noticing everything.
The way you'd laugh at something on your phone and not share it with the room, just smile to yourself and put it face down. The way you always took your shoes off at the door and lined them up neatly to the left, always the left, and he'd started checking for them when he came downstairs, the presence or absence of your boots telling him things about the afternoon before he'd even gotten to the kitchen. The way you said Tucker's name — comfortable, fond, like a shorthand — and the way you had, at some point, stopped saying Dean's name at all. Not pointedly. Just it didn't come up. He wasn't who you were talking to.
He'd done that. He understood that he'd done that.
He just hadn't understood what it would feel like to have done it.
He tried, for a while, to be reasonable about it.
He made a list, mentally, of all the reasons this was fine. He didn't do relationships. He'd never done relationships. He had a plan for his life that had been in place since he was sixteen, and that plan had no room in it for whatever you were. Whatever you'd been. The comfortable weight of your presence, the evenings when you were in the house versus evenings when you weren't, the way he'd started coming across things during the week and thinking you'd have something to say about this —
That was the problem right there. That was the thing he kept running into.
He'd been having conversations with you in his head for weeks. Full conversations, with your actual responses, because he knew how you thought well enough to fill both sides, and that was, that was not the behavior of someone who was fine.
He talked to Garrett on a Tuesday night, which he never did, and talked around the subject for twenty minutes before Garrett said, flatly: "Just tell me what she did."
"She didn't do anything," Dean said.
A pause. "Then tell me what you did."
Dean stared at his ceiling. "I ended it."
"And?"
"And she's fine."
"That's it? She's fine and you are like this?"
"She's too fine," Dean said, and hated how that sounded.
Garrett was quiet for a moment. Then: "Dean."
"What."
"You absolute idiot."
January settled over Briar cold and grey and Dean settled into a particular kind of misery that he was too proud to name properly. He went to class. He did his readings. He played well enough at practice that Coach didn't get on him, which required more effort than it should have because his head was not where it was supposed to be.
You came over on Saturdays, usually. Sometimes Thursdays. Tucker had apparently taken to texting you about things that had nothing to do with cooking, Dean had seen the thread once, accidentally, and it was just the two of you sending each other increasingly unhinged videos with no context, a friendship that existed completely on its own terms, owed nothing to Dean, and was apparently thriving.
Logan had said, once, carefully, over breakfast: "She was here yesterday."
"I know," Dean said.
Logan looked at him. "Just saying."
"I know," Dean said again.
Logan went back to his cereal and didn't push it, which was the right call, and Dean appreciated it and resented it in equal measure.
He watched you from across rooms and told himself he wasn't doing that.
You never looked uncomfortable. That was the thing that was going to actually kill him. You'd come in, take your boots off, left side of the door, say hey to whoever was around, drift toward the kitchen with the ease of someone in a place they belonged, and it would be normal. Warm. Real. And Dean would be somewhere in the same house eating himself alive and you would be completely, genuinely fine.
He thought about the things he'd said. You act like you belong here. And you don't.
He thought about those words with a frequency that was becoming a problem.
It was a random Wednesday in late January.
Dean came home from a late class tired and cold and in the specific bad mood that came from hours with a professor who seemed to find his suffering amusing. The house was lit up when he got there, which meant people were home, and he could hear voices from the kitchen before he'd gotten his coat off.
Tucker's laugh. And then yours.
He stood in the hallway for a second with his coat half off.
"—absolutely not, that's not how that works—" Tucker, indignant.
"I'm telling you, Tucker, I watched you do it, that's exactly how you did it—"
"I was recovering, there's a difference—"
"There is no difference, the result was the same—"
Tucker said something Dean didn't catch and you laughed, full and real, the kind of laugh that meant you'd actually been caught off guard by it, and the sound of it hit Dean somewhere undefended and just stayed there.
He finished taking his coat off. Hung it up. Walked to the kitchen doorway.
You were at the island, Tucker leaning on his elbows across from you, some kind of card game between you that Dean didn't recognize. You had a mug of something and your hair was down and you were still smiling from whatever Tucker had just said, and Tucker was looking at you with the expression of someone who had won a point. Garrett was on the couch in the next room, feet up, barely paying attention, the way Garrett existed in the house like ambient weather.
"Dean," Tucker said. "Tell her that recovering from a bad move is a valid strategy."
"Depends on the move," Dean said, automatically.
"See," Tucker said to you.
"That's not what he said," you said, and glanced at Dean briefly,not long, not loaded, just a glance, the kind you'd give anyone and looked back at Tucker. "Your move."
Dean got a glass of water. Stood at the counter. The card game continued. Tucker accused you of cheating, you denied it with the specific serenity of someone who was absolutely cheating, Dean watched and said nothing and felt the sensation of standing outside something warm.
An hour later you started putting your coat on.
"Okay," you said, gathering your things. "Tucker. Rematch Thursday."
"Thursday," Tucker confirmed. "I'll win."
"You won't." You pulled your bag onto your shoulder. Looked at Tucker with something genuine and warm. "Bye, Tuck."
"Bye." Tucker was already looking back at his phone.
"Later, Garrett," you called toward the living room.
"Later," Garrett called back, not looking up.
You walked toward the door. Past Dean, close enough that he could have said something, close enough that the window was right there, and he stood at the counter with his glass of water and said nothing, and you pulled the door open and walked out, and the door closed, and that was it.
Tucker looked up from his phone.
The two of them sat in the quiet kitchen, the card game still spread out on the island, your mug still on the counter.
"She forgot her mug," Dean said.
"She'll get it Thursday," Tucker said.
Dean put his glass down. Picked it back up.
"She said bye to you first," he said.
Tucker looked at him for a long moment. Set his phone down. "Yeah," he said. "She did."
The kitchen was very quiet.
"Tucker —"
"I'm not doing this, Dean."
"I'm not asking you to do anything."
"Good." Tucker picked his phone back up. "Because I really, genuinely, am not getting involved."
From the living room, Garrett said nothing, which meant he was listening to every word.
Dean looked at the door.
"She left her mug," he said again, quieter, to no one in particular.
Tucker said nothing. Which was, as always, its own kind of answer.
He lasted four days.
Four days of your mug on the counter — Tucker had washed it and left it there — four days of picking up his phone and putting it down, four days of being a reasonable adult who had made a decision and was living with it, and then on Sunday night at eleven p.m. he put on his shoes and his coat and walked across campus to the Kappa house like a man who had exhausted every other option.
He stood outside in the cold and looked up at the second floor windows and felt genuinely insane.
He found a handful of small rocks from the landscaping border. Looked at them. Looked up at the windows.
He threw one.
It hit the wrong window. A light came on and someone looked out — not you, someone he didn't recognize — and he stepped back into the shadow of the tree until the light went off again.
He tried the next window. Nothing. The one after that.
The window opened.
You leaned out, hair messy, clearly pulled from sleep or close to it, and looked down at him in the dark with an expression that moved through several phases: confusion, recognition, disbelief. Before settling on something that was almost exasperated and almost amused and fully of course.
"Dean," you said, not loud. "What are you doing."
"I need to talk to you."
"It's eleven o'clock."
"I know. You weren't answering my texts."
You stared at him. "You texted me twenty minutes ago."
"You didn't answer."
"I was asleep."
"Can I come up?"
The expression on your face did something complicated. "You want to climb the sorority house."
"There's a trellis."
You looked to the left, apparently confirming the existence of the trellis, then looked back down at him. "Dean."
"Five minutes," he said. "I just — five minutes. Then I'll go."
You looked at him for a long moment, and he stood in the cold and let you look, because he'd run out of ways to manage how this went. You could close the window. That was a real option and he'd accept it.
You didn't close the window.
"The trellis is on the left," you said. "Don't break anything."
He made it up without incident, which he felt was frankly more than he deserved. You'd stepped back from the window to let him climb through, and he came in trying not to knock anything over and stood in the middle of your room feeling the full absurdity of the situation settle over him.
Your room was small and warm. Books on every surface, a desk lamp on low, a quilt on the bed that looked like it had been in your family for a while. It smelled like you, something warm, something that had been living in the back of his brain for months without his permission.
You sat on the edge of your bed and looked at him with your arms loosely crossed, not hostile, just waiting. Giving him the floor.
"I need to say something," he said.
"Okay."
"And I need you to let me say it without — I need to actually get through it."
"I'm not stopping you," you said.
He looked at you. You looked back, and there was something in your expression: patient, steady, not giving him anything, and he understood suddenly that you were going to make him do this himself. All the way. No half measures.
He took a breath.
"I said things to you that I can't take back," he started. "That night in my room. And I knew when I said them that they weren't — I knew they weren't true. I said them because I was scared and I was trying to make you leave and I wanted it to work so I made it as —" He stopped. Tried again. "I wanted you gone and I made sure you'd go and then you went and I've been —" He stopped again.
You waited.
"I've been losing my mind," he said. "For weeks. You keep coming over and cooking Tucker's food and laughing at his jokes and you left your mug on the counter and you said bye, Tuck and walked out like I wasn't standing right there and I —" He stopped. The words that needed to come next were the ones he'd been circling for weeks and he was done circling. "I'm in love with you."
The room was quiet.
"I'm in love with you," he said again, because it had come out steadier the second time and it was true and he was done with it living only in his head. "I have been for a while. I didn't know what to do with it so I — I did what I did. And I know that's not an excuse. I know what I said. But I needed you to know that it wasn't because you didn't matter. It was because you mattered too much and I didn't know how to —"
"Dean," you said.
He stopped.
You looked at him for a long moment. Something in your expression that was careful and real and not entirely closed.
"I know," you said quietly.
He blinked. "You —"
"I knew." You said it simply, without cruelty. "I've known for a while. I needed you to know it too." A pause. "And I needed you to say it. Out loud. To me. Without me making it easy for you."
He held your gaze. "Because you're not going to make it easy for me."
"No," you said. Not meanly. Just honestly. "I'm not."
He nodded slowly. That was fair. That was completely fair.
"I'm sorry," he said. "For what I said. You don't belong here — I knew that wasn't true when I said it. That's the worst part. I knew and I said it anyway."
You looked at him. And he watched something in your expression shift, not all the way, but enough, a small careful opening.
"I know," you said again. Softer this time.
"Can we —" He stopped. Tried to find the right shape for the question. "Is there a way back from this. Is that something that exists."
You were quiet for a moment that felt very long.
"Come here," you said.
He crossed the room and you stood from the bed to meet him and he kissed you carefully, like he was asking, and you kissed him back like you were answering, and it was nothing like the first time and nothing like any of the times in between, because those had all been about desire and this was about something that didn't have the same kind of ceiling.
His hands came to your face, gentle, and you let him, and he kissed you like he was trying to say the things that words hadn't been sufficient for the weeks of watching you from across rooms, the soup, the mug, the way your boots on the left side of the door had started to feel like something he needed, all of it, moving through the kiss like it had somewhere to go now.
You pulled back after a moment and looked at him.
"Say it again," you said quietly. Not a test. Just you wanted to hear it again.
"I'm in love with you," he said, without hesitating.
You looked at him for one more second. Then you kissed him again and this time you meant it differently, your hands in his collar pulling him in, and the tenor of the whole thing shifted from careful to something warmer and more certain.
He walked you back to the bed gently, and you sat and pulled him down with you, and he went willingly, propping himself above you, and looked at you for a moment. Your hair on the pillow, your expression open in a way he hadn't been allowed to see in weeks.
"Hi," he said, quietly.
The corner of your mouth moved. "Hi."
He kissed you again, slower this time, and his hands moved over you with a deliberateness that was different from anything before not performing, not proving anything, just present. Your shirt came off and his followed, and he pressed his mouth to your collarbone, your shoulder, the soft curve of your throat, taking his time in the way of someone who wasn't going anywhere.
"Dean," you said softly, fingers in his hair.
"I know," he said, against your skin. "I've got you."
You exhaled like something releasing.
It was slow and close and almost unbearably tender, the kind of thing that didn't have anything to hide anymore. He was attentive in a way that felt different now not just knowing what worked but wanting you to feel it, wanting you to know he was there, all the way there, not halfway out the door. You made soft sounds against his jaw and pulled him closer and he went, and you moved together in the small warm room with the desk lamp still on low and neither of you suggested turning it off.
When you came it was quiet and deep and you said his name and he held you through it with his face pressed to your temple, and afterward he stayed close, closer than strictly necessary, and you didn't move away.
When he followed he was holding your hand, fingers laced, which hadn't been planned and was completely true, and you held on.
Afterward you lay in the small bed in the quiet and the lamp was still on.
Your head was on his chest. He had his arm around you. Neither of you had suggested otherwise.
"You really threw rocks at my window," you said, to the ceiling.
"Small rocks."
"You hit Anna's window first."
"She didn't see me."
"She definitely saw you." A pause. "She texted me twenty minutes ago asking if I had a 'nighttime visitor.'"
Dean closed his eyes briefly. "Great."
You laughed, quiet, against his chest, and he felt it more than heard it and thought: there it is. there's the thing I've been missing.
He pressed his mouth to your hair.
"For the record," he said, "you do belong there. In the house. That was — I need you to know that was the opposite of true."
You were quiet for a moment. "I know," you said. "I always knew."
"You're annoyingly self-possessed, you know that?"
"You've mentioned it."
"Not a complaint."
You tilted your head to look up at him. Something in your expression that was warm and a little careful still, not closed, just real. This was going to take time, he knew that. He'd put something between you that didn't disappear overnight and you weren't going to pretend it had, because you didn't do that.
"Tucker's going to be insufferable about this," you said.
Dean thought about Tucker, who had said absolutely nothing for weeks and washed your mug and left it on the counter. "He already knows," Dean said.
"He's known for months."
"I know."
"He texted me two weeks ago," you said, "and said 'just for the record I think he's an idiot.' I asked who and he said 'you know who.'"
Dean stared at the ceiling. "I'm going to kill him."
"You're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
A beat.
"Garrett's going to say I told you so," you said.
Dean closed his eyes. "Did he tell you so?"
"He texted me a single thumbs up the morning after the speech. No context."
"I'm going to kill Garrett too."
"You're really not."
"No," he said. "I'm really not."
You settled back against him and the room was quiet and warm and your hand was resting on his chest and outside the world was doing whatever the world was doing and in here it was just this, finally, with a name on it.
Summary: Your shift starts with a six-year-old convinced stitches are a government conspiracy and ends with Jack walking into the ER carrying fancy decaf, plausible deniability, and absolutely zero ability to be normal about his pregnant wife. Santos clocks the coffee. Then the butter. Then the honey. Then the bag. And by the time everyone follows you into the parking garage, your very private marriage becomes everyone’s favorite new problem.
Warnings: Pregnant!Reader, pregnancy symptoms/nausea/food aversions, brief pediatric injury/stitches, medical setting, established marriage, workplace teasing, soft husband Jack, chaotic ensemble, no real angst, everyone being deeply nosy in a parking garage.
Author’s Note: Welcome to You Never Asked. This is an established-marriage Jack fic, so the whole premise is less “secret relationship” and more “private adults who never made a department-wide announcement.” Reader is a child life specialist, meaning she works with pediatric patients and families to help kids understand scary hospital experiences in age-appropriate ways. Present-day Reader is pregnant in this fic, so skip if pregnancy fic is not your thing. Otherwise, please enjoy Jack Abbot attempting subtlety and failing because he knows too much about his wife’s coffee, toast, butter, and farmers' market honey.
Xoxo, Del
Previous Part(s): | Prologue |
Chapter One: Shift Change
YOUR POV:
You were halfway through convincing a six-year-old that stitches were not a government conspiracy when your phone buzzed in the side pocket of your child life bag. You ignored it. Not because you lacked curiosity. Because Miles Warren had one hand clamped beneath his chin, one suspicious eye fixed on the suture tray, and the posture of a man preparing to report Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center to whoever regulated betrayal, he was six. Furious enough to be forty-five.
“No one is sewing my face,” Miles announced.
Dr. Mel King looked up from the rolling stool near the bedside, where she had been reviewing his chart with the focused gentleness that made kids trust her faster than they expected to.
“No one is sewing your face without explaining it first,” you said.
Miles narrowed his eyes. “That sounds like trick words.”
“Fair,” you said, because it absolutely did.
His mother sat beside the bed with one hand hovering near his sneaker, wearing the exhausted, hopeful expression of a parent who had already tried snacks, bargaining, and one deeply unsuccessful promise involving extra screen time. Perlah stood near the counter, quietly arranging supplies with the calm efficiency of someone who had already survived three versions of this exact argument before lunch.
You smiled at Miles and reached into your bag. “I’m going to tell you the truth in kid words,” you said.
Miles’s hand loosened slightly. “Kid words?”
“Yep.” You pulled out two options and held them up. “You can hold the squishy dinosaur or the blue stress ball while we talk.”
Miles studied both with the gravity of someone choosing legal representation. Mel leaned back slightly on the stool, giving him time.
The dinosaur was green, soft, and vaguely cross-eyed. The stress ball was shaped like a globe and had seen better days.
Miles pointed with his free hand. “Dinosaur.”
“Strong choice,” you said, placing it gently in his lap.
Miles picked it up and squeezed. “What’s his name?”
You looked at the dinosaur with grave consideration. “That depends. Is he a doctor dinosaur or a regular dinosaur?”
Miles blinked. “A doctor.”
“Then Dr. Pickles,” you answered.
Perlah’s mouth twitched. Mel’s eyes brightened in immediate approval.
Miles looked down at the dinosaur, deeply unimpressed. “That’s a bad doctor name.”
“You’re right,” you said. “He’s had some complaints.”
Miles’s mother let out a soft, relieved breath that almost became a laugh.
Mel nodded once, as if this was clinically relevant. “Dr. Pickles is currently under peer review.”
Miles looked at Mel. “What does that mean?”
“It means other doctors are checking his work,” Mel said.
You nodded toward the dinosaur. “And his attitude.”
Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles again. His shoulders lowered by half an inch.
You counted that as progress. Your phone buzzed again. You ignored that, too.
Probably Jack. Definitely Jack. Which meant the text was probably about ginger ale, crackers, decaf coffee, the mint candies he had started keeping in places you had not known mint candies could be kept, or the fact that you had slept for roughly four hours and then stared at the ceiling as if it had personally betrayed you.
Jack had not been overbearing about the pregnancy. Not exactly. He had been Jack about it. Which meant he noticed everything, filed it away, and quietly rearranged the world by six inches so it bothered you less. He knew you still adored coffee and had accepted decaf with all the grace of a woman being exiled from her homeland. He knew you got jealous every time someone walked past with a real latte. He knew you had wanted fries for three days last week and then gagged the second a takeout container opened near you.
He knew the specific face you made when you were trying to decide if a food sounded possible or if your stomach had already declared war. He knew you were tired. He knew you were trying.
That was the part that got you.
Jack never treated the pregnancy like you were fragile. He treated it like you were doing something hard, and he wanted to be useful. You loved him so much that it made you deeply irritated.
“You said truth,” Miles reminded you.
“I did.” You shifted closer, keeping your voice calm. “First, Perlah is going to clean your chin. That part might feel cold and wet. It might sting a little because cuts are rude.”
Miles’s eyes moved to Perlah. Perlah held up the gauze to show him.
“Then,” you continued, “Dr. King is going to use medicine to help the skin around the cut get sleepy.”
Miles’s face tightened. “How?”
You did not soften the answer into a lie. Kids usually knew when adults were sanding off the sharp edges of truth. They could feel the missing parts. “With a poke,” you said.
Miles stiffened. His mother’s hand twitched toward him, then stopped.
You kept your attention on Miles. “It is okay to not like that part.”
“I don’t like that part,” Miles said immediately.
You nodded. “Excellent honesty.”
“It sounds terrible,” Miles grumbled.
“It is not my favorite design choice either,” you said.
Mel hugged the chart lightly to her chest, like she was restraining herself from laughing. “Medicine has several design flaws.”
Miles’s mouth twitched before he remembered to be outraged. “Medicine is stupid.”
“Sometimes,” you agreed. “But the poke is fast, and then the sleepy medicine helps the stitches hurt less.”
Miles looked at Mel. “How many stitches?”
Mel shifted closer on the stool, her expression open and serious. “Probably three.”
Miles stared at her. Mel held up three fingers. “Maybe four if your chin decides to be dramatic.”
Miles looked personally offended by his own chin.
You held up your fingers. “Here are your choices. You can watch what’s happening, or you can look at your mom. You can count, or I can tell you each step before it happens. You can squeeze Dr. Pickles, or you can squeeze your mom’s hand.”
Miles considered this. His mother leaned closer. “You can squeeze my hand as hard as you need, bud.”
Miles looked suspicious. “What if I break it?”
His mother smiled in that brave way parents did when they were trying not to cry in front of their children. “Then I’ll get stitches too.”
“That’s not funny,” Miles said.
“No,” she agreed. “It was medium funny.”
Miles gave this serious thought.
Your phone buzzed a third time.
Mel’s gaze flicked briefly toward your bag. Mel saw things. Not loudly. Not with the hungry curiosity of someone looking for gossip. She noticed the way a room shifted, the way a voice changed, the way someone’s hand moved toward pain before they remembered other people could see.
Quietly. Accurately. A little dangerously.
You reached into the front pocket of your bag for your laminated prep cards, and your fingers brushed the edge of a saltine sleeve. You paused. Jack. Of course. He had tucked crackers into the pocket that morning while you were standing in the kitchen, wearing one of his old shirts, staring mournfully at his real coffee like it had betrayed you by existing. Not the main pocket. That would risk crumbs near your stickers and fidgets. The outside pocket. Because Jack Abbot was an emotionally devastating maniac about practical details.
You had started dressing differently two weeks ago. Not dramatically. Nothing that would look like a confession to anyone who wasn’t paying close attention. Looser sweaters. Longer cardigans. Scrub tops that skimmed instead of clung. At first, it had been practical. Your body had changed quietly, then all at once. One morning, you had stood in front of the bathroom mirror, shirt lifted just enough to see the new curve beneath your ribs, and Jack had gone still in the doorway behind you. You had seen his face in the mirror. Not surprise. Not fear. Just love. So much of it, so sudden and bare, that your eyes filled before you could tell yourself not to be ridiculous.
Jack had crossed the room without a word and wrapped both arms around you from behind, one hand settling carefully over the place where your son was beginning to make himself known.
“Don’t look at me like that,” you had said, already crying.
His chin had brushed your shoulder. “Like what?”
“Like you’re happy,” you replied through tears.
Jack had gone quiet for a second. Then his thumb moved once over your stomach, barely there. “I am.”
That had made you cry harder, obviously. Jack had held you through it with the grim patience of a man accepting consequences for being too sincere before coffee.
Now, in Miles’s exam room, you tugged the hem of your cardigan lower without thinking. Mel’s eyes dropped for half a second to the visible corner of the cracker packet, then briefly to your cardigan. Then she looked back at Miles. She did not say anything. That was somehow worse.
You pulled out the prep cards and turned back to the bed. “Okay. This card shows what stitches look like when they’re still in the package.”
Miles leaned forward despite himself.
You showed him the card, then the next one. “These are not like sewing clothes,” you said. “No giant needle. No sewing machine. No one is turning you into pants.”
Miles stared at you and almost smiled. “Who would turn me into pants?”
“No one in this room,” Perlah said.
Miles glanced at Mel. Mel shook her head. “I’m not qualified for pants.”
Miles looked marginally reassured.
Something shifted low in your abdomen. Small. Strange. Not painful. Not sharp. Just enough to make you pause with your thumb resting against the edge of the laminated card. It was still new enough that your body had not figured out how to make it casual. A flutter. A roll. A quiet internal reminder from someone who had recently developed the habit of making his presence known at inconvenient times. Yesterday morning, while Jack was making breakfast, it had startled you badly enough that you had stopped mid-sentence.
Jack had gone still across the kitchen, butter knife in hand, eyes already on you. You had told him it was nothing. He had not believed you for one second.
Now, in Miles’s exam room, you let one hand drift to the lower edge of your cardigan for half a breath. Then you moved it away.
Mel was looking at the chart. Mostly. “You okay?” she asked.
You lifted the next card. “Yep.”
Mel nodded. She did not challenge you. She did not stare. She only tucked one foot under the stool and watched Miles again, giving you the grace of not making your body the center of the room.
You appreciated that. You also did not trust it.
Miles squeezed Dr. Pickles. “What if I cry?”
You looked back at him, grateful for the question. “Then you cry.”
His brow furrowed. “That’s it?”
“That’s it,” you said. “Crying is allowed.”
Perlah stepped closer with the cleaning supplies. “I cry when my coffee order is wrong.”
A sharp little pang of envy hit before you could stop it. Coffee. Real coffee. Full-caffeine, glorious, beautiful coffee. You missed it with the kind of intensity usually reserved for long-lost lovers and discontinued favorite lipsticks.
Miles looked at Perlah as if this were possibly the most adult thing anyone had ever admitted to him.
Mel nodded. “I cried once because a patient gave me a sticker and told me I was doing a good job.”
Miles looked at you.
“I cried last week because someone walked past me with an everything bagel,” you said.
Mel’s eyes slid briefly toward you. Damn it.
Miles frowned. “You don’t like bagels?”
“I love bagels,” you said. That was the problem.
Mel’s gaze lingered for half a second longer than necessary before she turned back to Miles.
Miles looked between all of you. “Adults cry a lot.”
“Constantly,” Perlah said.
“Secretly,” Mel added.
You nodded. “In supply closets.”
Miles considered this and seemed to find it medically acceptable.
Perlah moved beside the bed. “I’m going to clean your chin now. Cold and wet first.”
Miles clutched Dr. Pickles. “No tricks?”
“No tricks,” Perlah said.
You held up the card. “Truth in kid words, remember?”
Miles looked at you. “Tell me each step.”
“I can do that.”
Perlah cleaned the wound. Miles hissed through his teeth but did not pull away. You kept your voice low and steady, narrating before each step, leaving space for him to react, reminding him that holding still did not mean pretending he liked it. Your phone buzzed again.
This time, even Miles noticed. “Is someone calling you?” he asked.
“Texting,” you said.
His brow furrowed. “Is it important?”
You thought of Jack’s probable message. Ginger ale still helping? Crackers are in the outside pocket. There’s decaf in your travel mug if you want it. No pressure. Just options.
Your throat warmed. “Someone’s just checking on me,” you said.
Perlah smiled to herself.
Miles nodded like he understood this on a personal level. “My grandma texts like that.”
You smiled. “Then your grandma and my person would probably get along.”
Mel’s gaze lifted again. Your person. You had not said husband. You rarely did at work. Not because you were hiding. Not exactly.
It just never came up in a way that needed correction, and Jack was private enough that announcing your marriage at the nurses’ station sounded like something he would endure with the expression of a man being asked to donate a kidney recreationally. Also, there was a small, terrible part of you that found the whole thing funny. PTMC knew you by your first name because kids did better with first names. Families did too.
You were Child Life, soft sweaters, a calm voice, and stickers tucked into every available pocket.
Jack was Abbot. Night shift. Dry voice. Trauma rooms. Military posture. Coffee so black it seemed medicinal.
People saw you both in fragments. Shift change. Late consults. Hallway overlap. The occasional staff meeting where Jack sat in the back and looked like every agenda item had personally offended him. Almost no one put the pieces together.
Robby knew, obviously. Dana knew too, because Dana knew everything worth knowing and had the good sense not to announce other people’s lives at the nurses’ station. But Robby was the one who enjoyed it. Robby had stood beside Jack in a suit and called it deeply unsettling when Jack adjusted his tie for the fourth time before the ceremony. He had been Jack’s best man, a title he brought up only when it would annoy Jack most.
Perlah finished cleaning Miles’s chin. “First part done,” Perlah said.
Miles opened one eye. “That kinda sucked.”
“It does suck,” you agreed.
Miles looked surprised. “You can say that?”
“Yes,” you said.
Miles processed this with the intensity of a philosopher in dinosaur socks.
Mel rolled closer on the stool. “Sleepy medicine next.”
Miles’s face tightened. You leaned in just enough to keep his focus. “Do you want to count, or do you want me to tell you when it’s done?”
Miles swallowed. “Tell me when it’s done.”
“Okay.” You placed Dr. Pickles more firmly under his hand. “You squeeze him. I’ll watch the medicine.”
Miles nodded once. His mother offered her hand. Miles took it. The poke happened fast. Miles cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just a tight little burst of tears that made his mother’s face crumple and Perlah’s gaze soften.
You stayed with him through it. “That was the worst part,” you said when the needle was gone.
Miles sniffed hard. “That was terrible.”
You nodded. “It was.”
“I hated it,” Miles added.
“That’s okay,” you said. “You’re allowed.”
Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles, betrayed by medicine and possibly dinosaurs.
Mel gave the anesthetic a minute to work. Your phone buzzed again. Perlah set the used supplies aside. Mel glanced at your bag, then back at Miles. Only once. A quick thing. Barely anything. Still enough.
“You can check that,” Mel said gently.
“I’m good,” you said.
Mel hugged the chart closer to her chest. “It’s persistent.”
You smiled. “That’s one word for him.”
The second the sentence left your mouth, you felt Mel’s attention sharpen by a fraction. Not enough to make a thing of it. Enough. Miles’s mother leaned over to kiss the top of his head, giving you a small window. You reached into your bag and checked your phone. There were, in fact, four texts.
Jack: Ginger ale still helping?
Jack: Crackers are in the outside pocket if not.
Jack: No pressure. Just options.
Jack: Love you both. You’re doing good.
You stared at the last message for half a second too long. Love you both. You’re doing good. It was such a Jack text. Practical care stacked under one plain, devastating sentence. No exclamation points. No hearts. No little cartoon baby emoji. Just ginger ale, decaf, and love, organized in order of immediate usefulness.
You typed back with one thumb.
You: We’re okay. With a patient. Dr. Pickles is under peer review.
The response came almost immediately.
Jack: Sounds fair. A second later: Jack: Tell him to improve.
You bit the inside of your cheek. You had texted him a picture of the dinosaur earlier, with no explanation except "new attending on peds."
Jack had replied: Looks underqualified.
You locked your phone. Mel’s eyes were on Miles, but you knew better than to think she had missed the way your face softened. You tucked the phone away and picked up the sticker sheet. The stitches went better than Miles expected and worse than he wanted. Both things could be true. He squeezed Dr. Pickles hard enough to flatten the dinosaur’s head. He cried once more when the first stitch tugged, then got distracted by the fact that Mel had once fainted during a blood draw when she was twelve.
“You’re a doctor,” Miles said, scandalized.
“I recovered,” Mel said.
Miles eyed her. “But you fainted?”
“Briefly.”
You leaned closer to Miles. “She’s very brave now.”
Mel pulled off her gloves. “Medium brave.”
Miles nodded solemnly. “Medium brave counts.”
By the time Mel finished the last stitch, Miles looked exhausted, offended, and deeply proud of himself. A good combination. “You did it,” his mother whispered.
Miles looked at you. “Was I brave?”
You peeled a dinosaur sticker from the sheet. “Very.”
Miles frowned. You waited.
“Medium brave,” he corrected. “Not all the way.”
You pressed the sticker gently to the back of his hand. “Medium brave counts.”
Mel smiled as she reached for the discharge instructions on the computer. “Usually more than all-the-way brave,” she said.
Miles looked at her. “Why?”
Mel glanced over from the screen. “Because medium brave means you were scared and did it anyway.”
Miles looked down at Dr. Pickles. His chin was swollen. His cheeks were blotchy. His fingers were still tight around the dinosaur. But he smiled. Just a little.
You felt that tiny, internal shift again. A small roll low under your ribs, subtle enough that no one else should have noticed. You breathed through it.
Mel did not look at your stomach. She did not ask. She only handed you the sanitizer when you reached for it and watched your hand settle for one brief second against the lower curve beneath your cardigan before you caught yourself and moved.
That was the thing about Mel. She didn’t need to say anything to make you feel seen.
Miles’s mother thanked everyone three times. Mel gave wound care instructions. Perlah handed over extra gauze and the kind of practical reassurance parents needed after watching their children bleed. You promised Miles that Dr. Pickles could stay with him until discharge as long as he did not file another complaint with the medical board.
Miles hugged the dinosaur to his chest. “He’s on probation.”
“Fair,” you said.
You stepped out of the room with Mel a few minutes later, letting the door click softly behind you. The noise of the ER met you all at once. Phones. Monitors. A transport tech laughed near the desk. Someone called for an EKG. The familiar, relentless rhythm of PTMC refused to pause just because one six-year-old had survived the betrayal of stitches.
Mel stopped beside the counter and reached for the sanitizer. You checked the time. The day shift ended in thirty minutes. Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You glanced down.
Jack: I’m early. Five minutes out.
You smiled despite yourself.
Jack had always liked nights. He liked the dark. The smaller crew. The way the hospital narrowed down to alarms, instincts, and people who knew how to move without talking too much. He liked the solitude of it, the strange mercy of working while the rest of the world slept.
Or he had.
Lately, nights had started to feel different. Lately, nights meant leaving you at home with ginger ale on the nightstand, decaf in the cabinet, pillows wedged around your hips, and a body that could not decide what it wanted without punishing you for guessing wrong.
Jack still loved the work. You knew he did. But you also knew the way his hand lingered at your back before he left now. The way his eyes moved over your face like he was trying to memorize how tired you looked before he had to spend twelve hours away from it. The way he kissed you once, then again, like the second one might keep something safe that the first one could not. He hated leaving. You knew that, too.
Mel dried her hands with a paper towel beside you. You slipped your phone back into your pocket before she could see the screen. Mel didn’t ask who it was. She didn’t need to. Instead, her gaze moved once to the ginger ale beside your water bottle. Then, to the sleeve of saltines in your bag. Then to your face.
“You feeling okay today?” Mel asked. The question was gentle enough to pass as nothing.
You adjusted the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “Yeah.”
Mel nodded once, accepting the answer without quite believing it. “Good,” she said.
You looked at her for another beat. Mel only smiled mildly and tossed the paper towel into the trash. You turned toward the workstation to finish your notes, one hand resting briefly over the place where your son had rolled beneath your ribs. The day shift was almost over. Night shift was getting ready to begin. And no one in the ER knew that Jack Abbot was five minutes away from walking through those doors with decaf in one hand, plausible deniability in the other, and every intention of checking on his pregnant wife without anyone noticing.
The first thing you saw was the cup. Not Jack. Not technically. The cup came through the ambulance bay doors first, carried in one hand like a formal apology. It was not from the cafeteria. It was not from the lobby kiosk. It was definitely not hospital decaf, which tasted like someone had rinsed a coffee pot and asked you to be grateful. This cup had a sleeve. A stamped logo. A handwritten label. Fancy. Suspicious. Hopeful, which felt cruel.
Then Jack came through the doors behind it, already in dark scrubs, his badge clipped at his chest, his other hand wrapped around his own coffee. Real coffee. Actual coffee. Coffee with caffeine and dignity and a future. You stared at it with immediate, unreasonable resentment.
Then you looked at your husband. Jack’s eyes found yours from across the department the way they always did, quickly and without announcement. Face first. Then shoulders. Then the ginger ale beside your laptop. The sleeve of the crackers was half-tucked under your notebook. Your cardigan, loose and soft over the curve you had spent the last two weeks pretending was not becoming obvious.
His gaze dropped for less than a second. You felt it anyway. Then he crossed the ER like he was only coming in for the night shift. Like he had not texted you three separate options in the last hour and found a new brand of decaf because you had said, once, half-asleep and miserable against his pillow, that you missed coffee so much you could cry. He set the fancy cup beside your laptop. ‘Decaf. Don’t yell until after trying’ was written in black marker across the lid.
Your throat did something ridiculous. Jack’s face did not change. “New one,” he said.
You looked at the cup, then at him. “You bought me fancy decaf coffee?”
His mouth barely moved. “Try it.”
You picked up the cup with both hands because it was warm and because your body, traitorous and exhausted, had already decided that warmth was reason enough to hope. The first sip was cautious. Defensive. You expected disappointment. You expected hot brown sadness. You expected the thin, bitter lie every decaf had been telling you for the past month and a half.
Instead, the coffee was warm. Smooth. Rich. Good. Actually, unfairly, wonderfully good.
Your eyes closed before you could stop them. “Oh my God,” you said.
Jack went still. Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not unless they knew him. Not unless they knew the exact way his body held itself when he was waiting for the verdict on something that mattered more than he wanted it to.
“Yeah?” he asked.
You nodded, still holding the cup close. “Jack.” His eyes stayed on you. “It’s good.” The words came out smaller than you meant them to. Grateful in a way coffee probably did not deserve.
Except it was not just coffee. It was a normal thing. One thing your body had not rejected. One thing that tasted as if it belonged to the version of you who used to drink real coffee without negotiating with your stomach first. Jack understood that. Of course he did. That was the best part.
His shoulders settled by a fraction. “Good.”
You looked down at the lid again, and a laugh caught in your throat. “I wasn’t going to yell,” you said.
Jack gave you a look.
“I was going to emotionally object,” you corrected.
“Mm,” he hummed.
“With dignity,” you added.
Jack nodded once. “Sure.”
You took another sip, and this time you did not bother hiding how much you liked it. You were too tired to perform indifference, too relieved to make him work for it. “Thank you,” you said.
Jack’s expression went quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”
Behind the counter, Santos lowered the chart in her hand. Slowly. “Oh, no,” she said.
You closed your eyes. Jack did not move.
Santos pointed at the cup. “That was a moment.”
Jack looked at her. “It was coffee.”
“It was not coffee.” Santos’s eyes narrowed. “It was emotionally loaded coffee.”
Robby made a pleased sound from the workstation behind her. “Excellent band name.”
Jack’s gaze cut toward him. “Don’t help.”
“I’m helping myself,” Robby said.
Dana did not look up from the discharge papers in front of her, but the corner of her mouth moved like she had decided not to be held responsible for anyone in the department. Mel, who had been reviewing something on her tablet near the counter, glanced between you and Jack with quiet interest. Not nosy. Not loud. Just watching.
Santos was loud enough for both of them. “Since when does Abbot bring Child Life specialty beverages?” she asked.
Jack picked up his own coffee. “Since Child Life suffered enough.”
You took another sip. “I support this policy.”
Santos pointed at you. “You’re too happy. That’s suspicious.”
“I’m drinking good decaf for the first time in weeks,” you said. “My joy is proportionate.”
Robby leaned one hip against the workstation. “Strong argument.”
Jack looked at him again. Robby lifted both hands. “I’m neutral.”
“You have never been neutral in your life,” Dana said.
Robby nodded once. “Also fair.”
Jack’s real coffee drifted near you when he shifted his weight, and your stomach made one small, sour complaint. You did not move. You did not even think you changed expression. Jack noticed anyway. He moved his cup to the far side of the counter without looking at it. Small. Quiet. Automatic. Your fingers tightened around your decaf. Mel noticed. You saw her notice. Her eyes flicked to Jack’s hand, then back to your face, and something thoughtful crossed her expression before she politely looked down at her tablet again.
Santos missed none of it. Her gaze sharpened.
Jack lowered his voice, but not enough to be secretive. Just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. “How bad?”
You knew what he meant. Not work. Not Miles. Not the coffee. The nausea. The hunger that kept arriving with disgust tucked beneath it. The way your body had started treating dinner like a negotiation no one had authorized. “Manageable,” you said.
Jack’s eyes narrowed by a fraction.
You sighed. “Annoying.”
He almost smiled, “Closer.”
“The bagel smell in the break room was a crime scene,” you grumbled.
His mouth twitched. “That bad?”
You nodded. “I considered filing charges.”
Jack nodded as if this were a reasonable escalation. “What sounds possible for dinner?”
You looked down at the coffee in your hands. Good coffee. Actual good coffee. Decaf, tragically, but not a punishment. Not a thin, bitter insult. Good enough that your whole body seemed confused by the relief of wanting something and being able to have it.
“Toast,” you admitted.
Jack nodded once. “Toast is good.”
“Toast is barely dinner,” you said with a frown.
Jack looked at you so sincerely that your chest squeezed tight. “Toast is dinner if it stays down.”
Your throat tightened. That was the thing about Jack. He did not make ‘possible’ sound like failure. He just lowered the bar until you could step over it without shame.
“Butter and honey,” you said.
His expression softened. “Irish butter’s in the fridge.”
You looked at him. “You got more?”
He nodded. “Aldi had it.”
“You went to Aldi?” you asked, eyes bright.
Jack shrugged. “I survived.”
“You hate Aldi.” Your eyebrows rose.
“I hate the parking lot,” Jack corrected you.
You couldn’t stop your smile, “And the cart quarter.”
Jack's eyes narrowed, “The cart quarter is an aggressive system.”
You laughed before you could help it, one hand settling briefly against your cardigan when your son shifted low and strange, as if he had opinions about grocery logistics. Jack saw. Of course, he saw. His eyes dropped for half a second, then came back to your face. “Still okay?” he asked.
You nodded. “Yeah.”
His voice stayed low. “Good honey’s on the counter.”
You inhaled sharply, “The farmers market one?”
“The one you said tasted like flowers and sunshine,” Jack replied.
You stared at him for one second too long.
Santos put the chart down. “Hold on.”
Jack did not look away from you quickly enough.
Apparently, that was Santos’s final straw. “No,” she said. “Absolutely not.”
You took another sip of coffee.
Santos pointed at Jack. “You know what butter she has.”
Jack’s face stayed calm. “Most kitchens have butter.”
Santos glared, “Do not insult me.”
Robby made a quiet, delighted noise.
Santos’s finger stayed aimed at Jack. “You said Irish butter. From Aldi. Like a man who has personally fought the parking lot and lost.”
Jack’s brow furrowed, “I didn’t lose.”
“You know where her farmers' market honey is.” Santos continued.
“It’s on the counter,” Jack said with a nod.
Santos stared at him. “Again, not helping your case.”
Dana finally looked up. “It is good honey.”
Santos turned on her. “You stay out of this.” Dana’s eyebrows lifted. Santos exhaled sharply. “Actually, no. You’re involved now. Is this normal?”
Dana glanced once at you, then at Jack, then at the coffee in your hands. “For them?” she said. “Yes.” The department went quiet for half a beat. Robby’s smile became openly dangerous. Jack looked at Dana. Dana returned to her paperwork like she had not just thrown a match into gasoline.
Santos’s eyes widened. “For them?”
You looked down at your coffee. Jack took a drink from his. Neither of you answered. Mel hugged her tablet a little closer to her chest. “Oh,” she said softly.
Santos snapped her attention to Mel. “Oh, what?”
Mel’s cheeks colored. “Nothing.”
“No, that was an oh,” Santos replied, eyes narrowed.
Mel shrugged. “It was an observational oh.”
Robby nodded. “Clinically, much worse.”
Jack set his coffee down. “Robby.”
Robby folded his arms. “What? I’m supporting the diagnostic process.”
Santos pointed between you and Jack. “Oh, my God.”
You took another sip. Jack’s jaw shifted like he knew exactly where this was going and had decided to let it happen.
Santos’s eyes narrowed. “You’re dating.”
The words landed in the middle of the nurses’ station with the subtlety of a dropped tray. Perlah, passing behind Santos with a stack of supplies, slowed for exactly one step before deciding she valued her peace and kept walking. Mel’s eyes widened. Robby leaned back against the workstation, delighted in a way that did not bode well for anyone. “Interesting theory,” he said.
Santos pointed at him without looking. “You know something.”
“I know many things,” Robby said, nodding wisely.
Her eyes narrowed, “About this.”
“Especially about this,” Robby agreed.
Jack’s eyes cut toward him. Robby smiled. “Sorry. Department morale.”
Santos turned back to you. “Are you dating Abbot?”
You looked at Jack. Jack looked at you. There was a very long second where neither of you spoke, not because you were trying to hide anything, but because the actual answer was so much funnier than the question. “No,” you said.
Santos blinked. “No?”
“No,” Jack said.
Santos stared at both of you. “That was too synchronized.”
“Still true,” Jack said.
She threw up her hands, “Then why do you know her butter?”
You lifted the coffee. “It’s very memorable butter.”
Santos pointed at you. “I do not like you right now.”
You nodded solemnly. “That seems fair.”
Mel looked from you to Jack again, her expression caught somewhere between surprised and delighted. “So you’re not dating?”
Jack picked up his coffee. “No.”
Mel’s eyebrows drew together. “But the coffee?”
“It’s decaf,” Jack said.
Santos made a strangled sound. “That is not an answer.”
Dana turned a page. “It is one if you’ve met him.”
You smiled into your cup. Jack saw that too. The smile. The way you were trying to hide it. The way you were failing because the coffee was good, and he had gone to Aldi for butter, and your son was rolling around like he had decided to make himself known during the least convenient window of time. His face softened before he caught it.
Santos saw that too. She went very still. Then she pointed at him again. “You have a face.”
Jack stared at her. “Most people do.”
“No.” Santos stepped closer. “You have a specific face.”
Robby pressed his lips together. Jack looked unimpressed. “That cleared nothing up.”
“You looked soft.”
“Santos,” Mel said, but she sounded like she was trying not to laugh.
“He did,” Santos insisted. “He looked soft at Child Life.”
You glanced at Jack. “Congratulations.”
His mouth twitched. “Thank you.”
Santos threw a hand out. “See? Vibe.”
Dana sighed. “This is why I don’t work nights.”
“You work all the time,” Robby said.
Dana looked at him. “And yet I avoid this.” The overhead speakers crackled, and someone called for environmental services near trauma two. The ER resumed around you in pieces. Monitors beeped. A printer coughed out discharge paperwork. Someone laughed near the medication room. Jack glanced toward the board. Night shift was beginning to swallow him. You could feel it happening. The department reaching for him. The trauma rooms and consults and handoffs and all the things that would keep him here while you went home to the quiet house with the new loaf of bread on the counter and good honey waiting beside it.
His gaze came back to you. “I’ve got four minutes,” he said.
“Luxury,” you replied.
He almost smiled. “Can I walk you out?”
Your chest warmed before you could stop it. “You have handoff.”
Jack shrugged. “Robby’s still pretending to work.”
Robby lifted one hand without looking away from the show. “Rude. Accurate.”
Jack held your gaze. “Four minutes.”
You smiled despite yourself. “Okay.”
Santos made a sound. “No.”
Jack looked at her. “Problem?”
Her eyes narrowed, “Yes, problem. You cannot say you are not dating and then walk her out with your emotionally loaded coffee situation.”
“It’s her coffee,” Jack said.
“That does not make it less loaded,” Santos replied.
You started gathering your things before Santos could build a formal case. Your notebook went into your Child Life bag. The laminated prep cards slid into their folder. Dr. Pickles, temporarily retired from active duty after Miles’s successful stitches, stayed tucked in the side pocket.
Jack watched your hands. Not hovering. Not taking over. Just ready, the way he always was.
When you reached for the bag strap, his eyes dropped to it. “Can I?” he asked.
The question was quiet enough that it was mostly yours. You handed him the strap. Jack took the bag and settled it onto his shoulder like it belonged there. Santos stared. Mel’s mouth parted slightly. Robby looked delighted enough to require supervision.
Dana did not look up, but she said, “Careful, Abbot. That bag has stickers.”
Jack adjusted the strap. “I’m aware.”
Santos’s voice went flat. “You’re aware.”
You picked up your coffee. “There are a lot of stickers.”
Mel smiled. “That tracks.”
Santos pointed between you again. “You are all hearing this, right?”
Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I hear many things.”
“You knew he carried her bag?”
Robby’s grin widened. “I know many things.”
“Stop saying that,” she snapped.
Robby’s grin turned wicked. “No.”
Jack looked toward the elevator, then back at you. “Ready?” You nodded. The movement made your back complain in a low, annoying pulse. You must have shifted your weight more carefully than you meant to, because Jack’s hand lifted a fraction at his side. He did not touch you. Not here. Not in front of the whole department while Santos was watching like she had been personally assigned to solve the mystery of your entire life. But he wanted to.
You could feel that too. “I’m good,” you said softly.
Jack’s eyes stayed on yours for one second longer. Then he nodded. “Okay.”
Santos looked at Mel. “They are absolutely dating.”
“They said they’re not,” Mel said, though her voice had gone thoughtful.
Santos narrowed her eyes. “People lie.”
Dana picked up her bag from the counter. “Sometimes people answer the question asked.”
Santos turned slowly toward her. Dana’s expression stayed mild. Robby made a sound like he was enjoying the evening more than anyone had a right to. Jack started toward the elevators with your Child Life bag on his shoulder and your four-minute goodbye ticking down beside him. You fell into step at his side.
Behind you, Santos made a sound. “Nope,” she said.
You glanced back. She had grabbed her coat from the back of the chair and was already following.
Mel looked between Santos and the elevator. “Are we all going down?”
“I am,” Santos said. “For reasons.”
Robby pushed away from the workstation. “I’m done for the day.”
Dana picked up her bag. “I’m also leaving before this becomes my problem.”
“Too late,” Robby said. Dana ignored him.
Cassie appeared from the hallway with her keys in hand, Langdon beside her, still zipping his coat. “Are people leaving?” Cassie asked.
Jack did not stop walking. “Shift change,” he said.
Robby smiled. “Love this place.”
By the time the elevator doors opened, all of you had somehow become a group. You. Jack. Santos. Mel. Robby. Dana. Langdon. Cassie. It was too many people for one elevator, and exactly the wrong number of witnesses for a secret that had never really been a secret. Santos got in first, like proximity might help her solve whatever crime she had decided Jack was committing. Mel followed, glancing between you and Jack with careful, growing curiosity. Robby stepped in behind her, already wearing the expression of a man who knew exactly how this ended and had chosen not to save anyone. Dana entered last with the resigned calm of someone who had seen more than enough hospital nonsense to recognize when nonsense had become inevitable. Langdon and Cassie squeezed in at the last second, both still half in their coats, both clearly unsure why Santos looked like she was about to interrogate someone under oath. The elevator doors slid shut. Jack stood beside you with your Child Life bag on his shoulder. The bag had three cartoon stickers on the front pocket, two laminated keychains, one slightly crushed granola bar in the side pouch, and Dr. Pickles’s green squishy dinosaur head peeking out from the top. Jack Abbot, night-shift attending, former combat medic, allergic to unnecessary bonding, carried it as if it were the most normal thing in the world.
Which it was to you.
Not, apparently, to everyone else. The elevator hummed down one level. Santos looked at Jack’s shoulder. Then at you. Then back at Jack’s shoulder. “I’m just saying,” she said, “this is weird.”
Jack did not look at her. “Most things are.”
“No.” Santos pointed at your bag. “This is specific weird.”
Robby made a pleased sound. “Specific weird is my favorite kind.”
Dana closed her eyes. Mel pressed her lips together. You took another sip of your decaf, which remained warm and good, and therefore, the only reason you had not started openly laughing. Jack’s gaze slid toward you. Just briefly. That was all. But you knew him well enough to read it. ‘Careful’, his eyes said. You lifted your brows. ‘I am behaving beautifully’, your face said back. His mouth moved at the corner. Santos saw it.
She stepped forward as the elevator doors opened into the parking level. “Oh, absolutely not,” she said. Jack walked out first because he was closest to the doors. You followed with your coffee in hand, the cool garage air brushing across your face. It smelled like concrete, rainwater, and old exhaust, sharp enough to wake you up a little. Somewhere farther down the row, a car chirped unlocked. Fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Your back ached in that deep, annoying way that felt less like pain and more like your body had reorganized itself without asking permission. You shifted your weight as you walked. Jack noticed. He slowed half a step.
You did not look at him when you said, “I’m good.”
Jack raised a brow. “I didn’t say anything.”
“You thought it loudly,” you replied.
Robby coughed behind you. Santos’s footsteps stuttered. Mel made a tiny sound that might have been a laugh.
Jack looked down at you. “I’ll work on that.”
You smiled softly. “No, you won’t.”
“No,” he said. “Probably not.”
Santos pointed at both of you as she walked. “See? Dating.”
“We’re still not dating,” Jack said.
Robby’s smile turned bright enough to become a workplace hazard. You started walking towards your car, which was only two rows away, and you were suddenly very aware of the butter in your refrigerator, the honey on your counter, the toast waiting at home, and the fact that your husband was on the edge of being swallowed by the night shift. The group followed. Of course, they followed. Santos had the look of a woman who had found blood in the water and also somehow filed an HR complaint about it in her head. At your car, Jack shifted your bag carefully off his shoulder and handed it to you.
“Can I have that?” he asked.
You smiled and traded him the coffee for the bag so you could dig out your keys. He held the cup without comment, thumb resting against the sleeve, watching you search the pocket where your keys were supposed to be and definitely were not. You frowned. Jack reached into the smaller front pocket without looking. He pulled out your keys. You looked at him.
He held them out. “Front pocket,” he said.
Your eyes narrowed. “I know where my keys are.”
His eyebrows lifted. “Eventually.”
Behind you, Santos made a sound of actual physical pain. Mel whispered, “Oh.”
Langdon looked at Cassie. “What did I miss?”
Cassie’s eyes were huge. “A lot, apparently.”
You unlocked the car. Jack handed your coffee back to you. “Text me when you’re home,” he said.
“You’ll probably be in trauma one, saving lives,” you replied.
Jack grinned. “Text me anyway.”
Your chest warmed. “Bossy,” you said.
Jack’s face softened, small and private. “Accurate.”
You opened your mouth to argue, but your son shifted low and strange again, a flutter turning into something just solid enough to make you pause. It was not painful. Just new. Still new enough that wonder arrived before you could protect yourself from it. Your hand hovered near your cardigan and stopped there. You did not press. You did not draw attention. You only breathed once, slowly. Jack’s eyes dropped. Half a second. No more. When they came back to your face, his expression had changed. Barely. Enough. “You okay?” he asked.
“Yeah,” you said, softer. “Just ready to be home.”
He nodded. The department pulled at him from three floors above you. You could feel that too. The invisible hook of night shift. Handoff. Trauma bays. The board. The particular gravity of people needing him. But for this second, in the parking garage, he stayed.
His hand settled briefly at the small of your back. Familiar. Automatic. Yours.
You leaned up without thinking, and he bent down to meet you.
The kiss was quick. Not dramatic. Not performative.
Just the warm press of his mouth against yours before one of you went home and the other went back inside. A married goodbye. The kind that had happened in kitchens, doorways, airport drop-offs, grocery store parking lots, and once in the middle of a hotel hallway when Robby had yelled that he was happy for you but also deeply uncomfortable. Jack pulled back first, but not far. His thumb brushed once against your back before he let his hand fall.
Behind you, something clattered against concrete. Probably Santos’s keys. Possibly Santos’s entire understanding of the world.
“I’m sorry,” Santos said.
You turned. Santos stood ten feet away, mouth open, keys now on the ground near her shoe. Mel had gone perfectly still beside her. Langdon looked like someone had switched the language on a monitor and expected him to interpret the rhythm strip anyway. Cassie had both hands pressed over her mouth. Dana looked at the ceiling like she had requested one quiet shift change and been personally denied. Robby looked like Christmas had come early and brought catering with it.
Santos pointed at Jack. “You said you weren’t dating.”
Jack’s hand stayed near your back. “We’re not.”
“You kissed her,” she replied.
Jack nodded. “I did.”
“So you’re dating,” she replied, gesturing between the two of you.
“No,” Jack said. “We’re not dating anymore.”
Santos blinked. Mel blinked. Cassie dropped her hands. “Anymore?”
You looked up at Jack, then shrugged. “What’s it been, six years?”
“Seven in May,” Jack said.
“Seven in May,” Robby said at the same time.
The garage went silent. You turned slowly toward Robby. Robby lifted both hands. “What? I was there.”
Santos’s mouth opened. “You were where?”
Jack sighed. “Don’t.”
Robby’s smile became catastrophic. “Best man.”
Santos stared at him. “Best man?” she repeated.
Robby nodded. “Great suit. Very emotional day.”
Jack looked at him. “You cried.”
Robby pointed at Jack. “Allegedly.”
You lifted your coffee. “There are photos.”
“Hostile witness,” Robby said.
You looked at Jack. Jack looked back at you, his face soft in a way he probably would have hidden if he had remembered anyone else was there.
Santos made a sound. Not a word. A sound. Then she looked at Jack. Then at you. Then at Jack again. “You’re married?”
Jack nodded once. “Yep.”
You nodded too. “Yep.”
The garage erupted.
“YOU’RE MARRIED?” Santos’s voice bounced off three levels of concrete.
Jack winced. “Inside voice.”
“No.” Santos stabbed a finger toward him. “Absolutely not. You do not get an inside voice right now. You lost inside voice privileges when you kissed Child Life in a parking garage and revealed a seven-year marriage.”
Cassie looked between you and Jack, eyes bright with shock. “Wait, before PTMC?”
You nodded. “Before PTMC.”
Mel’s expression softened. “That’s why the coffee.”
Santos spun toward her. “Do not act like the coffee was enough information.”
“It was emotionally loaded coffee,” Cassie said.
Robby pointed at her. “She gets it.”
Jack’s eyes closed for half a second. Dana adjusted the bag on her shoulder. “This could have been an email.”
Santos turned on her. “You knew.”
Dana looked at her. “Yes.”
Santos threw both hands out. “Why does everyone know?”
“Everyone does not know,” Dana said.
“I didn’t know!” Santos exclaimed.
Dana’s expression stayed perfectly calm. “Then, everyone clearly does not know.”
Mel pressed her lips together. Cassie turned away, shoulders shaking.
Santos pointed at Dana. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
Dana’s eyebrows lifted. “It was not my marriage to announce.” Santos stared at her. Dana added, “Also, you never asked.”
Jack’s mouth twitched. Santos looked personally betrayed by the entire universe. Then she turned on Robby. “You,” she said.
Robby put a hand to his chest. “Me?”
She glared at him. “You knew for seven years.”
“Technically longer. They dated before that,” Robby replied.
Jack stared at him. Robby shrugged. “Context matters.”
Santos took one step toward him. “You watched me investigate Aldi butter like an idiot.”
Robby grinned, “You were doing great.”
“I hate you.” Santos snapped.
Mel looked at you, still gentle despite the chaos. “How did you meet?”
That quieted the group by a fraction. Not completely. But enough. You felt Jack beside you, the small shift in his body. Not discomfort exactly. Something older. Something private. Your hand tightened around your coffee. “Military hospital,” you said.
Mel’s face softened. Cassie’s expression changed too, curiosity gentling into something more careful. Santos, to her credit, did not make a joke. Jack looked toward the far end of the garage, then back at you. You smiled a little. “He was lurking outside room 417.”
Jack’s eyebrows lifted. “Lurking.”
“You were standing in the hallway pretending not to hover,” you said to him.
Jack’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I was waiting.”
“For what?” you asked. He paused.
Robby leaned in. “Careful. This is how history gets written.”
Jack gave him a look. You looked back at Mel. “I was helping a little girl get ready to see her dad after he’d been hurt. Jack saw us.”
Mel’s eyes warmed. Cassie pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s actually really sweet.”
“He asked someone who I was,” you added.
Robby nodded immediately. “Immediately.”
Jack looked at him. “You weren’t there.”
“I know Miller,” Robby said. “Miller told the story better.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “Miller told the story worse.”
You smiled. “Then he asked me for coffee.”
Santos squinted at Jack. “You asked someone out?”
Jack stared at her. “Yes.”
“Out loud?” she continued.
Jack looked confused. “How else would I do it?”
Robby opened his mouth. Jack pointed at him without looking. “No.”
Robby closed his mouth with visible effort. Langdon looked at you. “And he proposed?”
“No,” Santos said, already turning back to Jack with renewed offense. “No, wait. I need this. How did Abbot propose? Did he do it with words? Did he make eye contact? Did he file paperwork?”
Jack looked toward the elevator. “I have to go back inside.”
“Absolutely not,” Santos said. “You owe us seven years of lore.”
Jack narrowed his eyes at her. “I owe you nothing.”
“You owe me emotional damages,” she snapped back.
Dana started toward her car. “You’ll survive.”
“I might not,” Santos called after her.
Dana did not turn around. “Then update your emergency contact.”
Robby laughed. Jack did not. Mel looked at you, smiling now. “How did he propose?”
You glanced at Jack. His face had gone quieter, the line of his mouth held flat like he knew what you were about to say and wanted very badly to stop you, but not enough to actually do it. You loved him so much that it made you a little stupid. “He put it on the grocery list,” you said.
Santos stopped moving. “I’m sorry?”
Robby’s face lit up. “Oh, this is good.”
Jack looked at him. “Do not.”
Robby ignored him completely. “Strong list.”
Cassie whispered, “The grocery list?”
You nodded. “At home. In the kitchen. He asked me to look it over and see if he missed anything.”
Mel’s smile grew. Langdon blinked. “And he wrote ‘proposal’ on it?”
“Not proposal,” you said.
Jack’s expression softened before he could stop it. You looked down at your coffee. “He wrote, ‘marry me?’” You said. “With a question mark.”
Cassie made a soft noise. Mel pressed the tablet to her chest. “That’s beautiful.”
Santos pointed at Jack. “You proposed with errands.”
Jack’s jaw shifted. “She said yes.”
Robby nodded gravely. “Again. Strong list.”
You smiled. “There was coffee on it, too.”
“Of course there was,” Dana called from near her car.
Santos dragged both hands down her face. “This entire department is a conspiracy.”
“It’s not a conspiracy,” Mel said, though she was still smiling.
Santos turned to her. “You are only saying that because you’re happy for them.”
“I am happy for them,” Mel replied.
Jack looked at you then, and the noise around you thinned for a second. His eyes moved over your face. Tired. Nauseous. Amused. Softened by good decaf and too much attention and the strange tenderness of watching your private life become public in one loud, ridiculous burst. He stepped closer. “Enough,” he said, not exactly to the group. To you, maybe. For you.
Santos opened her mouth. Jack looked at her. She shut it. Mostly.
He turned back to you. “Go home. Eat your toast.”
Santos pointed weakly. “See? Again with the toast.”
You opened your car door. “Goodnight, Santos.”
“The toast was married toast,” she glared at you.
“All toast is married if you use the good honey,” Robby said.
Dana opened her car door. “I’m leaving before this gets worse.”
“It can get worse?” Langdon asked.
Robby smiled. “Always.”
Jack handed you the coffee one last time, his fingers brushing yours around the cup.
“Text me when you’re home,” he said.
You nodded once. “I will.”
“And after toast,” he added.
You smiled. “Bossy.”
His gaze held yours. “Married,” he corrected quietly.
Your chest went warm. “Apparently,” you said.
His mouth softened. For a second, you wanted to stay there. To keep him in the parking garage under bad fluorescent lights with your bag in his hand and the whole department spinning around the two of you. To have one more minute before the ER took him back. But the night shift was already waiting. And you had toast to make. And a son the ER did not know about yet, shifting softly beneath your ribs like he had survived his first family scandal and found it unimpressive.
You slid into the driver’s seat. Jack shut the door carefully after you were settled. Through the open window, Santos was still staring at him like she had discovered a new organ. “I have follow-up questions,” she said.
Jack nodded once. “I’m sure.”
She pointed at him. “Tomorrow.”
“No,” Jack said immediately.
“Yes.” Santos snapped back.
Dana’s voice carried from across the row. “Tomorrow will be worse if you fight it.”
Robby lifted a hand. “I have photos.”
Jack’s head turned slowly. “Do not,” he said.
Robby smiled at you over Jack’s shoulder. “I have selected favorites.”
You laughed as you set your coffee in the cup holder. Jack looked pained. Santos looked reborn. Mel looked delighted. Cassie was already whispering something to Langdon, who still seemed stuck on the phrase grocery list. And you realized, with your good decaf beside you and your husband standing in the parking garage in his dark scrubs, that PTMC had finally caught up to a story that had been yours for years.
Santos pointed at Jack one last time. “Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
Jack glanced toward the elevators, already half-pulled back to work. Then he looked at you. His mouth moved, barely. “You never asked,” he said.
Santos stared at him. “That,” she said, “is the most annoying thing you have ever said.”
Robby leaned closer to your window. “Top five.”
Jack looked at him. “Go home.”
Robby pushed off your car with a grin. “Yes, sir.”
You started the engine. Jack stepped back, but his eyes stayed on yours until you pulled out of the space. In the rearview mirror, you saw him standing there for one more second, surrounded by people who suddenly knew one of the truest things about him. Then the elevator doors opened. Night shift called him back.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
Summary - You thought three years was enough time to move on. No amount of tie would help. 6K+ word count.
"Are you sure you're ok with this?" P asked you unsure.
"We both knew this was going to happen. Besides, it's yours and Max's day. It'll be nice to see him again" you reassured her.
"Ok, but if at any point you feel awkward or like you need to run away then let me know and I'll hide with you" she smiled to you.
"P, you can't hide during your own party" you laughed.
"Watch me. You're my best friend. I'd never let you hide away alone" she said sincerely causing you to laugh and pull her in for a hug.
"Thank you" you smiled. "Now, let's go before you're late!" you said rushing her out of her apartment where she was finishing getting ready for the party.
You and Lando had dated for around a two and a half years. Both well and truly smitten over one another. You'd spoken about houses, kids and marriage. Unfortunately fame hit you both quicker than you could keep up with, and due to clashing schedules you no longer had the time to see one another.
You'd never fell out of love, but the distance became too much for you both to handle. Lando becoming more and more famous in F1 and you were becoming globally famous for your music. It's what you'd both always wanted, however you'd hoped you could do this together. You'd tried to keep it together for so long but eventually it became too hard. Both your fans and Lando's fans were devastated by the news when it broke and still to this day they've not let it go.
Your best friend Pietra was dating Max F, Lando's best friend. That had been your friendship group, however after the break up you maintained your distance as Lando started on and off dating other girls, and this was too uncomfortable for you to deal with. You also never wanted to make your friends feel uncomfortable with the situation.
The day you broke up was the last day you ever saw him in person. No bad blood, no bad words exchanged. Just two people heart broken over the situation they'd found themselves in, yet in your eyes, Lando had handled it a lot better than you had.
Today was going to be the first time you'd seen him since the break up 3 years ago. P and Max were throwing an pre wedding party so all family members could celebrate as not everyone to come to the stag and hen do, and since you were the Maid of Honour, and Lando was the Best Man, you were both going to be in attendance. Lando wasn't coming alone though. His current girlfriend was joining him and all you can think about is how much you wanted the world to swallow you whole.
You pulled up to the venue with Max waiting outside for P.
"Ok, I'll see you in there" you said trying to hold some form of confidence in your voice.
"I swear I won't be long. You'll be fine, I promise" P reassured you.
You stepped out of the car and gave Max a smile and quick hug before walking into the venue. It was a beautiful Manor House, filled with bouquets of flowers and fairy lights. You could hear people talking amongst themselves as you started walking down the hallway. Your stomach did a flip and you felt like you could throw up at any moment from nerves. You were used to going on stages and performing in front of thousands of people but this was too much for you to handle.
As you continued walking you say a waiter with a tray of free drinks for the guests. You grabbed one, downing it as fast and you could, before picking up another one.
"Make sure you stay near me this evening please. I'm going to need it" you nodded to the waiter who laughed and nodded back.
"Come on, no more of that. You're going to be fine, I promise" a voice called out calmly from behind you.
"I don't think we can be so sure. I feel like I could be sick right now" you laughed.
"I'll stay with you. You won't be on your own then" P's brother Joao smiled to you.
"Thank you" you smiled walking into the main room with him.
There were tables set up and a few people had already taken a seat, whilst others were stood around chatting to one another. Tati waved you and Joao over to her table before you had a chance to look around the room. You were greatful for that instant distraction.
"Y/N! It's lovely to see you. It's been far too long" she said standing up to greet you.
"I know. I'll have to come and see you more. I have more control now over my schedules and the tour is almost done so I can finally breathe again" you smiled to her.
"Well once it's over you'll have to come and spend some time with us in Miami"
"That sounds perfect" You smiled to her.
People begin to clap and whistle, pulling you out of your conversation and your eyes travel to Max and P who are walking into the room together. A smile beamed across your face. Seeing them both so happy together and now engaged was the best feeling. P was like the sister you'd never had and seeing her find love warmed your heart.
As your eyes follow them walking to their table you catch sight of a familiar looking figure and your gaze focuses on the silhouette in front of you. Lando stood next to his new girlfriend, smiling and clapping Max and P.
Before you have a chance to turn your attention back onto Max and P, Lando’s eyes lock with yours. You can feel you heart hammering in your chest.
You swore you were fine. Swore that you had moved on. No hard feelings, no fall out, but you couldn’t just remain friends after the way you broke up. It would be too hard for anyone to move on from if you did.
Here and now, seeing him stood with someone else, even after all these years cut you deeper than you thought it would. You knew it would hurt, you weren't naive, but you didn't expect this level of hurt. Not after this amount of time had passed. It wasn't his fault. He'd simply moved on, which you'd tried doing but weren't able to. You'd tried blaming your busy life so often, but deep deep down, where you hid feelings you weren't ready to admit out loud, was the knowledge that you just weren't over Lando, and you don't think you ever will be.
You both smiled to one another as you all took your seats again, but you could feel the pain in your chest sharpen as his girlfriend whispered something into his ear, turning his attention away from you.
"Y/N?" You heard Joao say next to you, snapping you out of your own thoughts.
"Hmm?" you said turning to face him.
"I just asked if you're ok?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm good, thanks" you lied to him before looking before looking over to where P and Max sat and smiling again softly.
As the evening went on, drinks started flowing and music was blasting. Everyone was up, dancing and having a great time. You were sat at your table, having a drink and catching up with Joao.
"How you holding up?" P asked as she came and sat down next to you.
"I'm ok" You smiled to her.
"Truthfully?"
"I'm fine. He looks so happy with her. I'm glad he's found someone. You tried to say convincingly. Unfortunately for you, P knew you better than that.
"Honestly, they're still very new. They've only been together for about 5 months. She's nice enough but from what Max has told me about the relationship I can't see it lasting. They just seem a bit too different" you whispered in a drunken manner.
"I think you've had a bit too much to drink" you laughed.
"Nooooo, I'm fine" She whispered again a bit too close to you causing you to laugh again.
Max walked over to your table to find P.
"Is she ok?" He asked you
"She's fine. She's just maybe had a little too much to drink" you laughed to him.
"No no, I'm fine. I'm only telling you the truth. We want you guys to get back together" She hiccuped.
"P. I think that's enough" Max said quickly.
"What? We've both said so many times that they're made for one another, and timings are different now"
"Yes, well I don't think him and his new girlfriend would agree" you said.
Max and P shared a look with one another. No words exchanged but a knowing look between them both. You hadn't seen this though as you were standing up ready to take P to the bar to grab a glass of water.
"Come on, let's get some water" you laughed to her.
"Thanks Y/N" Max smiled to you and you smiled back at him with a nod.
You got to the bar and asked the bartender for a glass of water. P drank it as quick as she could since her favourite song came through the speakers and she wanted to go and dance.
"You coming?" She asked you.
"I will. Just going to get another drink for me and Joao. I owe him one" You smiled.
"Ok, see you in a minute then" She smiled.
You turned back and ordered yours and Joao's drinks. You started playing with your bracelet whilst waiting. Caught up staring into nothing. Your mind replaying old moments between you and Lando.
"Hey" you heard in that oh so familiar voice. You didn't react, thinking that it was your mind playing cruel tricks on you. "Y/N?" you heard again, louder this time. You shook your head lightly, focusing back in the room and turned your head to where you heard the voice.
"Oh, hey" you smiled and you saw Lando now stood next to you.
"It's great to see you. How have you been?" he asked.
"It's great to see you too. I've been good thank you. Congratulations on your Championship win" You smiled to him.
"Oh, yeah, thanks, you heard about it?"
"Lando, everyone heard about it" you laughed.
"I guess so" he laughed. "Did you watch it?"
"Of course I did" you sighed a soft smile and he smiled a nodded back.
"Congratulations on your tour. You're doing incredible"
"Thank you Lan. I'm finally getting control over my schedule now too. This is my last tour for a few years. It's been amazing but I'll be greatful for the break too" you nodded.
"Any plans with your downtime?"
"Tati's invited me to stay with them in Miami. Obviously help P and Max with any wedding stuff they need help with. Other than that, no plans. Just see where each day takes me"
The bartender slid your drinks in front of you before asking Lando for his order.
"Beer?" Lando asked you looking down at your drinks.
"For Joao"
"You and Joao?"
"What? No" you laughed louder than you expected. "No, he just saw me as I walked in and we sat next to each other. We went in on rounds with one another that's all" you laughed.
"Oh, sorry, I just thought maybe" he said awkwardly.
"No" you laughed again. "Just me. I saw you've got a girlfriend now though, she seems lovely, I'm happy for you" you smiled.
"Yeah, she's, nice" he said unsure.
"Nice?" You asked knowing him well enough to know there was something more to it.
"I mean, yeah, she's" but before he could finish the sentence she arrived next to him.
"Baby? Come dance with me" she said dragging him away.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm coming" He said to her before turning back to look at you
"Bye" you mouthed and smiled awkwardly.
"Sorry, bye Y/N" he smiled back.
Two weeks had since gone by since the party and P had invited you over for a paint and sip night. You were both in the dining room, glass of wine each on the table and a plate each that you were decorating.
Half hour later you hear the click of the front door and voices chatting away. You and P looked up at one another confused. Max had gone out and wasn't supposed to be home for another 5 hours at least.
"Hello?" P shouted towards the front door.
"Hey!" Max shouted back.
"I didn't think you were due back until later?" she shouted back again.
"Shoot got postponed so we came back here to game for a bit" he said walking into the dining room where you both sat.
"We?" P asked.
"Hey P" Lando said walking in behind Max.
"Oh, hey Lando. Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone" She said awkwardly.
Lando's head turned to your direction suddenly noticing you sat opposite P, the doorframe had been hiding you for a brief moment from his line of vision.
"Hey" you said quietly with a soft smile.
"Oh, Y/N, hey" he smiled back.
"Fancy a drink?" P asked Lando.
"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks P"
"Max, can you help me please?" she said as they both quickly exited the room.
"Subtle" you said causing Lando to laugh.
"Sorry. I didn't really get a chance to speak with you at the party" he said to you as he took a seat next to you.
"It's fine, you were busy with your girlfriend. No need to apologise" You smiled.
"Ex-girlfriend. We broke up" he corrected you.
"Oh, Lando, I'm so sorry"
"Don't be. It was very new anyway" he sighed.
"Lan, I really am sorry. What happened?"
“We were just in different places I guess. It’s really great to see you though Y/N. I’ve missed you” he said with an honestly that you didn’t expect from him.
“Ive missed you too” you smiled.
Max and P walked back into the room with P placing Lando’s drink down softly in front of him.
“Ready to stream?” Max asked Lando.
“Yeah” Lando said standing up and following him out of the room.
An hour later, after you and P had finished your painting and spoken about all the wedding plans P started complaining that she was hungry.
“We can order something?” You suggested.
“Yeah ok, I’ll ask the guys if they’re hungry too” she said getting up and walking to Max’s gaming room. “Yeah they said they could eat too” she said walking back out.
“Alright, I’ll just get Chinese food shall I?” You asked.
“Yeah, I’m not going back in to disturb them again” she agreed heading into the kitchen to grab the plates and cutlery.
30 minutes later and the food order had arrived.
“I’ll get them” you said to P who was unboxing all of the food to put on the worktop.
You knocked the door lightly but had no response. You could hear the guys answering chat and laughing away. You slowly pushed the door open trying not to cause too much attention but they still didn’t notice or hear you. That was until they saw chat going crazy.
OMG HI Y/N!!
Y/N we’ve missed you!
WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW? ARE THEY BACK TOGETHER????
She’s so pretty😭
PLEASE TELL ME WE CAN ALL SEE HER AND MY EYES AREN’T PLAYING CRUEL TRICKS ON ME??
This caused them both to turn around.
“Foods here!” You smiled.
“Thank god, I’m so hungry!” Max said leaning back in his chair.
“Come say hi to chat?” Lando asked you spinning around to fully look at you.
You walked closer to Lando’s chair, looking at the comments and smiling.
“Hi chat! Thank you for the lovely comments!” You waved.
Y/N, I love you!!
Petition to get Y/N to start her own streams please!
Marry me!
“Right, I’m going to help P in the kitchen whilst Y/N finds someone to marry” Max said laughing and heading out of the room into the kitchen.
“What did you order?” Lando asked you.
“Your usual” you smiled and he smiled back.
She remembers his order!!!
Chat… are we witnessing something?
Is she already a wifey??👀👀
That smile! Chat we’ve lost him again to her!
You both looked back at chat reading through the messages that were flooding in and laugh lightly.
“Right, that’s it. Bye chat” Lando said before ending the stream abruptly.
“I’m really sorry about that” he said rubbing the back of his neck.
“Don’t be, it’s fine” you laugh.
“So, you remembered my order?” He teased.
“Of course I did” you said softly.
“Y/N?” He said quietly
“Hmm?”
“Guys, do you want me to dish up your food or do you want to do it?” P shouted.
“Never mind” Lando said before you both walked into the kitchen.
You all took your seats around the dinner table. You were surprised at how easy it felt being back in the same group you once loved so much, just with a different dynamic now. Sure there were some awkward moments between you and Lando where neither of you were sure how you should be acting, but apart from that it felt like the good old days and you’d missed that so much.
“Ok, so, stag and hen.” Max began.
“Oh god, what did you do?” Lando asked.
“So, we may have changed our minds” P said like she was trying to diffuse a bomb.
“What do you mean? This is far too last minute to be changing your minds!” You said shocked.
“We were thinking of combing them” Max said.
“Excuse me?” Lando asked very unimpressed.
“One big house. Everyone stays and parties there instead of hotels” Max continued.
“But I had plans!” Lando moaned.
“Did those plans include a stripper?” P asked with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe”
“Then combined it is. No strippers!” P said looking him in the eyes.
You let out a little laugh and he nudged your knee with his under the table.
“Don’t laugh!” He said looking at you.
“Sorry, can’t help it” you smiled.
You all enjoyed your meal together. Catching up, chatting about everything and nothing. You and Lando slowly started to fall back into that natural ease that you'd always had with one another. You couldn't explain it. Neither of you could, but you had some type of draw to one another, a connection that you didn't have with anyone else.
None of you had been on your phones. Blissfully unaware of what was happening online, until you go to check your phone, to see if there's any tickets left available for your last show of the tour. You were given a set amount that you could leave aside for people but you'd already promised Charles, Carlos and Max V, you'd also promised some of your media crew and make up crew tickets for their families, so at this point you were no longer sure how many you had left to give away.
"Oh, shit" you said, wide eyed and staring down at the screen in front of you.
"What's wrong?" P asked.
"The internet is going mental over me being in the stream earlier"
"What?" Lando said leaning in close over your shoulder to look at your phone.
Max and P scrambled for their phones, looking to see the chaos unfolding.
"At least the comments are nice?" P said trying to make the best of what was happening.
You and Lando both looked up at her, shooting her a look.
"What?" She laughed. "It's not the internets fault. You've shown up in a stream, still knowing Lando's order, he's given you a look that has clearly sent people into a frenzy. Fans have wanted this for 3 years now. You can't blame them for losing their shit with excitement" she said, hands raised in the air.
"She has a point" Max nodded.
"But people can't just jump to conclusions like that!" You said, already knowing how ridiculous you sounded. You knew the world you lived in, and how people react to even the tiniest of breadcrumbs.
"I already know what questions I'm getting next weekend now" Lando laughed dragging his hands down his face.
"I'm so sorry!" You said looking to him with a slightly worried expression.
"Don't be sorry you muppet, it's fine" he smiled to you, still leaned in to look at the comments on your phone with his arm around the back of your chair, where it remained for the rest of the evening.
Your week had been busy. Really busy so Lando had invited you to his race along with Max and P to unwind. You knew what people would think but they were already thinking it anyway so you agreed. You'd text a couple of times throughout the week but just about plans for the stag and hen do.
You walked into the paddock alongside Max and P when you saw Charles and Carlos walking towards you deep in conversation, until a fan shouted your name causing them to snap their heads up. Max and P said they'd meet you in the hospitality area so you could catch up with the guys.
"Y/N!!! What are you doing here?" Carlos said coming over to hug you.
"It's great to see you back here again!" Charles added.
"Lando invited me. My weeks been busy so this is a great way to take my mind off it all" you said as you gave Charles a hug too.
"So are you both?" Carlos asked looking at you. He didn't need to finish the sentence for you to know what he was asking.
"No, we've only seen each other twice, first at a party and the other was a fluke'"
"You seemed pretty happy to be near one another again from what I've seen online though" Charles said raising his eyebrows at you.
"It's lovely seeing him again. Easy to fall back into our old friendship"
"So any chance of a reconsilliation?"
"I don't know"
"What do you mean you don't know hermana? Do you still have feelings for him?"
"Of course I do Carlos. I've not been able to move on clearly, but he has. He's been with multiple girls since me"
"3. He's seen 3 girls. Not one lasted longer than 5 months for obvious reasons" Charles said quickly.
"Time doesn't matter. He still moved on" you sighed.
"Y/N?" you heard a thick dutch accent call out from behind you.
"Max!" you said turning around, happy to see him again.
"It's lovely to have you back! We've all missed you!" he said hugging you.
"I've missed you all too" you hugged him back.
"Who are you here with?" he asked you
"Lando invited me. I'm here with Max and P"
"He finally plucked up the courage to tell you how he feels then?" he asked.
"What?" you asked shocked. "No, we've only seen each other recently through friends. He just invited me to take my mind off my busy schedule" you said.
"Oh, shit, sorry. Ignore me" he scrambled.
Carlos and Charles shot him a look from behind you.
"Am I missing something?" you asked all three of them.
"Um, no, I don't think so. Just crossed wires on our end. Ignore us. How's the tour going?" Charles asked trying to quickly change the subject.
"Busy, very busy, but it's been such an incredible time. I've got your tickets too for the last show. Just turn up and tell them who you are, you'll be on the list"
"We can't wait. Thank you! Break after that?" Carlos asked.
"Yes! No more tour for a few years now. It's been amazing but exhausting so I'll be glad for the break" you smiled.
"So, we'll be seeing you more around the paddock?" Max asked.
"Maybe" you smiled.
"We've got to go but it was great seeing you. The girls can't wait to see you perform!" Charles smiled.
"I can't wait to see them! Good luck with the race guys" you said hugging them all individually before heading over to meeting Max and P.
You met Max and P in hospitality, chatting away about nothing when Lando appeared behind you, resting his hands either side of the back of your chair and tilting himself over you ever so slightly.
"How you feeling mate?" Max asked him.
"Feeling good" he nodded with a smile.
"Oh, before I forget" you said holding you phone up for Lando to see your screen and leaning your head back to look at him.
"Perfect timing!" he said looking down to you with a smile.
"What?" P asked.
"Just some details for the stag and hen do coming together that's all" you smiled.
"Nothing to worry about, I swear, you'll like it" Lando tried reassuring her.
"I feel nervous now" she groaned.
"It's something for the memories. Nothing to be nervous about. You don't have to do anything" you also tried reassuring her.
"Ok ok, but I swear you'd better not be lying" she said pointing to you both with a stern look.
"I promise" you said.
"Right, I've got to go. You watching here or the garage?" Lando asked you all.
"Garage?" Max asked you and P waiting for approval and you both nodded.
The race didn't go to plan for McLaren. Tyres incorrectly chosen, Oscar with a penalty and then Lando DNFing, but despite all of that, he seemed to be in very good spirits.
"Yeah, highlight was obviously the first lap, um, and then I went out with a bang, literally, so that was uh, just not, not our day, I guess from, uh, a decision point of view" Lando said during his interview.
"We're sorry that today didn't go the way the team had hoped. You're not usually this smiley after a DNF. Is there a particular reason or special someone behind that smile?" the interviewer asked.
Lando shook his head, trying but failing to suppress a smile. "No, nope, nothing to announce" he said. "Just... in a good place I guess"
"Are you sure?" she said smirking off camera to him.
"Don't put me under pressure" he laughed.
"So that's not a no"
"No comment" he laughed again
"Fair enough" she laughed. "Thank you for your time Lando"
"Thank you" he said before walking off.
You, Max and P met Lando post interviews and walked to his car ready to head back to the hotel.
"So, tomorrow's the week. You guys ready for it?" Lando asked looking at Max and P in his car mirror.
"Absolutely! Stag and hen celebrations follow by marrying my best friend" Max smiled looking at P.
The flight went quicker than you'd expected, especially whilst listening to P quiz Max on every detail of the wedding, making sure he knew exactly what was what. You pulled up outside the Villa that had been hired for the stag and hen do, seeing everyone waiting outside for Max and P to arrive. Lando had made sure to text Ed to let everyone know when you were close and to have drinks waiting for them both. You and Lando told them to go and enjoy themselves and you'd sort their luggage out for them. You headed to the master bedroom, wheeling their suitcases in and setting them down on the floor at the foot of the bed for them before talking a walk around the house trying to locate where you'd each be sleeping. That's when it quickly dawned on you. Everyone here is either married or in a relationship and therefore already sharing rooms, leaving 1 room left for you and Lando.
"Well, I guess we're sharing then" you said, giving Lando an awkward smile.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I thought there were enough rooms" he said rubbing the back of his neck.
"It's fine Lan, don't worry about it" you smiled whilst wheeling your suitcase into your room.
"Drinks?" Lando asked you.
"Absolutely" you said following him out of the room and down to the kitchen.
You saw some of the couples stood around planning to hire Jet Ski's tomorrow. You and Lando hadn't made an itinerary. You'd both agreed to keep things causal, with people choosing what they wanted to do instead. That was the dynamic of your group anyway so why fix something that isn't broken was your thought process.
"Y/N, you joining? We're all doing it as couples but you can do it individually too?" P asked you excitedly.
"Definitely!" you said matching her level of enthusiasm.
"Lando, you fancy joining?" one of the guys asked.
"Um, it's ok, I don't want to intrude" he said awkwardly.
"Don't be silly. Of course he'll join" you smiled.
"Great. We'll book you both on!" he said before walking off to book the activity.
"Are you sure?" Lando asked you.
"Lan, they're your friends too. Don't feel like you can't join just because we're not together anymore"
"What, like you used to do?" he asked quietly as he started walking back to the kitchen.
"That's not fair. You had moved on, there were other girls on the scene. It's not the same" you said following him
"Moved on?" he said shocked with a hint of irritation. "Y/N, I was just about surviving" he said in a defeated tone.
"It didn't look that way from the outside Lando" you said just as irritated now. It was only then that you both noticed others heading towards the kitchen.
You both walked down the hallway in silence before getting to your room. You walked into your en suite, looking in the mirror and smoothing out your hair. Neither of you said a word until Lando barged in seconds later.
"Fuck this, we're talking about it" he said from behind you.
"Here? Right now?"
"Yes Y/N, right now. You honestly think I moved on? Just like that?" he asked annoyed.
"That's how it seemed Lan. I wasn't angry, but I just couldn't be around you and other girls" you said honestly.
"I get that, I do, but I never moved on. No relationship got past 5 months because I couldn't do it"
"What?" you asked confused.
"I couldn't move on. I couldn't be with someone who wasn't you. No matter how hard I tried it always came back down to you. The day that I saw you at the party made me finally realise why it was that I couldn't make my relationships work. I thought it was just that we were too different but it wasn't that, it was that I'm not over you, over what we had! I broke up with her the day after the party because all I could think about was you!"
"Lando"
"I get how it would have seemed to you from the outside, believe me I do, but I need you to know that non of them even came close to what we had"
"Lan, I'm not bothered that you saw other people. But you can't make a comment like that, acting shocked that I didn't hang around with you all anymore. I couldn't be around that. It killed me seeing someone else with you when all I thought about, every single day, was you. I'd fall asleep wishing you were next to me, trying to convince myself that I could let you go, but that's so far from the truth that all I could do was remove myself from the situation"
"I understand, and I'm sorry you felt that way. I just need you to know that it's how I felt every single day too" he sighed.
"And now?" you asked. "What happens now? We're friends, people who see one another through friends special occasions?"
"I think we both know we're more than that. I know I can't keep pretending that I'm not feeling what I feel" he said stepping closer to you.
"And what's that?" you asked.
"That I still love you" he said with a level of confidence that took you by surprise.
"I still love you too" you said your heart hammering so hard in your chest you swore you could hear it.
All restraint you had both shown before had now completely dissolved. Lando stepped closer, closing the gap between you. His lips found yours, not rushed, but familiar, like this is where you both belonged. His one hand found its way to your hip, pulling you in even closer, his other travelled to the back of your neck. Yours ran through his curls before you both pulled back slightly. Neither of you stepped away, both still holding onto one another.
"Our secret for a little while? I want you to myself for a bit" he asked you.
"Sounds perfect. No pressure, just us" you smiled before you closed the gap between you again.
"I'm a little worried I'm not going to be able to let you go though" he laughed as you pulled back again.
"I had the same feeling" you laughed back to him.
“We’re idiots for leaving it this long” he laughed.
“But, we’ve found our way back” you smiled. “Let's go before people start looking for us" you said dragging him out of the en suite.
You headed back out and joined P on the sun lounger.
"Where did you disappear to?" she asked you.
"Just wanted to freshen up after the flight" you smiled to her.
"Lando too?" she said with a smirk.
"Yeah" you smiled.
"Mmhmm" she smiled before she shot Max a look who was stood over the other side of the pool at the outside bar.
"You and Y/N all good mate? Max asked Lando.
"Yeah, I guess, why?" Lando asked trying to act casual.
"You just disappeared for a bit that's all" he said back.
"Just wanted to freshen up after the flight" he smiled to Max.
"With Y/N?" Max said probing.
"Well we are sharing a room, so yeah" Lando said a bit too casually.
"You kissed her didn't you!" Max whisper yelled.
"What?"
"You so did!"
"Max, shut up or I swear I'll kill you, even on your own stag"
"Mate, I'm so happy for you!" Max said causing a loud groan from Lando. Max then gave a wide grin and a thumbs up over to P who squealed loudly behind you making you jump.
"What the hell was that?" you asked her.
"You two! Something happened didn't it" she asked you.
"What?"
"Don't try and deny it. Me and Max can read you both like a book"
"I don't know what you're talking about P" you tried to brush her off.
"OMG you kissed him!" She squealed again, louder this time causing Max and Lando to look over at you, along with the rest of the group.
"Oh my god, P!" you said covering your face and leaning backwards on the sunbed.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be that loud!" she said apologetically, by which time Max and Lando had made their way around the pool and were now sat at the end of your sunbeds.
"So that secret lasted all of three seconds" Lando said as he led down next to you and you laughed.
"Sorry, I'm just really excited for you both" P said with a hint of embarrassment.
"It's fine" you laughed. "Oh, also the surprise you were worried about has just arrived" you said as Ed walked back out from the villa with a bunch of polaroid cameras. "We know you like to keep pictures for memories, so we bought a load of Polaroid cameras for people to use as they please and you can keep the photos"
"oh, guys, I love that! Thank you so much!" she beamed.
The day went by in a blur and after your flight earlier on you were exhausted and ready for bed. You got changed and slid into bed, followed by Lando seconds later. He opened his arm and you slid yourself into his side, hand resting on his chest. You both let out a satisfied sigh.
"I've missed this"
"Me too"
The wedding day morning was a mixture of fun, excitement and pure chaos, with you trying to calm P's nerves and Lando texting you to come and help them as neither him nor Max could figure out how the ties went since they were both hungover from what was meant to be 'quiet drinks' the night before.
"There, fixed" you said as you finished Lando's tie after sorting Max's.
"You look beautiful" he smiled to you.
"You look very handsome too" you said placing a gentle kiss on his lips.
"I can't wait to marry you one day" he smiled softly at you.
"It'll be the easiest yes I've ever said" you smiled to him.
He pulled you in to him, giving you a passionate kiss.
"Enough of that. I need to get married today first please!" Max laughed.
"Sorry" you smiled. "I've got to get back to P, see you down there. Good luck Max" you said hugging him.
The ceremony was beautiful. You swore you wouldn't cry, but there you were, tears welling up as you watched your best friend marry the love of her life. The evening was spent dancing and drinking and you had the best time imaginable.
1 month later and here you were, stood, waiting to perform your last show of the tour.
You had all your guests in their own little VIP section. Lando, Max, P, Charles, Carlos, Max, Rebecca, Alex and Kelly. You stood off to the side, nerves bubbling. It never got any easier. When you got onto the stage the crowd went wild. The energy was electric and your nerves eased off a bit. The night went without a hitch, it was your best performance to date.
"Thank you all so much for coming and supporting me. Non of this would be possible without the support of all of you. I've got some special supporters here tonight" you said as you waved over to the VIP section. "As this is the last concert of the tour, I wanted to say that I've seen all your comments online, all your edits, all you deep diving investigations and 'proof' videos, and whilst non of them have been correct, we still found our way back to one another. So, that being said, please make some noise for my boyfriend, the fandom's long awaited reunion, Lando Norris. I love you" You said smiling over to him.
"I love you" he shouted back causing a sea of awwws to erupt throughout the arena.
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Summary - You thought three years was enough time to move on. No amount of tie would help. 6K+ word count.
"Are you sure you're ok with this?" P asked you unsure.
"We both knew this was going to happen. Besides, it's yours and Max's day. It'll be nice to see him again" you reassured her.
"Ok, but if at any point you feel awkward or like you need to run away then let me know and I'll hide with you" she smiled to you.
"P, you can't hide during your own party" you laughed.
"Watch me. You're my best friend. I'd never let you hide away alone" she said sincerely causing you to laugh and pull her in for a hug.
"Thank you" you smiled. "Now, let's go before you're late!" you said rushing her out of her apartment where she was finishing getting ready for the party.
You and Lando had dated for around a two and a half years. Both well and truly smitten over one another. You'd spoken about houses, kids and marriage. Unfortunately fame hit you both quicker than you could keep up with, and due to clashing schedules you no longer had the time to see one another.
You'd never fell out of love, but the distance became too much for you both to handle. Lando becoming more and more famous in F1 and you were becoming globally famous for your music. It's what you'd both always wanted, however you'd hoped you could do this together. You'd tried to keep it together for so long but eventually it became too hard. Both your fans and Lando's fans were devastated by the news when it broke and still to this day they've not let it go.
Your best friend Pietra was dating Max F, Lando's best friend. That had been your friendship group, however after the break up you maintained your distance as Lando started on and off dating other girls, and this was too uncomfortable for you to deal with. You also never wanted to make your friends feel uncomfortable with the situation.
The day you broke up was the last day you ever saw him in person. No bad blood, no bad words exchanged. Just two people heart broken over the situation they'd found themselves in, yet in your eyes, Lando had handled it a lot better than you had.
Today was going to be the first time you'd seen him since the break up 3 years ago. P and Max were throwing an pre wedding party so all family members could celebrate as not everyone to come to the stag and hen do, and since you were the Maid of Honour, and Lando was the Best Man, you were both going to be in attendance. Lando wasn't coming alone though. His current girlfriend was joining him and all you can think about is how much you wanted the world to swallow you whole.
You pulled up to the venue with Max waiting outside for P.
"Ok, I'll see you in there" you said trying to hold some form of confidence in your voice.
"I swear I won't be long. You'll be fine, I promise" P reassured you.
You stepped out of the car and gave Max a smile and quick hug before walking into the venue. It was a beautiful Manor House, filled with bouquets of flowers and fairy lights. You could hear people talking amongst themselves as you started walking down the hallway. Your stomach did a flip and you felt like you could throw up at any moment from nerves. You were used to going on stages and performing in front of thousands of people but this was too much for you to handle.
As you continued walking you say a waiter with a tray of free drinks for the guests. You grabbed one, downing it as fast and you could, before picking up another one.
"Make sure you stay near me this evening please. I'm going to need it" you nodded to the waiter who laughed and nodded back.
"Come on, no more of that. You're going to be fine, I promise" a voice called out calmly from behind you.
"I don't think we can be so sure. I feel like I could be sick right now" you laughed.
"I'll stay with you. You won't be on your own then" P's brother Joao smiled to you.
"Thank you" you smiled walking into the main room with him.
There were tables set up and a few people had already taken a seat, whilst others were stood around chatting to one another. Tati waved you and Joao over to her table before you had a chance to look around the room. You were greatful for that instant distraction.
"Y/N! It's lovely to see you. It's been far too long" she said standing up to greet you.
"I know. I'll have to come and see you more. I have more control now over my schedules and the tour is almost done so I can finally breathe again" you smiled to her.
"Well once it's over you'll have to come and spend some time with us in Miami"
"That sounds perfect" You smiled to her.
People begin to clap and whistle, pulling you out of your conversation and your eyes travel to Max and P who are walking into the room together. A smile beamed across your face. Seeing them both so happy together and now engaged was the best feeling. P was like the sister you'd never had and seeing her find love warmed your heart.
As your eyes follow them walking to their table you catch sight of a familiar looking figure and your gaze focuses on the silhouette in front of you. Lando stood next to his new girlfriend, smiling and clapping Max and P.
Before you have a chance to turn your attention back onto Max and P, Lando’s eyes lock with yours. You can feel you heart hammering in your chest.
You swore you were fine. Swore that you had moved on. No hard feelings, no fall out, but you couldn’t just remain friends after the way you broke up. It would be too hard for anyone to move on from if you did.
Here and now, seeing him stood with someone else, even after all these years cut you deeper than you thought it would. You knew it would hurt, you weren't naive, but you didn't expect this level of hurt. Not after this amount of time had passed. It wasn't his fault. He'd simply moved on, which you'd tried doing but weren't able to. You'd tried blaming your busy life so often, but deep deep down, where you hid feelings you weren't ready to admit out loud, was the knowledge that you just weren't over Lando, and you don't think you ever will be.
You both smiled to one another as you all took your seats again, but you could feel the pain in your chest sharpen as his girlfriend whispered something into his ear, turning his attention away from you.
"Y/N?" You heard Joao say next to you, snapping you out of your own thoughts.
"Hmm?" you said turning to face him.
"I just asked if you're ok?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm good, thanks" you lied to him before looking before looking over to where P and Max sat and smiling again softly.
As the evening went on, drinks started flowing and music was blasting. Everyone was up, dancing and having a great time. You were sat at your table, having a drink and catching up with Joao.
"How you holding up?" P asked as she came and sat down next to you.
"I'm ok" You smiled to her.
"Truthfully?"
"I'm fine. He looks so happy with her. I'm glad he's found someone. You tried to say convincingly. Unfortunately for you, P knew you better than that.
"Honestly, they're still very new. They've only been together for about 5 months. She's nice enough but from what Max has told me about the relationship I can't see it lasting. They just seem a bit too different" you whispered in a drunken manner.
"I think you've had a bit too much to drink" you laughed.
"Nooooo, I'm fine" She whispered again a bit too close to you causing you to laugh again.
Max walked over to your table to find P.
"Is she ok?" He asked you
"She's fine. She's just maybe had a little too much to drink" you laughed to him.
"No no, I'm fine. I'm only telling you the truth. We want you guys to get back together" She hiccuped.
"P. I think that's enough" Max said quickly.
"What? We've both said so many times that they're made for one another, and timings are different now"
"Yes, well I don't think him and his new girlfriend would agree" you said.
Max and P shared a look with one another. No words exchanged but a knowing look between them both. You hadn't seen this though as you were standing up ready to take P to the bar to grab a glass of water.
"Come on, let's get some water" you laughed to her.
"Thanks Y/N" Max smiled to you and you smiled back at him with a nod.
You got to the bar and asked the bartender for a glass of water. P drank it as quick as she could since her favourite song came through the speakers and she wanted to go and dance.
"You coming?" She asked you.
"I will. Just going to get another drink for me and Joao. I owe him one" You smiled.
"Ok, see you in a minute then" She smiled.
You turned back and ordered yours and Joao's drinks. You started playing with your bracelet whilst waiting. Caught up staring into nothing. Your mind replaying old moments between you and Lando.
"Hey" you heard in that oh so familiar voice. You didn't react, thinking that it was your mind playing cruel tricks on you. "Y/N?" you heard again, louder this time. You shook your head lightly, focusing back in the room and turned your head to where you heard the voice.
"Oh, hey" you smiled and you saw Lando now stood next to you.
"It's great to see you. How have you been?" he asked.
"It's great to see you too. I've been good thank you. Congratulations on your Championship win" You smiled to him.
"Oh, yeah, thanks, you heard about it?"
"Lando, everyone heard about it" you laughed.
"I guess so" he laughed. "Did you watch it?"
"Of course I did" you sighed a soft smile and he smiled a nodded back.
"Congratulations on your tour. You're doing incredible"
"Thank you Lan. I'm finally getting control over my schedule now too. This is my last tour for a few years. It's been amazing but I'll be greatful for the break too" you nodded.
"Any plans with your downtime?"
"Tati's invited me to stay with them in Miami. Obviously help P and Max with any wedding stuff they need help with. Other than that, no plans. Just see where each day takes me"
The bartender slid your drinks in front of you before asking Lando for his order.
"Beer?" Lando asked you looking down at your drinks.
"For Joao"
"You and Joao?"
"What? No" you laughed louder than you expected. "No, he just saw me as I walked in and we sat next to each other. We went in on rounds with one another that's all" you laughed.
"Oh, sorry, I just thought maybe" he said awkwardly.
"No" you laughed again. "Just me. I saw you've got a girlfriend now though, she seems lovely, I'm happy for you" you smiled.
"Yeah, she's, nice" he said unsure.
"Nice?" You asked knowing him well enough to know there was something more to it.
"I mean, yeah, she's" but before he could finish the sentence she arrived next to him.
"Baby? Come dance with me" she said dragging him away.
"Yeah, yeah, sorry. I'm coming" He said to her before turning back to look at you
"Bye" you mouthed and smiled awkwardly.
"Sorry, bye Y/N" he smiled back.
Two weeks had since gone by since the party and P had invited you over for a paint and sip night. You were both in the dining room, glass of wine each on the table and a plate each that you were decorating.
Half hour later you hear the click of the front door and voices chatting away. You and P looked up at one another confused. Max had gone out and wasn't supposed to be home for another 5 hours at least.
"Hello?" P shouted towards the front door.
"Hey!" Max shouted back.
"I didn't think you were due back until later?" she shouted back again.
"Shoot got postponed so we came back here to game for a bit" he said walking into the dining room where you both sat.
"We?" P asked.
"Hey P" Lando said walking in behind Max.
"Oh, hey Lando. Sorry, I just wasn't expecting anyone" She said awkwardly.
Lando's head turned to your direction suddenly noticing you sat opposite P, the doorframe had been hiding you for a brief moment from his line of vision.
"Hey" you said quietly with a soft smile.
"Oh, Y/N, hey" he smiled back.
"Fancy a drink?" P asked Lando.
"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks P"
"Max, can you help me please?" she said as they both quickly exited the room.
"Subtle" you said causing Lando to laugh.
"Sorry. I didn't really get a chance to speak with you at the party" he said to you as he took a seat next to you.
"It's fine, you were busy with your girlfriend. No need to apologise" You smiled.
"Ex-girlfriend. We broke up" he corrected you.
"Oh, Lando, I'm so sorry"
"Don't be. It was very new anyway" he sighed.
"Lan, I really am sorry. What happened?"
“We were just in different places I guess. It’s really great to see you though Y/N. I’ve missed you” he said with an honestly that you didn’t expect from him.
“Ive missed you too” you smiled.
Max and P walked back into the room with P placing Lando’s drink down softly in front of him.
“Ready to stream?” Max asked Lando.
“Yeah” Lando said standing up and following him out of the room.
An hour later, after you and P had finished your painting and spoken about all the wedding plans P started complaining that she was hungry.
“We can order something?” You suggested.
“Yeah ok, I’ll ask the guys if they’re hungry too” she said getting up and walking to Max’s gaming room. “Yeah they said they could eat too” she said walking back out.
“Alright, I’ll just get Chinese food shall I?” You asked.
“Yeah, I’m not going back in to disturb them again” she agreed heading into the kitchen to grab the plates and cutlery.
30 minutes later and the food order had arrived.
“I’ll get them” you said to P who was unboxing all of the food to put on the worktop.
You knocked the door lightly but had no response. You could hear the guys answering chat and laughing away. You slowly pushed the door open trying not to cause too much attention but they still didn’t notice or hear you. That was until they saw chat going crazy.
OMG HI Y/N!!
Y/N we’ve missed you!
WHAT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW? ARE THEY BACK TOGETHER????
She’s so pretty😭
PLEASE TELL ME WE CAN ALL SEE HER AND MY EYES AREN’T PLAYING CRUEL TRICKS ON ME??
This caused them both to turn around.
“Foods here!” You smiled.
“Thank god, I’m so hungry!” Max said leaning back in his chair.
“Come say hi to chat?” Lando asked you spinning around to fully look at you.
You walked closer to Lando’s chair, looking at the comments and smiling.
“Hi chat! Thank you for the lovely comments!” You waved.
Y/N, I love you!!
Petition to get Y/N to start her own streams please!
Marry me!
“Right, I’m going to help P in the kitchen whilst Y/N finds someone to marry” Max said laughing and heading out of the room into the kitchen.
“What did you order?” Lando asked you.
“Your usual” you smiled and he smiled back.
She remembers his order!!!
Chat… are we witnessing something?
Is she already a wifey??👀👀
That smile! Chat we’ve lost him again to her!
You both looked back at chat reading through the messages that were flooding in and laugh lightly.
“Right, that’s it. Bye chat” Lando said before ending the stream abruptly.
“I’m really sorry about that” he said rubbing the back of his neck.
“Don’t be, it’s fine” you laugh.
“So, you remembered my order?” He teased.
“Of course I did” you said softly.
“Y/N?” He said quietly
“Hmm?”
“Guys, do you want me to dish up your food or do you want to do it?” P shouted.
“Never mind” Lando said before you both walked into the kitchen.
You all took your seats around the dinner table. You were surprised at how easy it felt being back in the same group you once loved so much, just with a different dynamic now. Sure there were some awkward moments between you and Lando where neither of you were sure how you should be acting, but apart from that it felt like the good old days and you’d missed that so much.
“Ok, so, stag and hen.” Max began.
“Oh god, what did you do?” Lando asked.
“So, we may have changed our minds” P said like she was trying to diffuse a bomb.
“What do you mean? This is far too last minute to be changing your minds!” You said shocked.
“We were thinking of combing them” Max said.
“Excuse me?” Lando asked very unimpressed.
“One big house. Everyone stays and parties there instead of hotels” Max continued.
“But I had plans!” Lando moaned.
“Did those plans include a stripper?” P asked with raised eyebrows.
“Maybe”
“Then combined it is. No strippers!” P said looking him in the eyes.
You let out a little laugh and he nudged your knee with his under the table.
“Don’t laugh!” He said looking at you.
“Sorry, can’t help it” you smiled.
You all enjoyed your meal together. Catching up, chatting about everything and nothing. You and Lando slowly started to fall back into that natural ease that you'd always had with one another. You couldn't explain it. Neither of you could, but you had some type of draw to one another, a connection that you didn't have with anyone else.
None of you had been on your phones. Blissfully unaware of what was happening online, until you go to check your phone, to see if there's any tickets left available for your last show of the tour. You were given a set amount that you could leave aside for people but you'd already promised Charles, Carlos and Max V, you'd also promised some of your media crew and make up crew tickets for their families, so at this point you were no longer sure how many you had left to give away.
"Oh, shit" you said, wide eyed and staring down at the screen in front of you.
"What's wrong?" P asked.
"The internet is going mental over me being in the stream earlier"
"What?" Lando said leaning in close over your shoulder to look at your phone.
Max and P scrambled for their phones, looking to see the chaos unfolding.
"At least the comments are nice?" P said trying to make the best of what was happening.
You and Lando both looked up at her, shooting her a look.
"What?" She laughed. "It's not the internets fault. You've shown up in a stream, still knowing Lando's order, he's given you a look that has clearly sent people into a frenzy. Fans have wanted this for 3 years now. You can't blame them for losing their shit with excitement" she said, hands raised in the air.
"She has a point" Max nodded.
"But people can't just jump to conclusions like that!" You said, already knowing how ridiculous you sounded. You knew the world you lived in, and how people react to even the tiniest of breadcrumbs.
"I already know what questions I'm getting next weekend now" Lando laughed dragging his hands down his face.
"I'm so sorry!" You said looking to him with a slightly worried expression.
"Don't be sorry you muppet, it's fine" he smiled to you, still leaned in to look at the comments on your phone with his arm around the back of your chair, where it remained for the rest of the evening.
Your week had been busy. Really busy so Lando had invited you to his race along with Max and P to unwind. You knew what people would think but they were already thinking it anyway so you agreed. You'd text a couple of times throughout the week but just about plans for the stag and hen do.
You walked into the paddock alongside Max and P when you saw Charles and Carlos walking towards you deep in conversation, until a fan shouted your name causing them to snap their heads up. Max and P said they'd meet you in the hospitality area so you could catch up with the guys.
"Y/N!!! What are you doing here?" Carlos said coming over to hug you.
"It's great to see you back here again!" Charles added.
"Lando invited me. My weeks been busy so this is a great way to take my mind off it all" you said as you gave Charles a hug too.
"So are you both?" Carlos asked looking at you. He didn't need to finish the sentence for you to know what he was asking.
"No, we've only seen each other twice, first at a party and the other was a fluke'"
"You seemed pretty happy to be near one another again from what I've seen online though" Charles said raising his eyebrows at you.
"It's lovely seeing him again. Easy to fall back into our old friendship"
"So any chance of a reconsilliation?"
"I don't know"
"What do you mean you don't know hermana? Do you still have feelings for him?"
"Of course I do Carlos. I've not been able to move on clearly, but he has. He's been with multiple girls since me"
"3. He's seen 3 girls. Not one lasted longer than 5 months for obvious reasons" Charles said quickly.
"Time doesn't matter. He still moved on" you sighed.
"Y/N?" you heard a thick dutch accent call out from behind you.
"Max!" you said turning around, happy to see him again.
"It's lovely to have you back! We've all missed you!" he said hugging you.
"I've missed you all too" you hugged him back.
"Who are you here with?" he asked you
"Lando invited me. I'm here with Max and P"
"He finally plucked up the courage to tell you how he feels then?" he asked.
"What?" you asked shocked. "No, we've only seen each other recently through friends. He just invited me to take my mind off my busy schedule" you said.
"Oh, shit, sorry. Ignore me" he scrambled.
Carlos and Charles shot him a look from behind you.
"Am I missing something?" you asked all three of them.
"Um, no, I don't think so. Just crossed wires on our end. Ignore us. How's the tour going?" Charles asked trying to quickly change the subject.
"Busy, very busy, but it's been such an incredible time. I've got your tickets too for the last show. Just turn up and tell them who you are, you'll be on the list"
"We can't wait. Thank you! Break after that?" Carlos asked.
"Yes! No more tour for a few years now. It's been amazing but exhausting so I'll be glad for the break" you smiled.
"So, we'll be seeing you more around the paddock?" Max asked.
"Maybe" you smiled.
"We've got to go but it was great seeing you. The girls can't wait to see you perform!" Charles smiled.
"I can't wait to see them! Good luck with the race guys" you said hugging them all individually before heading over to meeting Max and P.
You met Max and P in hospitality, chatting away about nothing when Lando appeared behind you, resting his hands either side of the back of your chair and tilting himself over you ever so slightly.
"How you feeling mate?" Max asked him.
"Feeling good" he nodded with a smile.
"Oh, before I forget" you said holding you phone up for Lando to see your screen and leaning your head back to look at him.
"Perfect timing!" he said looking down to you with a smile.
"What?" P asked.
"Just some details for the stag and hen do coming together that's all" you smiled.
"Nothing to worry about, I swear, you'll like it" Lando tried reassuring her.
"I feel nervous now" she groaned.
"It's something for the memories. Nothing to be nervous about. You don't have to do anything" you also tried reassuring her.
"Ok ok, but I swear you'd better not be lying" she said pointing to you both with a stern look.
"I promise" you said.
"Right, I've got to go. You watching here or the garage?" Lando asked you all.
"Garage?" Max asked you and P waiting for approval and you both nodded.
The race didn't go to plan for McLaren. Tyres incorrectly chosen, Oscar with a penalty and then Lando DNFing, but despite all of that, he seemed to be in very good spirits.
"Yeah, highlight was obviously the first lap, um, and then I went out with a bang, literally, so that was uh, just not, not our day, I guess from, uh, a decision point of view" Lando said during his interview.
"We're sorry that today didn't go the way the team had hoped. You're not usually this smiley after a DNF. Is there a particular reason or special someone behind that smile?" the interviewer asked.
Lando shook his head, trying but failing to suppress a smile. "No, nope, nothing to announce" he said. "Just... in a good place I guess"
"Are you sure?" she said smirking off camera to him.
"Don't put me under pressure" he laughed.
"So that's not a no"
"No comment" he laughed again
"Fair enough" she laughed. "Thank you for your time Lando"
"Thank you" he said before walking off.
You, Max and P met Lando post interviews and walked to his car ready to head back to the hotel.
"So, tomorrow's the week. You guys ready for it?" Lando asked looking at Max and P in his car mirror.
"Absolutely! Stag and hen celebrations follow by marrying my best friend" Max smiled looking at P.
The flight went quicker than you'd expected, especially whilst listening to P quiz Max on every detail of the wedding, making sure he knew exactly what was what. You pulled up outside the Villa that had been hired for the stag and hen do, seeing everyone waiting outside for Max and P to arrive. Lando had made sure to text Ed to let everyone know when you were close and to have drinks waiting for them both. You and Lando told them to go and enjoy themselves and you'd sort their luggage out for them. You headed to the master bedroom, wheeling their suitcases in and setting them down on the floor at the foot of the bed for them before talking a walk around the house trying to locate where you'd each be sleeping. That's when it quickly dawned on you. Everyone here is either married or in a relationship and therefore already sharing rooms, leaving 1 room left for you and Lando.
"Well, I guess we're sharing then" you said, giving Lando an awkward smile.
"Shit, I'm sorry. I thought there were enough rooms" he said rubbing the back of his neck.
"It's fine Lan, don't worry about it" you smiled whilst wheeling your suitcase into your room.
"Drinks?" Lando asked you.
"Absolutely" you said following him out of the room and down to the kitchen.
You saw some of the couples stood around planning to hire Jet Ski's tomorrow. You and Lando hadn't made an itinerary. You'd both agreed to keep things causal, with people choosing what they wanted to do instead. That was the dynamic of your group anyway so why fix something that isn't broken was your thought process.
"Y/N, you joining? We're all doing it as couples but you can do it individually too?" P asked you excitedly.
"Definitely!" you said matching her level of enthusiasm.
"Lando, you fancy joining?" one of the guys asked.
"Um, it's ok, I don't want to intrude" he said awkwardly.
"Don't be silly. Of course he'll join" you smiled.
"Great. We'll book you both on!" he said before walking off to book the activity.
"Are you sure?" Lando asked you.
"Lan, they're your friends too. Don't feel like you can't join just because we're not together anymore"
"What, like you used to do?" he asked quietly as he started walking back to the kitchen.
"That's not fair. You had moved on, there were other girls on the scene. It's not the same" you said following him
"Moved on?" he said shocked with a hint of irritation. "Y/N, I was just about surviving" he said in a defeated tone.
"It didn't look that way from the outside Lando" you said just as irritated now. It was only then that you both noticed others heading towards the kitchen.
You both walked down the hallway in silence before getting to your room. You walked into your en suite, looking in the mirror and smoothing out your hair. Neither of you said a word until Lando barged in seconds later.
"Fuck this, we're talking about it" he said from behind you.
"Here? Right now?"
"Yes Y/N, right now. You honestly think I moved on? Just like that?" he asked annoyed.
"That's how it seemed Lan. I wasn't angry, but I just couldn't be around you and other girls" you said honestly.
"I get that, I do, but I never moved on. No relationship got past 5 months because I couldn't do it"
"What?" you asked confused.
"I couldn't move on. I couldn't be with someone who wasn't you. No matter how hard I tried it always came back down to you. The day that I saw you at the party made me finally realise why it was that I couldn't make my relationships work. I thought it was just that we were too different but it wasn't that, it was that I'm not over you, over what we had! I broke up with her the day after the party because all I could think about was you!"
"Lando"
"I get how it would have seemed to you from the outside, believe me I do, but I need you to know that non of them even came close to what we had"
"Lan, I'm not bothered that you saw other people. But you can't make a comment like that, acting shocked that I didn't hang around with you all anymore. I couldn't be around that. It killed me seeing someone else with you when all I thought about, every single day, was you. I'd fall asleep wishing you were next to me, trying to convince myself that I could let you go, but that's so far from the truth that all I could do was remove myself from the situation"
"I understand, and I'm sorry you felt that way. I just need you to know that it's how I felt every single day too" he sighed.
"And now?" you asked. "What happens now? We're friends, people who see one another through friends special occasions?"
"I think we both know we're more than that. I know I can't keep pretending that I'm not feeling what I feel" he said stepping closer to you.
"And what's that?" you asked.
"That I still love you" he said with a level of confidence that took you by surprise.
"I still love you too" you said your heart hammering so hard in your chest you swore you could hear it.
All restraint you had both shown before had now completely dissolved. Lando stepped closer, closing the gap between you. His lips found yours, not rushed, but familiar, like this is where you both belonged. His one hand found its way to your hip, pulling you in even closer, his other travelled to the back of your neck. Yours ran through his curls before you both pulled back slightly. Neither of you stepped away, both still holding onto one another.
"Our secret for a little while? I want you to myself for a bit" he asked you.
"Sounds perfect. No pressure, just us" you smiled before you closed the gap between you again.
"I'm a little worried I'm not going to be able to let you go though" he laughed as you pulled back again.
"I had the same feeling" you laughed back to him.
“We’re idiots for leaving it this long” he laughed.
“But, we’ve found our way back” you smiled. “Let's go before people start looking for us" you said dragging him out of the en suite.
You headed back out and joined P on the sun lounger.
"Where did you disappear to?" she asked you.
"Just wanted to freshen up after the flight" you smiled to her.
"Lando too?" she said with a smirk.
"Yeah" you smiled.
"Mmhmm" she smiled before she shot Max a look who was stood over the other side of the pool at the outside bar.
"You and Y/N all good mate? Max asked Lando.
"Yeah, I guess, why?" Lando asked trying to act casual.
"You just disappeared for a bit that's all" he said back.
"Just wanted to freshen up after the flight" he smiled to Max.
"With Y/N?" Max said probing.
"Well we are sharing a room, so yeah" Lando said a bit too casually.
"You kissed her didn't you!" Max whisper yelled.
"What?"
"You so did!"
"Max, shut up or I swear I'll kill you, even on your own stag"
"Mate, I'm so happy for you!" Max said causing a loud groan from Lando. Max then gave a wide grin and a thumbs up over to P who squealed loudly behind you making you jump.
"What the hell was that?" you asked her.
"You two! Something happened didn't it" she asked you.
"What?"
"Don't try and deny it. Me and Max can read you both like a book"
"I don't know what you're talking about P" you tried to brush her off.
"OMG you kissed him!" She squealed again, louder this time causing Max and Lando to look over at you, along with the rest of the group.
"Oh my god, P!" you said covering your face and leaning backwards on the sunbed.
"Sorry, I didn't mean to be that loud!" she said apologetically, by which time Max and Lando had made their way around the pool and were now sat at the end of your sunbeds.
"So that secret lasted all of three seconds" Lando said as he led down next to you and you laughed.
"Sorry, I'm just really excited for you both" P said with a hint of embarrassment.
"It's fine" you laughed. "Oh, also the surprise you were worried about has just arrived" you said as Ed walked back out from the villa with a bunch of polaroid cameras. "We know you like to keep pictures for memories, so we bought a load of Polaroid cameras for people to use as they please and you can keep the photos"
"oh, guys, I love that! Thank you so much!" she beamed.
The day went by in a blur and after your flight earlier on you were exhausted and ready for bed. You got changed and slid into bed, followed by Lando seconds later. He opened his arm and you slid yourself into his side, hand resting on his chest. You both let out a satisfied sigh.
"I've missed this"
"Me too"
The wedding day morning was a mixture of fun, excitement and pure chaos, with you trying to calm P's nerves and Lando texting you to come and help them as neither him nor Max could figure out how the ties went since they were both hungover from what was meant to be 'quiet drinks' the night before.
"There, fixed" you said as you finished Lando's tie after sorting Max's.
"You look beautiful" he smiled to you.
"You look very handsome too" you said placing a gentle kiss on his lips.
"I can't wait to marry you one day" he smiled softly at you.
"It'll be the easiest yes I've ever said" you smiled to him.
He pulled you in to him, giving you a passionate kiss.
"Enough of that. I need to get married today first please!" Max laughed.
"Sorry" you smiled. "I've got to get back to P, see you down there. Good luck Max" you said hugging him.
The ceremony was beautiful. You swore you wouldn't cry, but there you were, tears welling up as you watched your best friend marry the love of her life. The evening was spent dancing and drinking and you had the best time imaginable.
1 month later and here you were, stood, waiting to perform your last show of the tour.
You had all your guests in their own little VIP section. Lando, Max, P, Charles, Carlos, Max, Rebecca, Alex and Kelly. You stood off to the side, nerves bubbling. It never got any easier. When you got onto the stage the crowd went wild. The energy was electric and your nerves eased off a bit. The night went without a hitch, it was your best performance to date.
"Thank you all so much for coming and supporting me. Non of this would be possible without the support of all of you. I've got some special supporters here tonight" you said as you waved over to the VIP section. "As this is the last concert of the tour, I wanted to say that I've seen all your comments online, all your edits, all you deep diving investigations and 'proof' videos, and whilst non of them have been correct, we still found our way back to one another. So, that being said, please make some noise for my boyfriend, the fandom's long awaited reunion, Lando Norris. I love you" You said smiling over to him.
"I love you" he shouted back causing a sea of awwws to erupt throughout the arena.
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The bass in the Boston bar is loud enough to rattle the ice cubes in Logan’s glass, but it’s not enough to drown out Dean’s incessant complaining.
“I’m just saying,” Dean mutters, leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar and dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s the first weekend of the season. The energy is prime. The girls are out. And Garrett is sitting in his room icing a sprain that barely qualifies as a bruise.”
Logan smirks, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “Leave him alone. The guy’s got a bruised ego more than a bruised ankle. Besides, it’s a classic case of NFP.”
Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”
“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”
“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles.
Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft.
A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free.
“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.
“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”
Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.
***
Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around.
“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”
“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm.
“Liar!”
You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free.
Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe.
And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season.
So here you are.
You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric.
Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.
***
Logan freezes halfway to the bar.
He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying.
He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers.
“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself.
He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat.
You step back, and Logan steps in.
***
You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips.
Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble.
“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing.
“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”
“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”
You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”
“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”
“It’s a bold strategy.”
“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”
“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”
“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them.
“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”
“Balance?”
“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”
“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays.
“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”
“Puck,” you say.
Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.”
He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together.
“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him.
“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly.
“Prove it,” you challenge.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress.
The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips.
“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency.
Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock.
He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack.
The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you.
“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall.
“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you.
He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck.
“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly.
“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours.
“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”
“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned.
The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening.
You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently.
Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core.
He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone.
“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need.
Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth.
He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm.
Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch.
“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame.
“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders.
Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest.
“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back.
“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”
His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him.
Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle.
Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are.
Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support.
He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair.
“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”
“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”
You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”
You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea.
“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door.
Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”
“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile.
Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole.
Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”
***
The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black.
Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend.
“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”
Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”
“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”
“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”
Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”
“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”
Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games.
The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle.
Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny.
The referee drops the puck.
You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion.
“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”
“Told you,” Garrett says smugly.
Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net.
The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass.
“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”
“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’.
“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns.
“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”
“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs.
For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing.
But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match.
“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”
The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room.
“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”
“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”
“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests.
Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”
“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”
“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.
Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”
They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath.
***
You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest.
You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here.
You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does.
“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face.
You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair.
“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”
“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight.
In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates.
“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”
“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”
“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”
You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about.
“Hey, it’s nice to-”
The words die in your throat.
Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy.
The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars.
The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis.
***
Logan freezes.
Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor.
He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own.
*No. No, no, no.*
The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep.
It’s you.
It’s Garrett’s little sister.
Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick.
“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”
Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.
He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers.
“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”
***
“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word.
John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world.
You slept with him.
You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ...
“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”
“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”
“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”
“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”
“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”
“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender.
You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”
“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him.
“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”
“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett.
“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”
“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”
“I know,” you say softly.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
The hallway goes completely silent.
Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic.
“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”
Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”
Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind.
You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight.
When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps.
“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door.
“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”
“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”
The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture.
“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”
You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one.
You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin.
Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom.
“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”
Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room.
His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club.
“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you.
You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat.
“Ready,” you whisper back.
Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot.
It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.
***
The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head.
The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room.
“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl.
It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight.
Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you.
Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door.
“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove.
Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table.
You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson.
“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks.
The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”
“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”
“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs.
“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile.
“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”
Logan swallows. Hard.
“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away.
“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”
“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”
“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”
Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell.
You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door.
Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.
“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”
You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”
“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”
“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”
“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”
“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”
Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up.
“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”
Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game.
“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”
Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.
“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”
“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you.
Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream.
“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away.
“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass.
Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw.
You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth.
You dart your tongue out and lick it away.
Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster.
He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands.
“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”
You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake.
Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”
“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”
“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”
“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake.
“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”
“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”
You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration.
I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language.
Under the table, it’s a different story.
The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans.
He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks.
You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull.
It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb.
“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”
“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag.
“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”
You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”
Logan stares at him. “What?”
“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”
You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket.
“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys.
Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”
“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”
Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”
You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”
“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”
The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly.
Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her.
“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”
You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number.
Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”
“Always,” Tucker agrees.
Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”
Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact.
Y/N Graham.
“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes.
“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”
“Understood,” Dean says solemnly.
“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods.
Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits.
“Logan?” Garrett prompts.
Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly.
“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”
“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”
They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second.
As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says.
Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker.
He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain.
He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister.
He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop.
Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air.
I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.
He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett.
Fuck his life.
***
The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits.
You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park.
For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield.
“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”
You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold.
You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name.
The line rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”
“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice.
You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle.
Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.
You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline.
You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car.
But then your thumb stops on the last name.
John Logan.
A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom.
You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space.
But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core.
“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”
There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed.
“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”
“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”
“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache.
“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”
“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”
“Understood,” you whisper.
“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”
The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.
***
True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic.
You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass.
You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”
Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop.
“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck.
You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery.
“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”
“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering.
Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block.
“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”
“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out.
Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”
He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder.
You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents.
You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you.
You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.
“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next.
You step directly into his space.
“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his.
It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain.
Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks.
His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue.
The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips.
Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before.
But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you.
Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes.
“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling.
“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart.
“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”
“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”
Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”
“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”
You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go.
He doesn’t move an inch.
Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips.
“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”
“Logan ...”
“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”
The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man.
“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips.
“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender.
“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”
You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes.
“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm.
Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat.
He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut.
The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front.
Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards.
“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you.
The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved.
Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely.
“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair.
Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat.
“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans.
“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat.
He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up.
Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust.
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”
You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need.
You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach.
“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”
You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside.
When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest.
He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants.
“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark.
You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready.
You nod, lifting your hips to meet him.
Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust.
A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better.
Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips.
He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly.
You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper.
The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat.
You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”
“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation.
Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck.
Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle.
“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”
“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”
Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms.
“Me too,” you whisper.
Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie.
“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”
“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress.
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”
