Lillian

She flips through the chart tucked beneath her arm before adding almost as an afterthought, “He came out of surgery a little while ago, so he’s still pretty groggy. Between the anesthesia, the pain medication, and the concussion, he may not make a whole lot of sense for a little while.”

You nod absentmindedly, though you’re hardly listening anymore. Your thoughts are somewhere else entirely, drifting back over the last couple of weeks whether you want them to or not.

There hadn’t been one big betrayal. Just enough little ones that, eventually, they all started to feel like one.

A semester-long group project with a girl who never seemed to leave his side. A few too many study sessions that stretched late into the evening. A ride home after class. Friends mentioning they’d seen them grabbing coffee together.

Then there was the homecoming costume party, where she’d shown up in bunny ears and a U Mich hockey jersey Rafe had lent her.

When you cocked an eyebrow at him as she walked into the party, he’d brushed it off, saying she’d needed something for the costume, but everyone knew what it looked like when a girl walked into a party wearing a hockey player’s jersey.

It wasn’t just something she’d borrowed. It looked like a claim, and judging by the way she kept angling herself to show off the number on her back and the last name on her shoulders, you knew she knew that too.

The second you left Rafe’s side to run to the bathroom, she pulled the rest of their marketing group together and suggested a picture, leaning into Rafe with one hand against his chest while Rafe hooked an arm around her waist.

By the time you came back, the picture had already been taken, posted, and buried inside a photo dump beneath a caption about everyone’s favorite bunny. You didn’t even know it existed until your best friend sent you a screenshot twenty minutes later with one message underneath it.

Wtf? Did you and Rafe break up?

The nurse studies you for a second before offering another small smile, one that almost looks like she’s debating whether she should warn you about something. “I should probably mention…” She lets out the tiniest laugh, shaking her head. “His teammates have been here almost the entire night. They’re a lively group.” She lowers her voice conspiratorially. “And there’s another young woman in the room who’s been…very determined to stay by his side.”

Your chest tightens before you can stop it, though you keep your expression carefully neutral. The nurse catches it anyway. “For what it’s worth,” she says quietly as the two of you stop outside a closed hospital room door, “she wasn’t the person listed when we asked who to call.”

She eases the door open before stepping aside. The room is larger than you’d expected, though it somehow still feels crowded.

And just as the nurse mentioned, the boys are there. Topper is sitting in a chair, one ankle crossed over his knee as he works his way through a family-sized bag of Doritos.

Beside him, Kelce is completely folded over an iPad, tapping the screen with the concentration of a twelve-year-old who’d been told he had five more minutes before bedtime. He jabs JJ in the side, trying to show whatever's happening on his screen.

JJ waves him off without tearing his attention away from the stunning nurse standing beside Rafe’s bed. “So…” JJ says smoothly, tilting closer. “Hypothetically speaking, if someone wanted to thank the nurse who saved his best friend’s life—or longtime mortal enemy, depending on the day.” His grin grows when she doesn’t immediately tell him to get lost. “You free for dinner next week?”

She laughs without looking up from Rafe’s hospital bracelet, giving him a fresh round of fluids and pain meds.

Your attention drifts past them before settling on the bed. Rafe Cameron. His left arm is tucked securely into an immobilizer across his chest, thick white bandages disappearing beneath the collar of the pale blue hospital gown hanging loosely from his broad shoulders.

A dark bruise has already started spreading along the sharp line of his jaw, another peeking out beneath the hair flattened awkwardly against one side of his head from hours spent unconscious. His lips are dry, cheeks faintly flushed, and even from the doorway you can tell he’s struggling to stay awake.

Then your eyes slide to the other side of the bed and there she is, the girl from Rafe’s marketing class, perched on the edge of the mattress like she belongs there. Rafe, meanwhile, has somehow managed to scoot himself nearly to the opposite edge.

His body is angled as far away from her as physically possible without rolling straight onto the floor, shoulder pressed awkwardly against the raised guardrail.

His heavy eyelids lift, and when he spots you across the room, the corners of his mouth pull into the softest, dopiest smile you’ve ever seen. It isn’t forced or uncertain. If anything, it’s relief, like he’s been waiting for you to get there all night.

His shoulders loosen against the raised hospital bed, his head tipping lazily into the pillow as though the simple act of seeing you has convinced his body it can finally relax. “…There’s my wife.”

The boys start to lose it while the nurse presses her lips tightly together, lowering her clipboard as she bites the inside of her cheek, her shoulders betraying her anyway when they begin to shake with a laugh she’s very obviously trying not to let out.

“…Your wife?” JJ asks, already knowing exactly what he’s about to do.

Rafe blinks at him slowly, his eyebrows furrowing just enough to wrinkle the bandage stretched across his temple before his sleepy gaze drifts back to you again. “…Yeah?”

Rafe’s eyebrows pull together almost immediately, his sleepy smile slipping into a confused frown as he watches JJ laugh himself breathless. “No…” Rafe mumbles, shaking his head against the pillow. “Not my wife.”

“There you go, buddy,” Topper soothes, tapping his hand against the white blanket covering Rafe, leaving orange fingerprints in his wake.

Rafe nods once, satisfied again. “My girlfriend.”

Topper drops his forehead into his hand while another laugh escapes him, Kelce simply closing his eyes like he’d reached the point in the night where nothing could surprise him anymore. Even the nurse gives up trying to look professional, turning toward Rafe’s chart so she can hide the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

“What?” Rafe asks, his words still thick with anesthesia. “She is.”

JJ winces dramatically. “Ooh, buddy…” He rubs the back of his neck before looking back at him. “I hate to be the one to tell you this…”

“Huh?” Rafe’s attention snaps right back to him.

“…She ain’t that either.”

The color drains from Rafe’s face and his mouth falls open.

“…What?”

Topper pushes himself out of the plastic chair beside the window without saying a word. “C’mere, sweetheart,” he says softly, giving your shoulder a gentle squeeze as he guides you toward the empty seat. “You don’t need to stand over there.”

Rafe doesn’t look away from you as Topper helps you into the chair beside the bed, panic beginning to replace the sleepy haze clouding his expression.

“…Baby?” His voice is smaller now. “What do you mean?”

He tips his head toward JJ, clearly attempting to keep the conversation between the two of them. It would’ve worked a lot better if he wasn’t speaking at his normal volume.

“What do you mean she’s not my girlfriend?”

As far as he’s concerned, you still belong right there beside him, your hand in his. Nothing else makes sense.

“If he’s awake now,” you ask quietly, glancing toward the nurse, “am I actually needed anymore?”

“—Yes,” Rafe answers quickly.

“Technically? No,” the nurse corrects him gently. “He’s doing well. You’re more than welcome to stay if you’d like, but you’re free to head home.”

You nod once, your fingers curling around the strap of your purse.

“Don’t go,” Rafe mumbles.

His brows pull together as he slowly looks around the room, his good hand lifting off the blanket as he begins pointing from person to person. “One…” His finger lands on you. “Two…” He points toward Topper. “Three…” Kelce. “Four…” JJ. Then his finger circles back toward himself. “…Five.”

He blinks once before his gaze drifts across the bed toward Cami.

“…Six.”

His sleepy eyes settle back on the nurse. “Maximum capacity’s probably five, right?”

The nurse presses her lips together, clearly trying not to laugh.

“Okay.” He points toward Cami with complete sincerity. “Then she can go.”

Cami’s eyebrows shoot up, her head snapping toward the boys when she hears some snickering across the room.

“Fine. I’ll scoot over,” Rafe says, shifting the centimeter that remains between him and the guardrail. “My girl stays.”

JJ looks at the microscopic amount of space Rafe just created before looking back at you. “Enjoy your extra inch, sweetheart.”

“I can try harder,” Rafe assures.

And for the first time since you walked through the door, the laughter begins to fade. Because underneath the anesthesia, he’s completely and utterly devastated by the fact that he lost you.

A knock sounds against the side of the already open door before a man in navy scrubs steps inside, flipping through the pages of Rafe’s chart.

“Hey,” the doctor says warmly when he spots you. “She’s here. I’ve heard a lot about you. I’m Dr. Reynolds,” he introduces with an easy smile, completely oblivious to the fact that the tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife.

You slip your hand back into the pocket of your sweatshirt, refusing to look anywhere near the other side of Rafe’s bed where the girl still lingers, arms folded now, her smile disappearing a little more every minute.

“Nice to meet you,” you say quietly.

Dr. Reynolds nods once before turning back toward Rafe, flipping another page in the chart.

“Well,” he says, “your surgery went exactly how we hoped. Shoulder’s stable, clavicle’s repaired, concussion symptoms are mild so far. You’re going to be sore for a while, but everything looks great.”

Rafe isn’t listening. He’s still watching you, and the doctor notices, letting out a low laugh before he sighs. “I’ve got to tell you… You must be pretty special. He has asked for you… What?” He glances over at his teammates. “…I think eleven times since he woke up.”

“Mhmm,” the nurse confirms too. “Every few minutes he’s like ‘Where’s my girl?’ ‘Did she get here yet?’ ‘Call my girl.’”

“…Rafe,” you sigh.

“I’m sorry,” he pouts. “I wanted to make you jealous. I just…” He swallows thickly. “I just wanted you to look at me again.”

JJ buries his face in his hands while Kelce bites the inside of his cheek so as not to laugh.

“I just…I just want my girlfriend back.”

Across the bed, the girl shifts uncomfortably where she’d been perched on the mattress all evening, her shoulders drawing in as she looks toward Rafe, silently willing him to stop talking.

“Ex-girlfriend,” JJ reminds him.

“…I don’t like that.”

“Rafe?” Cami’s voice comes out much smaller than it had before. His attention drifts toward her for the first time in what feels like forever, his heavy eyelids lifting just enough to acknowledge she’d spoken.

“Hi.”

“Last week, you told me you were over her,” she says. “Was that a lie?”

“For the love of god, Cameron. Plead the fifth,” Topper murmurs with a mouth full of chips.

“I lied.”

The girl’s face drains of what little color it had left. His brows pinch together as his concussed, medication-clouded brain slowly catches up with the words that had just come out of his mouth.

His eyes drift toward the ceiling for a second before he lets out the tiniest, most disappointed sigh. “Probably shouldn’t’ve said that. But…” His voice is quieter now, almost sleepy. “It wasn’t gonna work anyway. That’s my wife—my girlfrie—no. Holy fuckin’ shit…” He gestures toward you helplessly. “She just…she owns me, okay? And I love it. I love that shit so much.” His eyes drift back to you, soft and unfocused. “She’s everything.”

“Dude,” JJ sighs through a chuckle, shaking his head. Kelce bites the side of his cheek to keep his laughter at bay as Topper runs a hand down his face in exhaustion.

“…Can you blame me?” Rafe gestures toward you. “Look at her. She’s… perfect.” He yawns and trails off, his lashes lowering as he drifts toward sleep. “So pretty.”

“Hey, Cameron. We get it, buddy,” JJ says.

“Like…” He slurs, fighting sleep, “…A princess.”

Cami looks around the room like she’s waiting for someone to stop him, someone to tell everybody this is just the medication talking. Nobody does.

Rafe’s attention drifts past her, settling on you, that same tired, lovesick smile he’d been wearing since you’d walked through the door.

Cami lets out a slow breath before pushing herself off the edge of the mattress, smoothing both hands down the front of her sweater. “Well…” she says, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I guess I’ll get out of everyone’s way.”

Click. Click. Click.

Her heeled boots tap against the old linoleum floor.

“Is she gone yet?” Rafe slurs, lifting one eye just enough to peek out of before slamming it shut.

“I’ll see you around,” she says to you with a careless shrug. “I’m sure it won’t be long.”

You don’t answer. You simply meet her eyes, one eyebrow lifting ever so slightly. She adjusts the strap of her purse higher onto her shoulder, her smile turning just a little sharper.

“So when you two break up next time, tell him not to lose my number, bitch.”

The words barely leave her mouth before JJ pushes himself out of the chair.

“Alright,” he says, his arms folding across him as he steps between the two of you just enough to break her line of sight. “You can be upset. Nobody’s gonna blame you for that. But you don’t get to take it out on her.”

Cami scoffs and rolls her eyes, letting out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I wasn’t—”

“You were,” Kelce interrupts evenly as he locks the iPad and tucks it beneath his arm. He doesn’t raise his voice, but he doesn’t leave any room for an argument either.

“And you’re done,” Topper pipes in fast. “Nobody talks to her like that. Leave.”

“Seriously?” she snips, looking around the room before her eyes rest on JJ’s.

JJ takes one slow step forward, his expression never changing. “You made your point. Time to go.”

“—Whatever.”

Her hand settles on the curtain, yanking it back dramatically enough that the little metal rings clatter—loud enough to startle Rafe awake, breathing sharply through his nose as he looks around the room in complete confusion.

“…What happened?” Rafe mumbles.

JJ glances over at you for a second, watching the way you sit at the edge of your chair, watching your eyes widen when he wakes up. Even though the two of you are over, the panic that catches in your chest when Rafe wakes makes it painfully clear that some part of you still belongs to him.

The nurse told you you could leave. You still hadn’t left. You hadn’t smiled much. Sure. But you’d answered the hospital’s phone call. You’d driven over. You were still sitting in his room hours later, despite every opportunity to walk back out that door.

“Alright,” JJ says casually, fishing his wallet out of his pocket. “I’m gonna go find coffee before I fall asleep.” He nods to the boys to follow along. “Figured we’d give you two a little break from the crunching of chips and Fruit Ninja—”

“I’m not playing Fruit Ninja,” Kelce mutters, still looking down at the iPad. “It’s Overcooked. And, if anyone should leave, it’s you—whoring yourself out to any nurse that walks in here.”

“Rude.” JJ chuckles, even though Kelce isn’t wrong.

A quiet laugh slips through the room, the tension finally beginning to unwind. You look down at your phone for something to do, trying not to think about the fact that you’re finally alone with him, when a soft rustling sound pulls your attention back toward the bed.

Rafe’s watching you still, his good hand lazily patting the empty space beside him when he finally catches your eye. “C’mere.”

You shake your head and roll your eyes. “No.”

“Please.” Rafe’s voice cracks a little, his throat still raw from the tube they’d used during surgery.

“Rafe…”

“Baby, c’mon,” he whispers.

You shake your head, already losing the battle with yourself as you stand from the chair and make your way over to him. “This doesn’t mean I forgive you,” you warn, carefully settling onto the edge of the mattress without jostling his shoulder. “And it definitely doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”

Rafe nods along with every word like he agrees completely, the sleepiest smile spreading across his face. He waits until you’ve finally settled beside him before his good arm finds your waist, his fingers bunching lightly in your sweatshirt as he draws you as close as you’ll let him.

“I’m just happy you’re here.”

You glance over at him after a few minutes, watching him shift carefully against the mattress, a quiet breath hissing through his teeth as another ache settles into his shoulder, and for the first time all night he actually looks tired instead of simply high.

“You okay?” you ask softly.

Rafe nods and winces, carefully adjusting his arm in the immobilizer. “It hurts a little more now.”

“The medicine’s wearing off?” you ask, and he nods, his heavy head moving a little slower. “Let me go get your nurse to tell her, okay?”

You can see the worry gathering in his glassy eyes, his lashes lifting a little higher as panic begins to creep back into his expression. “Promise you’ll come back?”

“I promise,” you whisper, lifting a hand to push his flattened hair away from his face. “I still smell like hockey, m’sorry,” he murmurs, leaning into your touch.

You chuckle breathily, making the corners of his mouth tilt into a small smile. “It’s okay.”

“If no one's out there, just come back,” he pleads softly.

You peek around the curtain, catch the nurse’s eye, and quietly ask whether Rafe can have more pain medication.

You walk over to the hospital chair and grab your purse and he calls out for you quickly. “You said you’d stay. Don’t go—”

“Just getting you some chapstick, baby,” you sigh.

The word hangs between the two of you for a second longer than either of you expects.

Baby.

You’d said it without thinking, the pet name slipping free before you had a chance to stop it, and judging by the way Rafe’s eyes soften almost immediately, he’d caught it too.

“What?” you ask quietly, already knowing.

“Nothin’,” he hums, smiling so hard it makes his cheeks hurt. “I just…” He tilts his head into the pillow, the movement ending in a quiet wince before he looks back at you. “Missed hearin’ you call me that.”

He taps on the bed, impatiently waiting for you to come back.

You walk back to the bed and settle carefully on top of the blanket, cupping his sharp jaw in your hand. The lip balm glides across his pouty lips—his head leaning into your hand for a moment, his dark lashes skimming his cheeks.

Your body responds before you can stop yourself, your lips pressing softly against the corner of his mouth. His body melts farther into the mattress as a little sigh of relief passes his lips.

“Sorry,” he murmurs as a tear slides down his cheek. “For everything.” Your thumb brushes it away as you look back into his half-lidded eyes, more tears gathering along his lashes.

You rest the chapstick on the cool metal nightstand. Your hand rests on the bed in between you, and the second your palm hits that crisp cotton his fingers lace in yours.

“I missed you,” he admits. “I missed you every day.”

You keep your eyes on your hands, watching his rough thumb move over your knuckles.

“I’d wake up and reach for my phone without even thinking.” Rafe lets out a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head at himself. “I’d think, I gotta tell her this, and then…” His smile falters. “I’d remember I wasn’t allowed to anymore.”

He stares down at your joined hands for a long moment, rubbing his thumb across your knuckles.

“I kept hoping you’d answer one of my calls.” He shrugs carefully with his good shoulder before immediately wincing. “Or open the door when I came over. Anything.” Another quiet laugh slips out, this one sounding more defeated than amused. “I would’ve taken anything.”

He finally looks up at you. “I just wanted you to notice me—to want me in your life.” He swallows hard. “Instead, I gave you another reason to walk away.”

Another tear slips free before he can stop it, disappearing into the pillow beneath his cheek. “I’ll do anything,” he says, his voice breaking as his eyelids lift and fall against sleep. “Just give me another chance, please. I love you—”

The last word trails off as exhaustion takes over, a soft snore slipping from him when his cheek settles deeper into the pillow.

You move a little closer, sharing his pillow, brushing away a stray hair before you kiss him softly on his forehead. Your body melts into the bed next to him, and though it’s neither his bed nor yours, it feels a lot like home.

Your eyes fall closed, and every thought about what might happen when you wake drifts away.

Rafe lets out a quiet breath through his teeth as he carefully tries to adjust himself against the mattress, the movement small enough that he clearly isn’t trying to wake you, but enough that the bed shifts beneath your weight.

Your eyes blink open, taking a second to adjust to the darkness before they settle on him.

“Hey, baby,” he whispers the moment he realizes you’re awake.

“Hey.” Your voice is soft with sleep. “How’re you feeling?”

Rafe looks down at the blanket covering the two of you, clearly weighing his answer. If he admits he feels better, will you decide it’s finally safe to leave?

“A little better,” he says under his breath.

“Better?” You study him carefully.

“Just a little…not enough for you to leave,” he admits, his voice soft and sheepish.

“You’re impossible,” you whisper. A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he looks away, rubbing his thumb across the back of your hand where your fingers are still intertwined hours later.

“You remember anything?” You watch his expression change.

“I remember more than I wish I did,” he admits with a tired laugh. “I remember calling you my wife…” His gaze finds yours again. “…And I remember asking you not to leave.”

You wait patiently, giving him room to keep talking. Rafe’s smile slowly fades, replaced by something much more earnest.

“And I remember telling you I still love you.”

He doesn’t rush to explain himself or blame the medication. Instead, he simply watches you.

“I know I don’t deserve another chance just because I finally got my head out of my ass. Trust isn’t something I get back overnight.”

You look down at your joined hands for a moment before lifting your gaze back to him.

“I never cheated on you, I swear on my life. Did I let her get too comfortable around me? Yeah. I would’ve lost my shit if the roles were reversed.”

Rafe glances toward the TV glowing in the dark, his eyes shimmering again with tears. He swallows hard, trying to get on top of his emotion, but he’s in too deep.

“I texted you, I called, I brought flowers, I showed up at your apartment more than once hoping you’d answer the door.” He lets out a shaky sigh. “Every day I kept thinking maybe today’s the day she’ll finally talk to me.”

He drags the back of his hand beneath his eyes, wiping at the tears clumsily.

“When none of it worked, I got desperate. I didn’t want to hurt you—I just wanted something. Anything. I thought if I could make you mad enough, maybe you’d yell at me. Maybe you’d tell me I was an idiot. Maybe we’d finally have a conversation I could apologize in.”

You let him talk, saying nothing. Because just like the little things had slowly chipped away at your trust, the apologies, the flowers, the unanswered calls, and now the quiet honesty spilling out of him were beginning to chip away at the walls you’d spent weeks trying to build.

“I don’t deserve a second chance. The fact that you’re here… I don’t even deserve that.”

Rafe studies your face carefully, searching for something in your expression.

“You didn’t ask her to come here tonight—”

“No,” he cuts in, answering fast and certain. “I came in here a mess before they gave me anything, and when the nurse asked who they should call, I couldn’t answer fast enough. I swear, baby. I didn’t ask her to come.”

His brows pinch together. “I don’t know how she got this far—” He trails off, blinking at you. “…What are we talking about?”

“Cami.”

“Cami?” he mumbles.

“Cami,” you answer quietly. “Marketing partner Cami. The one with the high heels and bunny ears… who wore your jersey.”

His eyes squeeze shut. “…Jesus Christ.” The words leave him on a long breath as his head sinks back into the pillow. “That was so fucking bad.” He shakes his head. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

His gaze finds yours again, hazy with exhaustion.

“We never even kissed.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay, what, baby?” he asks sweetly, his concussion doing a number on his short-term memory.

“I understand. Don’t worry,” you say through a soft laugh, his attention still fixed on you.

After another moment, the corner of his mouth lifts again.

“If I tell you that I’m still kinda fucked up…”

You already know exactly where he’s going with it, and your eyes roll away before he even finishes.

“…Will you stay?”

A quiet laugh slips past your lips as you look back at him. “Rafe Cameron. It’s three in the morning.”

“I know.”

“I’ve been here since yesterday,” you answer.

“I know.”

“I fell asleep in a hospital bed that has a maximum capacity of one large hockey man because you wouldn’t stop patting the mattress.”

“You did,” he hums, glancing down the length of the cramped hospital bed toward your tangled legs.

“And you’re absolutely still fucked up.”

“You think so?” he asks, trying not to chuckle.

“I’m staying,” you whisper, your thumb lingering against his skin. “You make it really hard to stay mad at you.”

“That’s great news for me.” His arm tightens around your waist when your smile grows. “So pretty,” he whispers.

“Like a princess,” you finish for him, and he laughs.

“Don’t let me wake up,” he murmurs with a shaky laugh. “‘Cause if this is some lucid dream, I’m gonna cry like a fuckin’ baby.”

“And I love you too.” You lace your fingers more firmly through his, giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

“You do?” he asks softly, tilting his head as close as he can get toward you.

“Mhmm,” you hum against his lips.

“Thank you, baby.”

Any broken links removed. If you don't see your n a me please lmk! ♥️

For the few hazy seconds between sleep and wake, Garrett forgets.

He stretches out slowly, searching for the familiar warmth of the body next to him, the feeling of a leg wedged between his own because “I can’t sleep if my thighs are touching” but somehow being sandwiched between both of his is fine. Instead he feels the empty cushion of the daybed, the slightly cool morning air because he kicked his blanket off at some point in the night, and the weight of a stuffed white tiger lodged between the crook of his elbow and his bicep. 

And then Garrett remembers.

He sits up with an exhausted breath of air, rubbing two hands over his face. It’s so early that the sun still seems to be deciding on whether it wants to start rising or not, the Villa unusually quiet, like he’s woken up before time has actually started yet. 

Garrett’s surprised that he doesn’t feel tired. He thought that he wouldn’t be able to sleep, that he’d be up tossing and turning the whole night, but the day before had left him so exhausted that it took him about as long as it took his head to hit the pillow to slip from consciousness entirely. And now, much more rested and removed from the situation, he’s able to look back on your fight with much more clarity.

He looks down, his eyes landing on the stuffed animal flopped awkwardly next to him.

“I fucking suck, huh?” He laughs hopelessly. And then, because it feels inconsiderate not to, he grabs Snowy and places her on his lap, fixing her limbs until she sits more comfortable.

With a touch lighter than he’s ever touched anything, Garrett traces the fur right above one of her glass eyes. He remembers a day, probably only a few days after you had coupled up for the first time, when you’d been feeling especially homesick. You curled up on one of the couches, Snowy on your chest and your chin resting on her head—which was unusual since you usually never brought her out of the bedroom—a wistful look on your face, your mouth scrunched in the way it does when you’re sad about something but trying to tell yourself that you’re not.

You’d explained it to him then, when he sat down next to you and rested his head on your shoulder, that you’d taken Snowy with you everywhere with you when you were younger. That she was a tapestry of your childhood. Through a bittersweet smile, you showed him the coffee stain on her paw from when your dad had knocked over his mug and you weren’t able to snatch her off the table fast enough. You showed him the blot of nail polish on her nose from when you’d come to your mom crying because Snowy’s nose had chipped. She grabbed one of the small, fancy bottles of expensive nail polish she only used on special occasions and layered on the lacquer until Snowy’s nose was fixed. 

You told him about the time you and your sister had watched 101 Dalmatians for the first time and she thought Dalmatians were way cooler than tigers and sharpied black polka dots on the side of Snowy’s stomach. You showed him the small stain of detergent at the base of her tail from the time you’d accidentally spilled foundation on her and an ex-boyfriend had spent the day with a YouTube tutorial and a Dollar Store toothbrush trying to get it out. The sky blue thread just under one of her arms your best friend had used to stitch up a hole that had torn there.

You swore that her left ear smelled like your grandmother’s perfume and your grandad had been the one to get her for you in the first place. You told him that Snowy was a collection of everyone you’d ever loved.

And then you said that you knew it was probably silly, that you didn’t expect things like giant sharpie polka dots and your mom’s expensive nail polish to matter that much to people who weren’t you, but since that day, anytime anyone tried to tease you about your stuffed animal, he’d tell them to shut up in a tone that left no room for misunderstanding.

Because he wanted those things to matter to him too. And he wanted to maybe—hopefully—one day be one of those things that mattered to you.

The air shifts suddenly when the quiet of the morning is interrupted by the sound of someone leaving the bedroom. Garrett’s breath stutters when he sees you walk out, wiping sleep from your eye with one hand as the other holds on to your empty water bottle. Your gaze gravitates to the daybed you know he’s sleeping on and when you realize that he’s awake—and watching you too—you freeze in surprise.

For a moment neither of you moves, you just look at him, eyes flicking down briefly to your stuffed animal in his lap. And then you turn away and walk to the kitchen to fill up your water bottle. Garrett looks down defeatedly, letting out a quiet breath as he tries to calculate how many more hours he has to just sit and get lost in his head before everyone else wakes up and the day actually starts. 

He hears you finish in the kitchen, the sound traveling over the silent dawn, but your footsteps don’t immediately retreat back to the bedroom. Instead you walk until you’re a few feet away from him before you stop.

“I, um, I’m ready to talk about yesterday if—If you need more time, that’s okay—I’ll just… I’ll be here whenever you’re ready.” You can’t meet his eye and Garrett hates it, that ugly feeling sinking into his chest again.

You turn to go.

“Now,” he says suddenly, his voice cracking from lack of use. “I’m—I’m ready to talk about it now.”

You nod slowly and move to sit down on the daybed across from him. It’s probably the most privacy the two of you will have, it’s too early for either of you to have your mic packs on and no one’s awake to make sure that they have multiple cameras at multiple angles filming a spot as inconsequential as the daybeds. Garrett thinks he realizes this at the same time as you and he rolls his shoulders out before letting out a breath.

“I’m sorry.”

It doesn’t feel remotely enough and you must know that because you stay silent.

“I shouldn’t have—I said a lot of stuff that wasn’t true and… And I took something out on you that isn’t your fault and that wasn’t fair. I, um, I do need you and you do take care of me and I promise I never thought that you didn’t. I mean, I spent one night without you and I fucking hated it, I just—That scares me more than anything, honestly.”

He swallows, one of his hands wrapping around the other as he squeezes his knuckles. “But that’s not a good reason—I don’t have a good reason. But I…” He looks up and you’re finally looking at him, worry heavy in your gaze as you watch his hands start to shake. “I have to tell you something about… About me.”

You nod again, your voice a soft whisper. “Okay.”

Garrett takes a deep breath.

“You know what I’ve told you about my dad? How he—Well that wasn’t—That wasn’t all of it,” he squeezes his hand harder, fingers curling into a fist. 

His mouth opens, but the words get clogged in his throat, like suddenly every thought is impossible to articulate. You don’t rush him though, or interrupt to push him through it. You listen, like even his silence matters enough to listen to.

“My… My mom died, when I was 11, and my dad wasn’t… He was never a good dad. Or husband. He, um—,” Garrett lets out a humorless, uncomfortable chuckle. “Sorry, I don’t really know how—,”

You reach out for him slowly, like he’s a stray dog whose hackles could raise if you move too quickly—or maybe that’s just what he feels like. Whatever it is, it doesn’t scare you out of wrapping your hand around his.

“That’s okay.”

He runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “No, it’s—I should be able to just say it.”

“It’s okay if you can’t,” you tell him gently.

It feels like a lie to Garrett, but you’re looking at him in such earnestness that he has to believe you. He nods, letting out a shaky breath.  

“She never really talked about it. I know—I know that she was just trying to protect me, but I wasn’t stupid… I knew she was miserable. I knew he made her miserable. And I kind of… Fuck—,” He looks up as his eyes water, sniffing loudly to push through it. “I, um, I kind of resented her sometimes? For not leaving. For… For not taking me with her when she did.”

He’s biting the inside of his cheek so hard he can taste copper in his mouth. Your hand leaves his suddenly, the warmth of your palm replaced by cool air. You get up before he can question it and for a sinking, devastating second he thinks you’re going to leave. But then you’re crossing the short distance to his daybed, curling up on the cushion next to him. 

You grab his hand again, tracing soothing strokes across the bones of his fingers as you gently coax them out of his curled fist and tangle them with your own. Wordlessly, you squeeze—though not as forcefully as he had been—like you know he needs the pressure to ground him. He’s not quite sure how you know, but somehow you always do.

He stares at your interlocked fingers as he continues, “I—I don’t feel that way now, I know it’s more complicated than that. That it’s not as simple as I thought it’d be when I was a kid. I know that it was hard for my mom. Taking care of a kid is a lot and, even if she did leave, courts suck, and my dad had money, and there wasn’t really anywhere we could go. It’s… It’s harder when you have to take care of someone. And maybe if my mom didn’t have to take care of me, it would have been easier for her to leave him. Like, if I didn’t need her so much, she could’ve—Maybe she would’ve been happier.”

“And sometimes it scares me because what if one day you’d be happier? Or—,” He clears his throat, though it doesn’t really do anything. “I do think in some dark, fucked up way, my dad needed my mom too and what if—What if I need you the way he did and you care about me too much to leave?”

“Garrett…” Your voice breaks in understanding, your arms wrapping around him tightly.

He melts into your chest and something about the way you’re petting his hair and letting him hold onto you like a lifeline—even after everything—has the tears streaming down his face before he can stop them.

He shakes his head fervently. “I don’t look at you like you’re a ‘damsel in distress’. I wish I—You’re not scared to—Feel things. Even the bad stuff. And you know how to—How to tell people so that they understand and I don’t—I can’t—I—I got mad and I threw it in your face—And I’m so sorry!”

Each breath feels like it’s cracking open his ribcage, causing each one to be more short and shallow than the last, puffing raggedly against your arm.

“Garrett. Hey.” You cup his face gently, your voice calm as you force him to look at you. “I need you to breathe, sweet boy. You’re okay.”

“No. No.” Garrett pushes away from you suddenly, wiping uselessly at his eyes. “I—I’m not saying this to—To guilt-trip you into forgiving me. I fucked up—You’re allowed to be mad at me—You should be mad at me—!”

“I know that’s not what you’re doing, baby. I’m not mad at you.” You reach for him again, but he’s still fighting it.

“How can you say that?”

“Garrett, you made a mistake,” you tell him firmly. “I did too. But that’s not—Look, if you won’t do it for you, then… Do it for me please because I really need a hug right now.”

Your lips curl into a sad smile, your eyes glassy. And maybe if Garrett were a stronger man, he’d refuse, because he knows he doesn’t deserve it. But he isn’t a stronger man. Just like every other time, he takes one look at your pleading eyes and complies instantly. 

He’s wrapped in your arms just as quickly as you take on the full force of his body weight without complaint—if anything, you’re insisting that you do, hugging him tightly as you rest your chin on the top of his head.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper through the kiss you press to the crown of his head. “I shouldn’t have said what I said and I shouldn’t have accused you of not caring about me. I was just hurt and wanted you to feel hurt too and that was wrong. You didn’t deserve that.”

Garrett’s arms tighten around your middle and when you clear your throat, it sounds congested.

“And I… I am so sorry that you went through that, and that—You never should have had to experience that. You or your mom. But, Garrett... I promise you that your mom would choose this life with you over every life where she couldn’t have you.” He feels one of your hands move to stroke gently at the side of his neck as you cradle his head.

“And I know that because, even though I never knew her, I know you. I know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do if it meant I got to have you and I know your mom feels the same because… Because you’re better than everything, Garrett.”

It’s somehow the worst and best thing Garrett’s ever heard in his life. His shoulders shake as you run your fingers through his curls. The tank top you wore to bed is probably covered in wet patches and he’s sure he’ll feel embarrassed about it later, but right now, Garrett just needs you. And he needs you to hold him, and run your hands through his hair, and take care of him, and do all the things he’s tired of pretending he doesn’t.

“I, ugh, I feel like such an asshole.” You let out, what sounds like, a mix between a wet chuckle and a sniffle. “I shouldn’t have said any of that. You’re literally always so good to me, I should’ve known that something bigger was bothering you.”

Garrett shakes his head against your collarbone. “You didn’t know. I could’ve just talked to you.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You gently work through one of his tangled curls with your fingers. “But I’m not going to hold it against you that you weren’t exactly jumping at the opportunity to talk about it directly into a microphone and camera.”

When Garrett finally tilts his head, so that his cheek is pressed against your clavicle, he finds that you’re already looking at him knowingly.

You smooth a thumb tenderly against one of his brows. “Look, this isn’t exactly a normal situation people find themselves in. I don’t know about you but, usually, if the guy I was seeing was also kissing my friends every other day, that would kind of be a dealbreaker for me.”

You smile when Garrett makes a slight face at your words—he’s never exactly been subtle about the fact that, if it were up to him, you wouldn’t be doing that in here either.

“So I think it’s okay for us to be understanding,” you continue your point. “And, yeah, if this is something that keeps happening then we’d need to have a bigger conversation about it, but it happened once. And you messed up and you know it and I messed up and I know it. And I know now that it wasn’t really about me, you needed me to be more understanding in that moment and I wasn’t—,”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. I should’ve—,”

You smush your palm against his mouth with a playful groan. “Oh my god, would you please put aside your Atlas complex for five seconds—I feel like I’m talking to Batman. How about we both could’ve handled it better? Can you accept that?”

“Batman’s cool.” Garrett ignores your questions to pout against your palm.

He watches as you move your hand from his mouth to his cheek, drying his tear tracks with your fingers as you look at him fondly.

You reach up with your other hand to push a loose curl away from his forehead. “He also needs an SSRI and a court-mandated therapist.”

In the quiet air of the morning, with the rising sun lighting you up in a golden angelic glow, Garrett finally laughs.

“Yeah, you’re right. I think Nightwing’s cooler anyway. He’s like if Batman had more hope.” When your eyes suddenly darken, Garrett cocks his head slightly. “What?”

“That was actually the hottest thing you’ve ever said.”

Garrett’s eyes widen in amused disbelief. “That was the hottest thing I’ve said?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod, lids dropping as you lift your neck. Garrett takes the hint and drops his head to press his lips against yours. “Talk nerdy to me, baby.”

Garrett lets out a loud, surprised laugh against your mouth. “Okay, you’re done. You’re done.”

“What?” You’re giggling when he pulls away.

He just shakes his head endearingly, letting his body drop back on top of you as you stretch out on the daybed. Your fingers make their way back to his hair, carding through it gently as you both watch the sunrise.

After a few minutes of silence, you let out a quiet laugh. “Our fight didn’t even make it to sunrise.”

“You say that like it wasn’t the longest day of my life,” Garrett grumbles and tightens his arms around you. 

“How much do you wanna bet that the producers are gonna make us re-enact making up when they realize they missed it?”

Garrett grunts against the strap of your tank top. “They can get the version where I drop to my knees in front of everyone and beg you to take me back.” He presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder when you laugh. “Also, we’re never fighting again.”

You raise your brows in amusement. “We’re gonna fight, Garrett. That’s just how life works sometimes.”

“...Fine.” He relents. “But we have to take a nap first. Together.”

“Yeah, okay.” You have that fond look on your face again as you look at him. “And then we make up.” You hold your pinkie out for him.

Garrett shifts so he can wrap his pinkie around yours, your smiles practically identical as you look at each other.

“Yeah, then we make up.”

please don't copy, repost, or feed my work into ai, thanks!

and then there was you. you knew that for a very long time, rafe would only ever look at you as a younger sister, that you was foolish to see it as anything else. the first time you got reminded of this was when topper slapped your feet away & rafe scowled at him. "don't be mean."

"dude, the whole table's gonna be dirty because of her."

for a second, you thought rafe was going to profess his undying love for you like you had seen in countless movies. but what he said next made you want to bawl into a bubblering mess and die.

"she's only young."

that phrase alone confirmed everything you had ever feared. that rafe probably only saw you as a convenience & probably something to pity.

the second time was when you was twelve & he fourteen. by now, topper had been teasing you endlessley. as much as you hated your brother sometimes, he wasn't blind either. he wasn't blind to the way whenever rafe hugged you, you hugged him back a little too tight. or the way you sneaked glances at him whenever he was around, or the smile that was a bit too big whenever he gave food to you.

"hey." topper poked you with his foot as you both were laying on your bed after he tackled you. "did you hear about rafe?"

suddenley you was listening a little too keen. "what?"

"he's going out with some girl called sofia..." as soon as he said that, your entire face went blank. topper saw it as much as you felt it. he tried to make the situation seem softer than it was, but you understood it. oh, you understood it too well.

when rafe came over several hours later, he saw how red & puffy your eyes were to the point you could barely see. pulling topper aside on the excuse he needed something, rafe grabbed topper's shoulders, "top, why's your sister crying?"

"dude, i don't fucking know! maybe allergies or something."

"your sister doesn't have allergies. why do i know her better than you & i'm not even in the same family?"

"fine! it's because i told her you and sofia were going out."

rafe wasn't much of an aggressive person then, or in general, but the urge to punch topper in was so strong he ran a hand down his face, which left red marks. after silence, he asked quietly, "and she cried over that?"

"no, her eyes are just red for no reason." topper snarked back.

"don't get like that with me when it's your fault." rafe snapped. "jesus christ, top, what even was the point?"

rafe would never know, because your mother popped around the corner, making the pair jump, "are you two coming down for dinner?" she glared pointedly at topper. "your sister needs to use the bathroom. again."

rafe would always remember that night & how you didn't look at him once. didn't smile at him when he tried some jokes that he knew were shitty but that you normally still laughed at. didn't throw your arms around him when he persuaded topper (who was still being an asshole about it ) to let you watch your recommended movie that night. nothing, and he himself was trying so hard not to cry at your state that he got up halfway through the movie and just walked home.

a week later, topper told you that they had broken up. when you asked why, topper shrugged. "just cause. sofia's a pogue, anyways." but you noticed how rafe never spoke about girls anymore & always expressed disinterest whenever topper would bring up girls.

when they were at 16 & you fourteen, there was this one time when topper was trying to convince rafe to go out with some girl called ruthie.

"bro, i swear, she's really -"

"i don't care." you tried to ignore the flush up your cheeks when rafe glanced at you for a millisecond. "i'm not interested into dating anyone."

topper seemed to notice that glance & fell silent. he never mentioned any girl ever again.

the first time you went to a party was at fifteen. you weren't even supposed to be there. your whole family had gone on a trip that you weren't "of age for" or whatever so you promised kiara that you'd go out with her.

except you actually got drunk, and not even slightly tipsy. just genuienely out of your mind drunk, to the point that when kie made john b call rafe to pick you up, you didn't even notice it was him as you slammed straight into him.

"ow! do you watch where you're going?" you slurred, holding onto strong arms that were already wrapping around you.

"you let her get this drunk?" rafe practically growled at john b.

"kie left her alone for two minutes, in my defence." he protested weakly.

"whatever." rafe muttered, before hoisting you up. "hey. what's your name?" you only muttered the two letters before saying some random shit. rafe sighed at how wasted you was. "topper's gonna kill me."

it didn't stop him for calling a cab & stopping near the shop near your house to buy you some water. he had you piggybacked on him the entire walk as he entered the store and you winced at the flourescent lights from the shop.

"burns." you grumbled with your vodka breath.

"your throat or your eyes?" rafe said immediately, turning straight to look at you.

"both."

rafe cursed under his breath before slamming down a water bottle infront of the machine and swatting his card before propping you down on the sidewalk, kneeling infront of you. "here, drink."

you rested your head in your hands. "no."

"you want me to call topper?"

"no."

"then drink." rafe undid the bottle cap for you, watching you quietly as you missed several times to get it to your mouth. he squatted forward and helped you drink, tilting your head back softly.

later, when you would ask, they would tell you that john b & pope took you home. but what everyone else wouldn't know, including yourself, is that rafe took you home, using the spare key that your mother gave him. no one would know that he set you in your bed and stayed up all night to make sure you wouldn't vomit in your sleep. thank god you didn't, he wouldn't know what to do if he did.

that same year is when rafe fell in love with you instead of just crushing on you. you didn't know that then, still under the assumption he only viewed you platonically, as his "baby sister" as topper always liked to taunt.

that valentines day, everyone in your family but you got flowers for valentines. your parents were celebrating, rafe came over with sarah who topper had gotten flowers for, & you tried to make it not a big deal that you hadn't. who cared anyways? you kept trying to convince yourself. you're fifteen, there's plenty of time.

rafe caught your eye over the family lunch, & the next day he turned up with a bouqet of flowers. lillies, your favourite, which you had said ages ago when you were eleven on a game on what your dream person was. (both you & rafe had been listening intently to each other the whole time.)

as you took the flowers, you hugged rafe so tightly he couldn't breathe. & when he hugged you back tightly too, to which your father coughed a bit too much when it lasted too long, you realised even if you waited forever, unrequited, you would always love him.

because of that promise, you didn't date anyone. didn't matter when you began to grow out of your years of being a teenager, didn't matter how many boys asked you out (to which rafe would always tense when you bought it up in passing). you wanted rafe. and every year, when he would give you your lillies on valentines day, it would only further deepen your love more.

sometimes you would bring home boys out of spite. however it was like your whole family just knew. your father would shake hands politely but watch tv after a few hours, & your mother always found them boring. topper only found it hilarious, which was a polar opposite to rafe, who did not.

"is she dating that guy?" rafe asked topper one time you had a boy called chandler over who didn't even say much to your parents. you were sitting by him on the couch, but it didn't seem like you two were interacting much.

"not yet, why?"

"not yet?" rafe repeated. "he looks way too older for her."

"you're nineteen."

"so? i wouldn't hurt her."

topper raised his eyebrows, "trust me bro, we know."

it was kinda subconscious, the way rafe pressed chandler the following day. you was passing by to get some juice when you heard the whole interrogation.

"what's her middle name?" rafe didn't even give chandler a chance. "favourite color? favourite tv series? flavor? does she —"

"jesus, i don't fucking know. do you wanna date her?" chandler scowled. "leave me alone, man, i only met her like two days ago."

since then, at parties, at bonfires, you noticed every single time when you would be talking to a guy — kook or pogue — rafe would be watching. & not even possessively, like he wanted to grab you away, but softly like he was just wistful.

"bro you're staring." kelce said one night.

rafe dropped his eyes. "i'm not."

"you like her, don't you?"

"shut up, man. i'm not —"

"topper wouldn't get mad."

"yeah." rafe said, getting up and wiping the back of his mouth. "that's the problem."

later that night, while rafe was driving you home once again with topper in the backseat & your sound asleep in the passenger, topper asked, "you like her, don't you, cameron?"

rafe knew a conversation like this was inevitable. his fingers clenched on the wheel. "kelce told you?"

"i'm not blind. it's been eight years."

"i didn't want you to —"

"i'm not mad. i just don't want you to keep stringing her along, you know?"

"stringing her along?"

"are you in love with her?"

"topper —"

"are you in love with her?"

rafe sighed, exchanging a look at you. "yes."

"then tell her. i'm sick of watching the two people i love just being blind."

"fine. when the time's right."

the silence descended over the car, but they both didn't know that you was awake the entire time.

At Malone’s, he puts both hands on her hips and shifts her between himself and the bar because somebody keeps bumping into her from behind.

At the hockey house, if she stretches across him for the remote, he catches her around the middle and pulls her into his lap rather than allowing her to block the television.

She has always responded by rolling her eyes, correcting his grip or informing him that she’s perfectly capable of moving independently.

Lately, her body has begun disagreeing. Garrett’s hand lands on her back, and heat follows the shape of his palm through her shirt. He catches her waist, and her stomach tightens beneath his fingers. He pulls her closer by the chair, the ankle, the hips, and some small, humiliating part of her settles immediately, pleased to have been placed exactly where he wants her.

It’s deeply inconvenient information.

Tonight, they’re spread across the hockey-house living room watching an action movie Logan chose because, according to him, the explosion-to-dialogue ratio is scientifically perfect. Nobody asks which branch of science measures that.

She’s curled into the middle of the couch in a matching pale-pink set she bought because the tank made her waist look nice and the sweatpants sat low and soft across her hips. 

Garrett occupies the corner beside her, broad enough to take up more than his allotted cushion, one arm stretched along the backrest and both socked feet planted on the coffee table despite Tucker having told him twice that people eat there.

Logan has claimed the armchair. Tucker is sitting at the other end of the couch with the expression of a man attempting to enjoy himself despite living among animals.

Onscreen, somebody drives a motorcycle through the window of a moving train.

“That’s not possible,” Tucker says.

Logan gestures toward the television with both hands. “You don’t know that.”

She shifts, trying to tuck her legs beneath herself, but Garrett’s feet are blocking half the space. One of them brushes the side of her thigh. She nudges his ankle away. It returns less than ten seconds later.

“Move your feet, G,” she complains, pushing at his shin with both hands. “You’re taking up the entire couch.”

Garrett does not look away from the screen. “I’m sitting in one seat.”

“Your legs are in another fucking country.”

“They’re long.”

“Your feet are gross.”

That earns her a glance. “They’re in socks.”

“I know what’s underneath.”

Garrett’s mouth twitches. “You’ve thought about what’s underneath?”

She glares at the side of his face, which only makes the twitch deepen. “Your feet, loser.”

“Sure, princess.”

She shoves his ankle harder. Garrett lets it fall sideways for a moment, then deliberately rests his calf over her lap.

Her mouth drops open. “Get off me.”

“Stop moving.”

“You stop moving.”

“I’m watching the movie.”

“You’re touching me with your foot.”

“My condolences.”

She digs her fingers into the sole through his sock. Garrett jerks and nearly kicks the popcorn bowl from Tucker’s hands.

Tucker looks between them with exhausted disgust. “Can you both behave for ninety minutes?”

“She started it,” Garrett says.

“He put his disgusting feet on me.”

“They’re clean!” 

Tucker peers into the bowl and frowns. “We’re out of popcorn.”

“There’s another bag in the pantry,” Garrett tells him, making no effort to move his leg from her lap.

Tucker rises with a sigh that suggests the popcorn is the only dependable relationship in his life. At almost the same moment, Logan pauses the movie and pushes himself out of the armchair. “Bathroom.”

“You don’t need to announce it,” Tucker says on his way toward the kitchen.

“I was explaining why I paused it.”

“You could’ve just gone.”

“What if you thought I’d died?”

“I wouldn’t,” Tucker sighs. 

The two of them disappear in opposite directions, still arguing, and the living room falls abruptly quieter.

She watches the empty doorway for half a second before turning back to Garrett. “Move.”

He looks at her now. “Still complaining?”

“Garrett.”

She reaches for his leg again. Garrett moves first. His hand closes around her jaw, fingers spreading firmly over both cheeks as he turns her face toward him.

The breath stalls in her throat. There’s barely enough time to register his thumb near the corner of her mouth before he kisses her.

Hard at first, enough to push the next complaint back behind her teeth, then slower. Deeper. His mouth settles over hers with the calm certainty of someone who already knows she will let him, his palm warm and broad around her face while his fingers press into the soft skin beneath her cheekbones.

She melts so quickly it would be embarrassing if she were capable of thinking about anything except his tongue sliding against hers.

A small sound slips from her. Garrett catches it in his mouth, his grip tightening just slightly, squeezing her cheeks until her lips part more fully for him.

Heat pours down the front of her body. Her hands find his wrist, holding on while she kisses him back with the same hungry pressure. Garrett’s thumb drags once along her cheek. 

His mouth moves against hers slowly enough that she feels every shift, every warm pull of his lips, every quiet breath taken through his nose because neither of them seems willing to separate properly.

She leans toward him without deciding to. Garrett allows it until her shoulder is pressed against his chest and one knee has slid over his thigh, then he gives her lower lip one final, lingering kiss and pulls back barely an inch.

“Stop complaining, princess.”

Her eyes open slowly. Garrett is close enough that his face remains blurred around the edges, dark curls falling over his forehead, mouth flushed and faintly wet from hers. His hand is still holding her cheeks.

She nods.

The grin begins at one corner of his mouth. He leans in and pecks her lips, soft and almost sweet compared to what he’s just done. “Good girl.”

Something inside her drops. Her stomach tightens at once, thighs pressing together beneath the low waistband of her sweats while her fingers curl harder around his wrist.

She blinks at him. Then nods again.

Garrett’s grin widens with slow, devastating understanding. He kisses her one more time, only a brief press of his mouth to hers, and releases her face just as Tucker’s footsteps approach from the kitchen.

By the time he reappears with a fresh bowl balanced against his stomach, Garrett is facing the television again, expression perfectly neutral.

She’s still staring at his profile.

Tucker stops beside the couch. “Logan’s still peeing?”

She clears her throat. It does nothing. Her voice still emerges softer than usual. “Mhm.”

Tucker nods and moves to sit in the narrow space on her other side.

Before she can shift herself, Garrett reaches down, wraps one hand around both her ankles and yanks. A startled breath leaves her as she slides across the couch, sweatpants dragging over the cushions until her hip bumps against his and both legs land across his lap. 

Garrett hooks his forearm over her shins, securing her there without looking away from the paused movie.

Normally, she would object on principle. She would tell him she had been comfortable, kick at his stomach or demand that he stop treating her like a carry-on bag.

Instead, she bites the inside of her lip and stares determinedly toward the television. Garrett’s hand rests around her ankle. His thumb begins moving absently over the exposed strip of skin between her sweatpants and sock.

Tucker sits down, sets the popcorn in his lap and reaches for the remote. “Why do you look weird?”

“I don’t,” she says too quickly.

Garrett’s thumb strokes her ankle again. She keeps her eyes fixed on the frozen motorcycle hanging impossibly above the train. Beside her, Garrett shifts one corner of his mouth into a smile he probably thinks she cannot see.

Logan returns and the movie starts again. Another building explodes. She hears none of it.

Garrett’s fingers remain closed around her ankle, loose but certain, keeping her legs stretched over his lap exactly where he put them.

Sneaking around is hot. Garrett manhandling her is hotter. And judging by the satisfied little squeeze he gives her ankle when she finally risks glancing sideways, Garrett has already worked out both.

She is so completely fucked.

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Dean had always pictured engineering students one way. Scrawny, sleep-deprived, and socially awkward. The kind of guys who wore the same hoodie four days in a row and argued with professors for fun.

So when Y/N mentioned she was meeting her project group almost every afternoon, he never thought twice about it.

“They’re all in my design group,” she’d say, scrolling through pages of CAD drawings on her laptop.

Dean would nod from the couch, one arm stretched across the backrest.

“Cool.”

“Ben reserved a study room.”

“Sounds good.”

“Emma’s bringing coffee.”

“Mhm.”

“Ryan thinks our calculations are wrong.”

“Tell Ryan he’s wrong.”

Y/N laughed, leaning over to kiss his cheek.

“I’ll let him know.”

That was that.

—

A week later, Dean had just finished practice when he decided to surprise her.

He bought her favorite coffee. Grabbed an extra muffin. Walked across campus with that easy confidence he always had.

He spotted her outside the engineering building before she spotted him. She stood in a loose circle with five other students.

Four guys.

One girl.

The girl was explaining something while waving a mechanical pencil around. One guy had safety goggles hanging around his neck. Another balanced a laptop under one arm. The third was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired… Dean slowed.

“…Huh.”

The last one laughed at something Y/N said and bumped her shoulder lightly.

She bumped him back.

Dean’s eyebrows pulled together.

That…

That wasn’t what he’d expected.

Not even close.

These weren’t the stereotypical engineering nerds he’d imagined.

They looked… normal. Athletic, even.

The tall guy honestly looked like he could’ve been on the basketball team. Dean immediately disliked him. Not for any real reason. Just on principle.

Y/N looked up then. Her face lit up.

“Dean!”

She jogged over, project calculations forgotten the second she reached him.

“You brought me coffee.”

“You forgot to text me back.”

“I was in lab.”

She took the coffee with a grin before looping her arm through his.

“Oh! Guys, this is Dean.”

Dean offered polite smiles as names were exchanged.

“Ben.”

“Ryan.”

“Noah.”

“Emma.”

“And Lucas.”

Lucas.

Right.

Tall Guy.

Dean shook his hand. Firmly.

Lucas smiled. “Nice to finally meet you.”

Finally?

Dean’s eyes flicked toward Y/N.

She noticed.

“Oh, I talk about you all the time.”

Dean relaxed a little.

“…Oh.”

Emma smirked.

“We know way more about hockey than we ever wanted to.”

The group laughed.

Dean laughed too.

But something had shifted.

—

After that he started noticing things he’d somehow missed before.

Her phone buzzed constantly.

Ryan: Can someone check the MATLAB file?

Emma: Meeting got moved to five.

Ben: Don’t forget the presentation boards.

Nothing weird.

Nothing inappropriate.

Just… frequent. Maybe even too frequent.

One evening they were making dinner together when Y/N looked over from the vegetables she was chopping.

“Hey?”

“Mhm?”

“Can you walk me to class tomorrow morning?”

Dean checked his schedule automatically.

“Damn.”

“What?”

“I’ve got early practice.”

“Oh.” She smiled anyway. “It’s okay.”

He hated the tiny flicker of disappointment she tried to hide.

“But…” he continued, “…practice ends around noon.”

She looked back up.

“I can pick you up after your afternoon lab.”

Her smile returned immediately.

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d love that.”

Dean leaned over the counter and stole a kiss.

“Done.”

—

The next afternoon, he parked outside the engineering building ten minutes early.

He figured he’d wait.

Maybe they’d grab dinner afterward.

Students poured out of the building in groups.

Then he saw her. Y/N emerged through the doors laughing with her project team. She wasn’t carrying anything. Because Lucas was. Balanced in his arms was a massive prototype made of aluminum and acrylic, easily the size of a microwave. Dean watched Lucas adjust his grip.

Y/N reached to take part of the weight.

“I’ve got it,” Lucas said.

“It’s heavy.”

“So?”

“I go to the gym.”

Dean was already out of the truck.

Y/N looked up.

“Dean!”

Lucas turned.

Dean walked over with an easy smile.

“Hey.”

He glanced at the project.

“Looks heavy.”

Lucas laughed.

“It weighs a ton.”

Dean held out his hands.

“I got it from here.”

Lucas hesitated for half a second before handing it over.

“Careful.”

Dean lifted it.

Definitely heavier than it looked.

“…Yeah,” he admitted. “You weren’t kidding.”

Y/N smiled up at him.

“Thanks.”

“No problem.”

He carried it all the way to the truck.

Lucas waved.

“See you tomorrow.”

“You too!” Y/N called.

Dean shut the tailgate a little harder than necessary.

—

He tried. God, he tried to be chill. He really did.

When she talked about her classmates, he listened. When she laughed at stories from the lab, he laughed too. When she complained about deadlines, he sympathized.

But then she’d casually say things like:

“Ben and I stayed until midnight fixing the code.”

Or

“Ryan walked me back to my dorm because it was raining. I called to let you know, remember?”

Or

“Emma says Lucas practically lives in the machine shop.”

And every single time something twisted in his chest.

He didn’t like it. He liked it even less because none of them had actually done anything wrong.

Dean lived outside of campus and if y/n waited for him to come pick her up it would have been 40 mins minimum. And Ryan not letting his girlfriend walk alone to her dorm was a solid reason, especially that they talked on the phone beforehand.

Or fixing a code. There was nothing wrong with that. It was just an assignment.

But it still bothered Dean. And he tried his best not to let it.

—

Finally, one Friday, Y/N looked over from her notes.

“We’re all studying in the library.”

Dean looked up.

“Oh?”

“You wanna come?”

He almost said no. Then he heard himself say, “Yeah.”

—

The engineering library was its own universe. Whiteboards covered in equations. Half-built robots sitting on tables. Students arguing over code like it was life or death.

Their group had taken over an entire study room. Dean squeezed in beside Y/N. For the first ten minutes, he understood approximately three words. Then the conversation somehow became even more confusing.

“No, your finite element analysis assumes…”

“It doesn’t if you redefine the boundary conditions.”

“That’s literally not how stress concentrations work.”

“It is if…”

Emma groaned dramatically. “You people are impossible.”

Everyone laughed. Y/N laughed hardest. Dean smiled politely. He had no idea why it was funny.

An hour later, Lucas leaned over Y/N’s shoulder to point at something on her screen. Not in a weird way. Just because they were looking at the same laptop.

Still…

Dean’s jaw tightened.

Ryan reached across her to erase part of the whiteboard. Ben tossed her a highlighter without looking.

Everything was so… comfortable. They had their own rhythm. Their own jokes. Their own language.

Dean suddenly understood what it felt like to be on the outside.

—

The walk to Y/n’s dorm was quiet. Y/N bumped his shoulder.

“You’re thinking.”

“A little.”

“What about?”

He exhaled through his nose.

“I owe you an apology.”

She frowned.

“For what?”

“I didn’t get it.”

“Get what?”

“When girls throw themselves at me after games.”

She stayed quiet.

“I always told you they didn’t matter and they don’t.”

“I know.”

He looked down at the sidewalk. “But… today I spent two hours watching four guys who are smart, funny, attractive…”

She opened her mouth.

“No, let me finish.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“I spent years assuming engineering was full of awkward nerds.”

“It can be.”

“It is not your group.”

She smiled despite herself.

“They’re… annoyingly well-adjusted.”

Y/n smiled quietly and continued to listen.

“And they’re around you all the time.”

“Dean…”

“I know you love me.”

“I do.”

“I know they’d never disrespect our relationship.”

“They wouldn’t.”

“I know you’ve never given me a reason to doubt you.”

“I haven’t.”

He nodded.

“I know all of that.”

A beat passed.

“I’m still ridiculously jealous.”

Y/N stared at him for a second before breaking into a smile.

“Aww.”

He groaned.

“Don’t ‘aww’ me.”

She stepped closer until their hands brushed.

“You finally understand.”

It was similar to how y/n felt with all the girls circling around Dean at the start of their relationship. After a while she got used to it and continued to fully trust Dean. It’s not like she didn’t before, it was simply complicated to ignore their presence when those girls were part of Dean’s every day life.

“I really do.” Dean reached to hold y/n’s hand.

She laced her fingers with his.

“It sucks, doesn’t it?”

He laughed.

“It really, really does.”

She rested her head briefly against his shoulder.

“For what it’s worth…”

“Hm?”

“The guys all think you’re terrifying.”

Dean looked down at her.

“They do?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

She grinned.

“Lucas asked if it was okay to carry the prototype because he didn’t want you to think he was flirting with me.”

Dean blinked.

“He… what?”

“And Emma told him, ‘Relax, if Dean wanted to punch you, he would have done it a long time ago.’”

He snorted.

“Would I?”

She looked up at him with a teasing smile.

“Probably.”

He considered it.

“…Yeah.”

She laughed.

Then, before she could step away, Dean slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

“You’re still walking out of engineering with me whenever I’m free.”

She smiled.

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

“Really?”

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

She leaned up just enough to kiss his cheek.

“Because no matter how smart those boys are…”

She smiled against his skin.

“You’re still my favorite person to come home to.”

And somehow, that made the knot in Dean’s chest loosen just enough to finally let him breathe.

“You’re a growing boy.”

“I’m twenty-two. I think I’m done growing. And Briar needs me at peak performance. We’re two wins away from the championship.”

His dad glances over, a proud smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You played a good game last week. Your mother and I watched it from the living room. She was screaming at the television every time you got tackled.”

“Tell Mom to chill,” Beau says, shifting his long legs in the cramped footwell. “It’s football. Getting tackled is part of the job description.”

“Try telling an omega mother not to worry about her alpha son. It’s against her nature, Beau. You know how she gets.”

“Yeah, yeah. But seriously, thanks for driving me back to campus. I know you and Mom wanted to get back to the hotel.”

“Are you kidding? I jump at the chance to chauffeur Briar University’s star quarterback,” his dad jokes. “Besides, you had three beers at dinner. You know my rule. No driving after drinking, no matter how fast your alpha metabolism burns through it.”

“I was fine to drive,” Beau protests, though there’s no real heat in his voice. He stretches his neck, feeling a satisfying pop. “But I appreciate the ride. Seriously. It was good seeing Grammy. Wisconsin to Boston is a long flight for you guys.”

“She turned eighty, Beau. We wouldn’t miss it.”

The conversation lulls, the only sound the hum of the tires against the pavement and the low volume of the classic rock station playing on the radio. Beau closes his baby blue eyes, letting the alcohol and the heavy meal pull him into a comfortable drowsiness. He has practice at six a.m. tomorrow, and he needs the sleep.

“So,” his dad says after a few miles. “Any prospects?”

Beau groans, keeping his eyes shut. “Don’t start.”

“I’m just asking! You’re a handsome kid. You’ve got the looks, the swagger. You’re heading to the draft next year. Surely there’s an omega on that campus who’s caught your eye.”

“Dad, I don’t have time for a mate right now. Football is my priority. My only priority.”

“Life isn’t just about football, kid. Your mother and I met when we were your age.”

“And you guys are great,” Beau says, finally opening his eyes. “You’re the perfect mated pair. But I’m not looking for that right now. I just want to focus on the season.”

“Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” His dad chuckles. “But you can’t fight fate, Beau. When you meet your mate, you’ll know. It hits you like a freight train.”

“Yeah. Sure.”

“I’m serious! It’s-”

His dad cuts off with a sharp gasp.

Beau’s eyes snap forward.

A massive buck is standing dead center in their lane, its antlers gleaming in the headlights.

“Shit!” His dad yells, wrenching the steering wheel to the right.

The heavy SUV swerves violently. The tires lose traction instantly. Black ice.

“Dad!” Beau shouts, bracing his hands against the dashboard.

The world spins. The headlights illuminate a terrifying blur of tree trunks and snow. The vehicle skids sideways, completely out of control, tires screaming against the frozen asphalt.

Then comes the impact.

It sounds like a bomb going off. The passenger side of the Explorer slams into a massive oak tree. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and the airbag deploys with a violent punch to Beau’s face. Pain, white-hot and blinding, explodes through his head and down his spine.

Then, there is nothing but ringing silence.

***

You tap your fingers against the steering wheel, belting out the lyrics to an old nineties R&B track playing through your phone. You’ve just finished a gruelling three-hour practice session in the vocal booths at Berklee, and your throat feels a little raw, but the drive always puts you in a good mood.

“I’m telling you, Mom, Professor Hastings hates my vibrato,” you say, speaking loudly over the Bluetooth connection.

“She doesn’t hate your vibrato, honey,” your mom’s soothing voice comes through the speakers. “You’re just being too hard on yourself. You’re an incredible singer.”

“She said it was ‘too emotionally unrestrained.’ What does that even mean? I’m an omega. We’re supposed to be emotional.”

“She’s an old beta with a stick up her behind,” your mom says, making you laugh. “Just sing from your heart. That’s what matters.”

“I know, I know. I just want this showcase to go perfectly.”

“It will. You’ll be wonderful.” Your mom pauses. “Did you see that boy from your music theory class today? The alpha?”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip from your water bottle at a red light. “Mom. Stop.”

“What? I’m just asking!”

“No, I didn’t see him. And even if I did, I don’t care. He’s not my mate.”

“You don’t know that until you talk to him.”

“Mom, I want what you and Dad have,” you say softly, the humor fading from your voice. “I want the real thing. I don’t want to just settle for some random alpha because he has nice hair and plays the cello.”

“I know, sweetie. And you’ll find him.”

“I know I will.”

You stare out at the dark, winding road. You were raised on fairytales. Real ones. Stories of alphas and omegas finding each other against all odds. Your absolute favorite, the one you made your dad read to you every single night until you were twelve, was about an omega princess. Her alpha knight was dying, struck down in battle, and she saved him with a single bite to the claiming gland. The bond, the pure rush of mate-magic, pulled him back from the brink of death.

You know it’s just a story, a children’s myth, but a small part of your romantic heart still believes in the power of that kind of connection.

“Drive safe, okay?” Your mom says. “The roads get icy out there near the city limits.”

“I will. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

The call disconnects. You turn up the music, humming along. You round a sharp bend, the headlights cutting through the darkness.

That’s when you see the tire tracks.

They swerve wildly across the road, cutting through the thin layer of fresh snow, leading directly off the shoulder and down into a shallow, wooded ditch.

You slam on the brakes, your heart leaping into your throat. Your car skids slightly before coming to a halt on the shoulder. You throw it into park and leave the headlights on.

“Hello?” You shout, unbuckling your seatbelt and shoving your car door open. The freezing air bites through your thin jacket.

You scramble down the snowy embankment, your boots slipping on the ice. Down in the trees, a crushed SUV is wrapped around a massive oak. Steam is hissing from the crumpled hood.

“Hey! Are you okay?” You yell, running toward the driver’s side.

The door is wedged shut, but the window is shattered. An older man is slumped over the steering wheel. As you reach the car, he groans, lifting his head. A cut bleeds down his forehead, but his eyes are open.

“Sir! Sir, don’t move,” you say, reaching through the broken window.

“My … my boy,” the man gasps, his voice trembling with sheer panic. He turns his head frantically to the right. “Beau! Beau!”

You peer into the dark cabin. The passenger side took the brunt of the impact. The door is caved completely inward, crushing the seat.

And then, the scent hits you.

It is a physical blow. It knocks the breath from your lungs and makes your knees buckle.

Pine needles. Crisp winter air. A sharp, electric tang of ozone.

Your inner omega rears up, a violent, desperate howl echoing in your mind.

Mate.

“No,” you whisper, the word slipping out in a horrified breath.

You scramble around the back of the car to the passenger side. It’s a mess of twisted metal. You grip the handle of the mangled door and pull with all your strength, but it won’t budge.

“Help him!” The dad cries from inside. “Please, God, help him!”

“I’m trying!” You shout, tears already welling in your eyes.

You climb up onto the hood, slipping on the slick metal, and lean down through the shattered passenger window.

He is there. Your alpha.

He is beautiful, even covered in blood. Dark hair falls over a strong forehead. His eyes — a striking, pale baby blue — are half-open, unfocused and glassy.

“Hey,” you choke out, reaching in and pressing your shaking fingers to his cheek. His skin is terrifyingly cold. “Hey, stay with me. Please.”

His lips part. A terrible, wet rattling sound comes from his chest.

“Mate,” he breathes, the word barely a whisper.

“Yes,” you sob, tears spilling over your cheeks and dropping onto his jacket. “Yes, I’m here. I’m right here.”

You look down. His neck is bent at a sickening angle. Blood is pulsing sluggishly from a deep gash near his collarbone, soaking his shirt. His pulse, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, is slowing down.

He is dying.

“No, no, no,” you panic, pressing your hands against the wound to stop the bleeding. “Don’t you dare. You can’t leave me. We just met.”

His baby blue eyes lock onto yours. They are filled with an overwhelming sadness. His hand twitches, lifting just a fraction of an inch before falling back down.

“Cold,” he whispers.

“I know. Hold on. The ambulance is coming.” You haven’t even called them yet, but you need him to hold on.

But his pulse is fading. The bond, the fledgling thread connecting your soul to his, is dimming, flickering like a dying candle in a dark room.

He is slipping away.

Panic, primal and overwhelming, seizes you.

An omega princess. Her alpha knight was dying … she saved him with a single bite to the claiming gland.

It’s a fairytale. A stupid, childish myth.

But you have nothing else.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, leaning down through the broken window.

“What are you doing?” His dad shouts from the driver’s seat.

You ignore him. You press your face into the crook of Beau’s neck. The scent of pine and ozone is intoxicating, even under the metallic tang of blood. You find the soft spot right above his collarbone.

You open your mouth, letting your canines descend.

“Please work,” you pray, tears blinding you.

You sink your teeth into his neck.

You bite down hard, breaking the skin, tasting salt and copper and him. You pour every ounce of your soul, your desperation, your pure, unrestrained omega energy into the bite. You claim him.

A shockwave ripples through the air.

Beau gasps. A sharp, violent intake of air. His back arches off the seat.

You hold on, crying, biting down until your jaw aches, tethering his fading life to yours. The metallic taste of his blood coats your tongue, but you don’t care. You hold on.

Underneath your hands, Beau’s chest heaves. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, loud in the freezing night air. The horrific rattling in his lungs stops, replaced by the deep, desperate pull of oxygen.

You slowly break the bite.

You don’t want to. Your omega instincts are screaming at you to stay exactly where you are, to bury your face in his neck and never, ever let go. But the rational, human part of your brain knows he needs real medical attention.

You pull back, just an inch.

Instantly, a large, heavy hand clamps onto the back of your jacket.

“Don’t,” Beau rasps. His voice is a broken, gravelly sound, but it’s entirely coherent.

“I have to,” you choke out, tears still streaming down your freezing cheeks. “I have to call 911.”

His grip tightens. Even covered in blood, even trapped in the mangled wreckage of the Ford Explorer, his alpha strength is undeniable. “Mine,” he grunts, his baby blue eyes locking onto yours. They aren’t glassy anymore. They are sharp, dilated, and blazing with a terrifying intensity.

“I know,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m yours. I’m right here. But I need my phone.”

You fumble blindly in your coat pocket with your free hand, practically draped over the shattered window frame, your chest pressed against his uninjured shoulder. You manage to pull your phone out and hit the emergency button.

“911, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice rings out clearly over the speaker.

“There’s been an accident,” you say, your voice shaking so hard you barely recognize it. “A car crash. Off Route 2, about five miles past the Concord exit. An SUV hit a tree.”

“Okay, honey, calm down. Is anyone hurt?”

“Yes! The passenger-” You look down at Beau.

You stop.

You blink, convinced the darkness and your own tears are playing tricks on you.

“Miss? The passenger?” the dispatcher prompts.

You stare at Beau’s neck. The massive, gaping wound near his collarbone … it isn’t bleeding anymore. In fact, it isn’t open. The skin is smeared with thick, dark blood, but underneath the mess, you can clearly see unbroken skin. And his neck. Just minutes ago, it was bent at an angle that made you want to throw up.

Now, his head is resting perfectly straight against the ruined headrest.

“He …” You swallow hard. “He was hurt. He was bleeding out.”

“Okay, stay on the line. I have ambulances en route. Are you injured?”

“No. I wasn’t in the car. I just … I stopped.”

“What the hell?” His dad’s voice breaks through the shock.

You look past Beau. His dad is leaning over the center console, ignoring his own bleeding forehead. He is staring at his son like he’s seeing a ghost.

“Beau?” His dad whispers, his hands shaking as he reaches out to touch Beau’s arm. “Beau, talk to me.”

Beau doesn’t look at his dad. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes are entirely locked on you. His large hand slides from the back of your jacket up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. A low, vibrating rumble starts deep in his chest. A purr.

“Mate,” Beau says again. It isn’t a question.

“What just happened?” His dad asks, his voice bordering on hysterical. “He was dying. I saw it. His neck-”

“I don’t know,” you say, your phone slipping from your numb fingers and dropping onto the dashboard. You don’t care. The dispatcher is still talking, but it sounds like white noise.

You cautiously reach out, your fingers trembling, and wipe a smear of blood away from Beau’s collarbone. Right where the gash used to be, there is nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. And right above it, sitting perfectly over his claiming gland, is the angry, red mark of your teeth.

It’s completely sealed.

“The story,” you whisper to yourself, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. “The fairytale.”

“What fairytale?” His dad demands. “What did you do to him?”

“I claimed him,” you say, finally looking at the older man. “He was dying, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I … I bit him.”

“You bit him?” His dad repeats, bewildered. “And that fixed a broken neck?”

“Dad. Shut up,” Beau grumbles. He shifts in the crushed seat, wincing slightly, but otherwise moving with complete fluidity. “Stop yelling at her.”

“I’m not yelling!” His dad yells. “I’m trying to understand why you aren’t a corpse right now!”

“Because she saved me,” Beau says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you closer. “Get in here.”

“I can’t,” you say, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. “The door is crushed. I’m literally hanging through the window.”

“Then I’ll come out there.” Beau starts to unbuckle his seatbelt with his free hand.

“Don’t move!” You and his dad shout at the exact same time.

“Beau, seriously, you were just in a massive car wreck,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup his face. His skin is warming up, the terrifying ice-cold chill fading rapidly. “You need to stay still.”

“I feel fine,” he insists, leaning into your touch. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “You smell amazing. Like … vanilla and rain.”

“You smell like pine trees and a heart attack,” you reply, the adrenaline finally starting to crash, leaving you lightheaded.

Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second. The flashing red and blue lights paint the snowy woods in a chaotic strobe effect.

“They’re here,” his dad breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”

Two ambulances and a police cruiser pull up onto the shoulder of the highway. Car doors slam. Heavy boots crunch through the snow as three EMTs scramble down the embankment, their flashlights cutting through the dark.

“Hello! EMS!” A female EMT shouts. “Who’s hurt?”

“Down here!” His dad waves from the broken driver’s side window.

The EMTs split up. One goes to the dad, and two rush around the front of the hood toward you.

“Miss, step back,” a tall male EMT says, reaching out to guide you away from the car. “Let us assess the passenger.”

You try to comply. You really do. You plant your boots on the snowy hood and start to pull yourself backward out of the window.

Beau’s eyes snap open.

His arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist like a steel band. He yanks you right back against the door frame.

“No,” Beau growls.

It isn’t a normal voice. It’s a sound ripped straight from the chest of an apex predator. A deep, chest-rattling alpha warning that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

The EMT freezes, his hands raised. “Whoa. Okay, buddy. I just need to check you out. You’re covered in blood.”

“I said no,” Beau snarls, his grip on your waist tightening until it’s almost painful. He pulls you so close your face is buried in his neck. “Mine.”

“Sir, you’ve been in a severe accident,” the second EMT, an older beta man, says calmly. “Your mate needs to step back so we can make sure you don’t have internal bleeding.”

“She stays,” Beau snaps.

“Beau, let me go for a second,” you try to reason with him, pressing your hands against his chest. “They need to help you.”

“I don’t need help. I need you.”

The tall EMT loses his patience. “Look, man, you’re in shock.” He steps forward and grabs your upper arm, pulling firmly to dislodge you from the window.

Your vision goes red.

It happens so fast you don’t even have time to process it. Before you can think, before you can rationalize, your omega instincts completely hijack your brain.

A vicious, ear-splitting hiss rips from your throat. You bare your teeth, twisting out of the EMT’s grip and lunging slightly toward him, shielding Beau’s body with your own.

“Don’t touch me!” You shriek, your voice echoing off the trees. “Don’t touch him!”

The EMT stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. “Jesus Christ!”

Beau lets out a booming roar of approval, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck protectively. He glares at the medics with absolute murder in his eyes.

“Okay! Okay, everyone take a breath!” the female EMT shouts from the driver’s side. She looks over the roof of the car. “What is going on over there?”

“They’re going feral!” The tall EMT yells back, rubbing his arm. “The passenger is practically holding the girl hostage, and she just hissed at me like a rabid raccoon!”

“I am not a raccoon!” You yell defensively, though you are still firmly plastered against Beau’s chest, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

“They’re newly mated,” Beau’s dad calls out tiredly, leaning his head back against his seat. “Like, five minutes ago newly mated. Their instincts are completely fried.”

The EMTs all stop and stare.

“Are you kidding me?” The beta EMT asks, looking from Beau to you. “You guys decided to mate in the middle of a car crash?”

“I didn’t decide anything!” You argue, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. “He was dying! His neck was broken, and he was bleeding out, so I bit him!”

Silence falls over the woods, save for the hum of the ambulance engines on the road above.

The tall EMT shines his flashlight directly onto Beau. The bright beam illuminates the horrific amount of blood soaking his shirt, his jacket, and the seat.

“If he was bleeding out,” the EMT says slowly, “where is the wound?”

“It’s gone,” Beau’s dad says. “She bit him, and … and it just stopped. The bleeding stopped. His neck snapped back into place. I saw it happen.”

The EMTs exchange a look that clearly communicates they think all three of you have severe concussions.

“Right,” the beta EMT says, his tone dripping with professional skepticism. “Spontaneous regeneration via mate-bite. That’s a new one for the incident report.”

“It’s true!” You insist, twisting slightly to glare at them. “Look at him! Does he look like he has a broken neck?”

“No, he looks like a guy who’s very lucky,” the female EMT says, walking around the front of the car. She keeps a safe distance. “Listen to me, both of you. Mated or not, feral or not, we need to get him out of this car. There is gasoline leaking. If you don’t let us help, we’re calling the police officers down here to physically separate you.”

Beau growls again, but you place a hand firmly over his mouth.

“Stop it,” you tell him, looking down into his fierce blue eyes. “She’s right. The car isn’t safe. We have to get you out.”

Beau kisses the palm of your hand, his eyes softening instantly. “Only if you stay with me.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

It takes another ten minutes and a ridiculous amount of negotiating to get Beau out of the wreckage. The passenger door is completely jammed, so the fire department has to pry it open with the jaws of life while you stand exactly three feet away — the maximum distance Beau’s feral alpha brain will tolerate without him trying to lunge out of the car.

When they finally pop the door off its hinges, Beau refuses the stretcher. He climbs out of the ruined SUV on his own two feet.

He is massive.

You hadn’t quite realized it when he was crumpled in the seat, but standing up, he towers over you. He’s easily six-foot-three, built like a brick wall under his ruined winter coat. He takes one step out of the snowbank, ignores the EMTs entirely, and wraps his arms around you.

He buries his face in your neck, right over your own claiming gland, and breathes in so deeply his chest expands against yours.

“Okay, big guy, let’s get you up the hill,” the beta EMT sighs, looking thoroughly exhausted.

Beau keeps one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, practically carrying you as the two of you trudge up the snowy embankment. His dad follows behind on a backboard, just as a precaution, arguing with the paramedics about his deductible.

When you reach the ambulances, chaos erupts again.

“Sir, you need to ride in this rig so we can monitor your vitals,” the tall EMT says, pointing to the first ambulance.

“Fine,” Beau says. He turns to you. “Get in.”

“Whoa, hold on,” the EMT steps in. “Protocol says passengers only in the back. Your girlfriend can ride up front or take her own car.”

Beau’s jaw ticks. His eyes flash with that dangerous, feral light again. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my mate. And she’s riding in the back with me.”

“Sir, I can’t allow-”

“Listen to me very carefully,” Beau interrupts, his voice dropping an octave into a terrifying, commanding alpha tone. “I just survived a crash that should have killed me. My mate is the only reason I am breathing right now. If you think for one second I am letting her out of my sight, you are out of your goddamn mind. She gets in the back, or I walk to the hospital.”

The EMT stares at him, then looks at his sheer size, then looks at the blood covering him.

“Fine,” the EMT mutters. “Get in. Both of you.”

You scramble up into the back of the brightly lit ambulance, your legs shaking slightly. Beau climbs in right behind you. Instead of sitting on the stretcher, he pulls you down onto the small bench seat along the wall, pulling you directly onto his lap.

“Sir, I really need you on the stretcher,” the female medic says from the corner.

“I’m fine right here,” Beau says stubbornly, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder.

“Just let him,” you tell the medic apologetically. “It’s easier than fighting him.”

The ambulance doors slam shut, and the engine rumbles as it pulls out onto the highway. The bright fluorescent lights of the rig are blinding after the dark woods.

You finally get a good look at him.

His face is smeared with dried blood, some from his own vanished wounds, some from the cut on his dad’s head. His dark hair is wild and sticking up in every direction. His expensive winter coat is ruined.

And he is the most gorgeous man you have ever seen in your life.

“Stop staring at me,” he murmurs, a cocky smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.

“I’m not staring,” you lie, your face heating up.

“You totally are.” He reaches up, his large, rough thumb gently wiping a tear track off your cheek. “You’re ruining my tough guy image. Crying over me when we just met.”

“You were dying!” You say, smacking his chest lightly. “Excuse me for being slightly upset!”

“I’m kidding,” he says softly, his smirk fading into something deeply sincere. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

He tilts his head, his blue eyes searching yours. “You saved my life.”

“I … I guess I did.”

“No guessing about it.” He shifts, pulling you closer. “I felt it, you know. Before you bit me. I felt the bond. It was like … like a cord snapping tight in my chest. And then everything went cold. But when you bit me …” He shudders, a full-body tremor. “It was like lightning. It burned all the cold away.”

“I read about it in a book,” you admit quietly, feeling incredibly stupid now that the danger has passed. “When I was a kid. A fairytale about an omega saving her mate. I didn’t think it would actually work.”

Beau laughs, a rich, warm sound that fills the small space. “Well, remind me to buy that book and frame it.”

The medic clears her throat loudly. “I still need to take your blood pressure, sir.”

Beau sighs dramatically, extending his arm while keeping his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist. “Knock yourself out.”

While the medic works, Beau looks at you, his eyes crinkling. “I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Y/N,” you say.

“Y/N,” he repeats, testing the syllables on his tongue. He nods. “I like it. I’m Beau. Beau Maxwell.”

“I know.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You know? What, are you a football fan?”

“No,” you scoff. “My roommate is. She has a massive poster of you in our dorm. It’s deeply unsettling.”

Beau throws his head back and laughs again. “Ouch. My ego.”

“You’ll survive. You clearly have a talent for surviving.”

“Only because I have you.” He leans in, his face inches from yours. “So, Y/N. Since we skipped the whole dating phase and went straight to the life-saving, soul-binding mate claim … what do you want to do for our first date?”

You stare at him, completely incredulous. “Are you asking me out in the back of an ambulance?”

“I’m an opportunist,” he says with a wicked grin. “Plus, I have a feeling my schedule is going to be pretty packed with doctors telling me I’m a medical marvel. I need to pencil you in.”

“You are unbelievable.”

“I’m your alpha,” he corrects smoothly, his voice dropping an octave. “And you’re my omega.”

A shiver runs down your spine at the words. The sheer truth of it, the heavy, intoxicating reality of the bond humming between you, is overwhelming. You look at him — at the blood, the cocky smirk, the intense, adoring eyes — and you realize your life will never, ever be the same.

“Pizza,” you say finally.

“What?”

“For our first date. I want pizza. And you’re paying.”

Beau’s grin widens, bright and devastating. “Deal.”

***

The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic symphony of beeping monitors, squeaking rubber soles, and the low hum of medical staff, but inside Trauma Room 3, the silence is thick and highly irritated.

Dr. Evans, a balding beta with dark circles under his eyes, stares at the glowing X-ray on the tablet in his hands. Then, he looks up at Beau. Then, he looks back down at the tablet.

“I don’t understand,” Dr. Evans mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose.

Beau sighs, leaning back against the uncomfortable hospital pillows. “Doc, with all due respect, I don’t know how many different ways I can say this. I am fine.”

“You were in a high-speed collision with a tree,” Dr. Evans says, his voice flat. “Your father’s side of the vehicle sustained moderate damage, but the passenger side was crushed inward by nearly three feet. The paramedics reported that you were covered in a massive amount of blood. Which you are.”

He gestures vaguely to Beau’s bare chest. They had to literally cut his ruined, blood-soaked sweater off him when he refused to let go of your hand long enough to take it off normally. Now, he’s sitting shirtless in the stark hospital lighting, his skin stained with dried, dark red flakes, but perfectly intact.

“It’s my blood,” Beau says, sounding bored.

“Yes, but from where?” Dr. Evans asks, his voice rising in frustration. “Your X-rays are completely clear. No fractures, no hairline breaks, no internal bleeding, no contusions. There isn’t even whiplash. The only physical anomaly is a minor elevation in your heart rate and … well.”

Dr. Evans glances at you.

You are currently squeezed onto the edge of the narrow hospital bed, your legs pressed against Beau’s hip. His heavy, warm arm is locked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Every time a nurse or doctor has stepped within a three-foot radius, Beau’s chest rumbles with a low, instinctual warning growl that makes the staff extremely nervous.

“And the fresh bite mark on your claiming gland,” Dr. Evans finishes carefully.

“Exactly,” Beau says, pointing his free hand at you. “She bit me. She’s my mate. The bond healed me. We’ve been over this.”

“Mr. Maxwell,” Dr. Evans sighs, rubbing his temples. “Spontaneous cellular regeneration via a mating bite is an urban legend. It’s a myth omegas tell their pups. It does not actually happen.”

“Then explain the blood,” you say, speaking up for the first time in ten minutes.

Dr. Evans looks at you. “Shock can do strange things to the mind, miss. And being a newly awakened omega in the presence of a distressed alpha can trigger intense olfactory hallucinations. It’s highly likely the blood belongs to a wounded animal that was struck during the crash, and in the confusion, you believed-”

“Are you calling my mate a liar?” Beau’s voice drops instantly. It loses all the casual cockiness and turns into a lethal, icy rumble. His fingers dig into your waist.

Dr. Evans pales, taking a distinct step back. “No. No, I am simply saying scientifically-”

“Scientifically, I had a severed artery and a snapped C-spine twenty minutes ago,” Beau snarls, his baby blue eyes darkening. “She healed me. Put it in my chart and discharge me.”

“I … I need an attending to sign off,” Dr. Evans stammers, quickly retreating toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”

The door clicks shut.

You let out a long breath, slumping slightly against Beau’s chest. The adrenaline of the night is finally wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. “He thinks we’re crazy.”

“Let him think whatever he wants,” Beau murmurs. The aggression instantly bleeds out of his posture. He shifts, pulling you fully onto his lap despite the cramped space of the hospital bed. He presses his face into your neck, taking a deep, greedy inhale of your scent. “You’re safe. I’m safe. That’s all that matters.”

You wrap your arms around his broad, bare shoulders, resting your chin on top of his head. His skin is so warm. The scent of pine and ozone is settling, shifting from the sharp, electric tang of a newly struck bond into something deeper, richer. Like a forest after a heavy rain.

“Your dad is going to be okay,” you say softly. “The nurse said it was just a surface laceration and a mild concussion.”

“I know,” Beau says against your skin. “I can smell it. He’s stressed, but he’s fine.” He turns his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pulse point. “You’re exhausted.”

“I’ve had a busy night,” you joke tiredly. “Vocal practice, driving, pulling a giant alpha out of a car wreck. Standard Tuesday.”

Beau chuckles, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against your chest. “You have no idea how glad I am you decided to take that road.”

Before you can answer, a commotion erupts out in the hallway.

“I don’t care about the visiting hours, lady, my best friend is in there!” a loud, frantic voice echoes through the thin door.

“Sir, you cannot go back there-”

“Watch me!”

The door to Trauma Room 3 flies open with such force it bangs against the wall.

A tall guy with messy blond hair and frantic green eyes bursts into the room, chest heaving. He’s wearing Briar University sweatpants and a backwards snapback, looking like he literally ran all the way from campus.

Three more massive guys pile in directly behind him, completely ignoring the protests of the nurse in the hallway. They are all huge, clearly athletes, radiating an overwhelming wall of alpha energy that instantly makes your omega instincts flare in warning.

You tense, shrinking back against Beau.

Beau reacts instantly. A vicious, deafening roar rips from his chest. He throws his body over yours, shielding you from the door, his canines fully descended as he glares at the intruders.

The four guys freeze in their tracks.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy, man, it’s us!” The blond guy yells, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It’s Dean!”

Beau blinks, the feral glaze slowly fading from his eyes as he registers the familiar scents of his teammates. The growl dies down in his throat, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He stays firmly angled in front of you, a physical barrier between you and his friends.

“Dean,” Beau breathes out, his shoulders dropping a fraction.

“Yeah, it’s me, you idiot,” Dean says, exhaling a massive breath. He looks Beau up and down, his eyes wide. “Jesus, Beau. We got a call from your dad. He said you guys hit a tree and you were crushed. I thought … man, I thought I was walking in here to identify a body.”

“I’m fine,” Beau says firmly.

A guy with dark hair and striking gray eyes steps forward, looking incredibly confused. “You don’t look fine. You’re covered in blood. But … you’re sitting up.”

“And you’re growling at us,” adds a guy with a sharp jawline and a sarcastic smirk. “Which is rude, considering we broke several traffic laws to get here.”

“I’m growling because you busted in here unannounced and spooked my mate,” Beau snaps.

The silence in the room is absolute.

All four hockey players stop. They stare at Beau. Then, slowly, simultaneously, they shift their gaze to look past his massive shoulder, spotting you tucked against his side.

“Your … what?” Dean chokes out.

Beau’s chest puffs out. The sheer pride radiating off him is almost blinding. He shifts slightly, pulling you forward so you are visible, but keeps one heavy, protective arm locked around your waist.

“My mate,” Beau announces smoothly, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Guys, this is Y/N. Y/N, these are the morons I’m friends with. Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.”

You offer a tiny, awkward wave. “Hi.”

Tucker, a guy with a calm demeanor and a thick Southern drawl, steps forward, his eyes narrowed as he looks at the blood on Beau, and then at the very clear, angry red bite mark on Beau’s neck.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tucker mutters. “He actually got bit.”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean says, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I’m confused. Coach calls, says you’re dying. We get here, you’re covered in blood, but you’re chilling in a hospital bed with a gorgeous omega on your lap, and you’re saying you just got mated?”

“That’s exactly what happened,” Beau says, his grin turning incredibly cocky. “She found the wreck. I was bleeding out. My neck was broken. She claimed me and healed me.”

Garrett crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Beau, bro, I love you, but you realize that’s biologically impossible, right?”

“Tell that to the doctors,” Beau scoffs. “They’re out there right now having a panic attack over my X-rays. Not a scratch on me. Because my omega,” he pauses, leaning down to press a loud, obnoxious kiss to your cheek, “is a literal miracle worker.”

You flush, burying your face in his shoulder. “Beau, stop, you’re embarrassing me.”

“I am praising you,” he corrects, his voice dripping with affection. “You saved my life.”

Logan lets out a low whistle. “So, let me get this straight. You get into a near-fatal car crash, and instead of dying like a normal person, you manage to score a soulmate?”

“I have excellent timing,” Beau says.

“You have a horseshoe shoved up your ass, is what you have,” Dean groans, though the sheer relief in his voice is palpable. He walks over, keeping his movements slow and deliberate to avoid triggering Beau’s newly-mated instincts, and claps a hand on Beau’s uninjured shoulder. “God, man. Don’t ever do that to us again. I almost threw up in Logan’s car.”

“Hey, if you puked on my upholstery, I would have left you on the side of the highway,” Logan points out.

“It’s true,” Garrett nods solemnly. “He loves that car more than he loves us.”

You can’t help it. A small laugh escapes your lips.

The sound draws the attention of all four alphas back to you. The intense scrutiny makes your cheeks heat up again, but it isn’t predatory. It’s curious. And welcoming.

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, offering a charming, easy smile. “You really pulled this meathead out of a wrecked car?”

“I couldn’t get him out, actually,” you admit. “The door was stuck. I just … climbed in the window.”

“And bit him,” Tucker adds, looking impressed. “Takes a lot of guts. Especially with a feral alpha bleeding out.”

“I read a lot of fairytales growing up,” you shrug, feeling shy but incredibly safe with Beau’s arm wrapped around you like a shield. “I guess I just panicked and hoped the stories were right.”

“Well, thank God you did,” Dean says, his expression softening into something entirely genuine. He looks at you, really looks at you, and you can see the deep, brotherly love he has for Beau shining in his eyes. “Seriously, Y/N. If you saved him … you saved all of us. Thank you.”

“Yeah,” Garrett agrees softly. “Welcome to the family, Y/N.”

Beau’s chest rumbles with a purr. He is practically vibrating with happiness, his alpha instincts perfectly soothed by his pack accepting his mate. He rubs his chin against your hair.

“Alright, alright, that’s enough sentimental crap,” Logan claps his hands together, breaking the emotional tension. “Are they discharging you tonight, or do we need to smuggle you out in a laundry cart? Because we have a game on Saturday, and Coach is going to lose his mind if his star quarterback is trapped in a hospital.”

“They’re discharging me,” Beau says confidently. “There’s literally nothing wrong with me. As soon as the doctor gets back with the paperwork, we’re out of here.”

“Good,” Dean says, dropping into a plastic guest chair in the corner of the room. “Because my adrenaline is crashing, and I need a cheeseburger.”

“I want pizza,” you say automatically.

All five guys look at you.

“She wants pizza,” Beau announces to the room, as if you just decreed a new law of physics. He looks at Dean. “Go get my mate a pizza.”

Dean stares at him. “Are you serious? I just drove a hundred miles an hour down Route 2 to see if you were alive, and you’re treating me like Postmates?”

“Did you miss the part where she saved my life?” Beau demands, his eyebrows pulling together. “She asked for pizza, Dean. Get the girl a pizza.”

“I’ll get it,” Tucker laughs, turning toward the door. “Any specific toppings, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call her sweetheart,” Beau growls immediately.

Tucker raises his hands, backing out of the room. “Right. Sorry. Feral alpha. Got it. Pepperoni?”

“Pepperoni is perfect, thank you,” you say, glaring up at Beau. “And stop growling at your friends.”

“They need to know boundaries,” Beau grumbles, though he looks entirely unapologetic.

“They’re just trying to be nice,” you tell him, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy, dark hair. The simple touch is electric. It sends a wave of calm straight down the bond, and you can physically feel his muscles relaxing under your hand.

Garrett watches the exchange with a highly amused expression. “Whipped. He’s been mated for an hour, and he’s already completely whipped.”

“I’m not whipped,” Beau scoffs.

“You literally just barked at Dean to go buy her dinner,” Logan points out. “If she asked you to wear a leash, you’d probably ask what color.”

“I am an alpha,” Beau says, his voice dripping with offended dignity. “I command respect.”

You pull your hand out of his hair and poke him in the ribs. “Beau. Hush.”

“Yes, baby,” he says instantly.

The entire room bursts into laughter. Dean practically falls out of the plastic chair, and even Garrett has to lean against the wall, shaking his head.

“Oh, this is going to be the best semester ever,” Logan cackles. “The great Beau Maxwell, tamed.”

Beau glares at them, but there’s no real heat in it. He just pulls you closer, resting his head against yours. The chaos of his friends fills the small hospital room, loud and boisterous, turning a terrifying night into something surprisingly warm.

The door opens again, and Dr. Evans steps back in, holding a stack of discharge papers. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the four massive athletes crowding the small room.

“Is there a problem here?” Dr. Evans asks nervously.

“No problem, Doc,” Beau says, holding his hand out for the papers. “Just waiting to get out of here so I can take my mate on a date.”

Dr. Evans sighs, handing over the clipboard. “Sign at the bottom. And please, Mr. Maxwell, take it easy for the next forty-eight hours. Miracles aside, your body has been through a trauma.”

“I feel better than ever,” Beau promises, signing the paperwork with a messy scrawl.

And as he looks down at you, his blue eyes soft and entirely devoted, you realize he isn’t lying. The bond hums between you, bright and unbroken, a fairytale come to life in the sterile lights of a hospital room.

***

The frosty Boston air hits your face the second the sliding doors of the emergency room part, but you barely feel the chill. You are currently tucked flush against Beau’s side, enveloped in the heavy, ruinous warmth of his ruined winter coat, which he has stubbornly draped over your shoulders despite the fact that he is currently shirtless in twenty-degree weather.

“Beau, you are going to catch pneumonia,” you tell him, trying to shrug the coat off to give it back to him.

His large hand clamps over the lapel, holding it firmly in place around your neck. “I’m an alpha. We run hot. Plus, I just regenerated a broken neck. I think my immune system can handle a little breeze. Keep the coat on.”

“He’s right, Y/N,” Garrett says, walking backward a few paces ahead of you. “Don’t try to fight a freshly mated alpha on temperature control. They get weirdly territorial about their omega’s body heat. My cousin mated last year, and he practically kept his poor omega wrapped in bubble wrap and heated blankets for a week.”

“I am not weird,” Beau grumbles, though his arm tightening around your waist completely contradicts his statement.

“You’re a little weird, man,” Logan calls out, clicking his keys to unlock a pickup truck parked illegally near the ambulance bay. “And hey, before you get in my car, I need to know you aren’t going to flake dried blood all over my upholstery.”

Beau glares at him. “I’m literally fine, Logan. But if you’re that worried, I’ll buy you a new car with my signing bonus next year.”

“I’m holding you to that,” Logan smirks, pulling the back door open. “Alright, kids. In you go. Tucker and Garrett are taking Garrett’s Jeep. Dean is riding shotgun with me so I can control the aux cord.”

“I have great taste in music!” Dean protests, rounding the hood.

“You listen to EDM remixes of country songs, Dean. You have zero taste,” Logan deadpans, climbing into the driver’s seat.

Beau practically lifts you into the spacious backseat of the truck, sliding in directly beside you. He doesn’t just sit next to you; he pulls you across the supple leather until you are practically sitting on his lap, your knees resting against his thigh. He exhales a long, deep breath, burying his face in your hair. The constant, thrumming hum of the bond — a sensation you are still trying to wrap your head around — settles into a peaceful, rhythmic vibration between the two of you.

As Logan pulls out of the hospital parking lot, the heater in the car kicks in, blasting warm air. It reminds you, with a sudden, jarring jolt, of the crashed Ford Explorer.

“Your dad,” you say, looking up at Beau quickly. “We left without saying goodbye to him. Is he-”

“He’s fine,” Beau soothes, rubbing a heavy thumb along your hip. “He texted me while the doctor was printing my discharge papers. He caught a cab back to the hotel. My mom is there, and he said she’s currently fussing over him and having a minor meltdown. He told me to go with my boys, take care of my mate, and that we’ll all get together for a proper breakfast tomorrow once everyone’s blood pressure drops.”

“Oh, thank God,” you breathe out, relieved.

The mention of parents, however, sends a cold spike of panic straight through your chest.

“Oh my god,” you gasp, sitting bolt upright.

Beau’s hands instantly tighten around you, his alpha instincts flaring as a low, rumbling growl vibrates in his throat. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”

Dean twists around in the passenger seat, looking alarmed. “Is it delayed shock? Do we need to turn around?”

“No, no, I’m not hurt,” you say, frantically digging through your pockets until you find your phone. “I hung up on my mom.”

“What?” Beau blinks, the protective tension instantly bleeding out of his broad shoulders, replaced by confusion.

“When I was driving,” you explain, staring at the terrifying 14 Missed Calls notification glowing on your lock screen. “I was on the phone with my mom right before I saw the tire tracks. I told her I had to go, and then I just … I never called her back. She knows I was pulling over for a crash. She’s probably out of her mind with worry.”

“Oh, shit,” Logan says from the front, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you better call her right now. An omega mother’s panic is no joke.”

“Put it on speaker,” Beau says softly, his blue eyes warm and encouraging. “I’m right here.”

You swallow hard, your thumb hovering over her contact name. You press call and tap the speaker icon.

It doesn’t even ring once.

“Y/N?!” Your mom’s voice explodes through the car speakers, tight with tears and absolute terror. “Oh my god, honey! Are you okay? Where are you? I’ve been calling and calling! Your father was just about to call the state highway patrol!”

“Mom, Mom, breathe, I’m okay,” you say quickly, your own voice cracking a little at the sound of her panic. “I’m perfectly fine. I promise. Not a scratch on me.”

A loud, shuddering sob echoes through the phone. “You said there was a crash. You just vanished. I thought … I don’t even know what I thought.”

“I know, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you right back,” you say, leaning back against Beau’s solid chest. His hand slowly strokes your arm, grounding you. “It’s just … things got really chaotic, really fast.”

“What happened? Were there people in the car? The news said there was a severe accident on Route 2.”

“There was,” you say, taking a deep breath. You look up at Beau. He offers a slow, reassuring nod. “Mom, there was an alpha in the passenger seat. His dad was driving, and they hit black ice.”

“Oh, how awful,” your mom gasps. “Did the ambulance get there in time?”

“They did, but … Mom, he was really hurt. Like, really bad.” You bite your lip, trying to figure out how to say this without sounding completely insane. “And … well, when I got to the car, his scent hit me.”

There is a beat of dead silence on the line.

Then, your mom’s voice drops to a near whisper. “His scent?”

“Yeah.”

“Y/N,” she says, the syllables breathless. “Are you telling me …”

“He’s my mate, Mom,” you admit, the words feeling incredibly heavy and magical all at once. “He’s my mate.”

“Oh my god!” Your mom shrieked, the sound entirely different this time. “Y/F/N! Y/F/N, get in here! Our baby found her mate!” You can hear her pulling the phone away from her face, shouting to your dad in the background. She comes back on the line, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, honey, I told you! I told you it would happen when you least expect it! Oh, this is wonderful! Is he okay? You said he was hurt!”

“He was dying, Mom,” you say, the trauma of the memory making your throat tight. “His neck was broken. He was bleeding out. His pulse was stopping.”

“What?” The joy vanishes, replaced by a horrified gasp. “But you just said-”

“I did the thing,” you blurts out.

“What thing?”

“The fairytale thing,” you say, your voice dropping in embarrassment, completely aware that there are three alphas listening to this conversation in dead silence. “The story dad used to read to me. About the omega princess who saved her knight. I panicked, Mom. I didn’t know what to do, and I could feel him slipping away, so I just … I bit him.”

Silence. Total, ringing silence.

“Mom?” You ask nervously.

“You bit him,” your mom repeats slowly, as if sounding out a foreign language.

“Through the claiming gland,” you confirm. “And Mom … it worked. It actually worked. The bleeding stopped. His neck healed. The doctors at the hospital just did X-rays, and he doesn’t even have a bruise.”

“That’s … that’s impossible,” your dad’s deep, steady voice finally comes through the speaker. He must have taken the phone. “Sweetheart, those are just bedtime stories. Biologically, a mating bite seals a bond, it doesn’t perform miracles.”

“I’m telling you, Dad, it happened,” you insist.

Beau leans forward slightly, his mouth coming closer to the microphone. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N.”

Another stunned silence from your parents.

“Who is this?” Your dad asks, his tone instantly slipping into a protective, assessing alpha timber.

“I’m Beau,” Beau says smoothly, his chest rumbling with natural authority, though his tone is incredibly respectful. “Beau Maxwell. I’m your daughter’s mate. And I just wanted to tell you myself, sir, that she’s telling the truth. I was dead to rights in that car. She saved my life.”

“Beau Maxwell?” Your dad repeats. “Wait a minute. The Briar quarterback?”

Beau grins, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips. “That’s me, sir.”

“Well, I’ll be damned,” your dad laughs, a rich, booming sound. “My little girl bagged a D1 athlete.”

“Stop it!” Your mom scolds in the background, though she sounds elated. “Beau, sweetheart, it is so wonderful to meet you. I can’t believe this is happening. We are just so overwhelmed, but we are so, so happy for you both.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Beau says, his voice softening. “I promise you, I’m going to take very good care of her. I owe her my life, but even if I didn’t, I’d give her the world anyway.”

Your breath hitches. You look up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. He isn’t looking at the phone; he is looking right down at you, his blue eyes blazing with absolute sincerity.

From the front seat, Dean dramatically pretends to gag, making choking noises.

“Shut up, Dean,” Logan mutters, smacking Dean’s shoulder.

“Was that someone gagging?” Your mom asks, confused.

“Just my idiot friends, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you. “We’re heading back to my place now to get some food in her. It’s been a long night.”

“Of course, of course. Go eat, rest,” your mom says quickly. “We love you so much, Y/N. We will drive down to Boston this weekend to meet him. I want a full story. Every detail.”

“I love you guys too,” you smile, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

You hang up the phone, leaning back against the leather seat. You let out a long, exhausted breath. “Well. That went better than expected.”

“Your parents seem awesome,” Beau says, kissing the top of your head.

“They are,” you nod. “They’re just going to be incredibly overbearing for the next six months. My mom is a hopeless romantic, so she is going to want to plan a mating ceremony immediately.”

“Let her,” Beau says easily. “I’ll rent out a castle if she wants.”

“Okay, Rockefeller,” Dean snorts from the front. “Let’s stick to surviving the week before we book a castle.”

Logan pulls the car onto a quiet, tree-lined street about a mile off Briar’s main campus, pulling into the driveway of a massive, sprawling two-story colonial house. Garrett’s Jeep is already parked on the lawn, and Tucker is walking up the front steps balancing four large pizza boxes.

“Home sweet home,” Logan announces, putting the car in park.

The house is exactly what you would expect from a group of elite college athletes, yet surprisingly clean. The living room is gigantic, dominated by a massive, U-shaped sectional couch that looks like it could comfortably sleep eight people, a ridiculously large flat-screen TV, and an impressive sound system. There are hockey sticks leaning in the corner and a football resting on the coffee table, but the space smells comfortably like a mix of their scents — cedar, sandalwood, musk, and clean laundry.

“Kitchen’s to the right, bathroom is down the hall,” Dean says, kicking his shoes off by the door. “Make yourself at home, Y/N. You practically own the place now.”

You step out of your boots, hanging Beau’s ruined coat on a hook. Beau instantly wraps his arm around your waist again, guiding you toward the living room.

Tucker sets the pizza boxes down on the wide coffee table. “We got two pepperonis, a meat lovers, and a plain cheese for Logan because his palate is that of a fussy toddler.”

“Hey, respect the classics,” Logan defends, grabbing a slice of cheese.

You go to sit down on an empty cushion on the sectional, but Beau simply pulls you backward. He drops down onto the plush fabric and easily guides you right down onto his lap. You end up straddling his thighs sideways, your back resting against his arm.

“Beau, there’s plenty of room,” you laugh softly, though you don’t make any real effort to move. The truth is, the physical contact is addictive.

“I’m comfortable,” he states, resting his chin on your shoulder. He leans forward, his long arm reaching out to grab a massive slice of pepperoni pizza from the box.

He doesn’t take a bite. Instead, he folds it slightly and brings it directly to your mouth.

You blink at the slice, then look over your shoulder at him. “Are you serious right now?”

“You said you wanted pizza,” Beau says smoothly. “Eat.”

“I can feed myself, you weirdo,” you say, your face flushing hot.

“Humor me,” his voice drops, the vibration rumbling directly against your spine. “My instincts are screaming at me to make sure you’re provided for. Just take a bite, Y/N, before I lose my mind.”

You roll your eyes, but the heavy, intoxicating pull of the bond makes you part your lips. You take a bite of the pizza. It’s perfectly greasy and delicious, the exact kind of comfort food you need after a near-death experience.

Beau watches you chew, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat with dark, laser-focused intensity. A low, satisfied purr vibrates in his chest.

Across the coffee table, Dean groans loudly, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my god. I can’t. I literally can’t watch this. It’s like watching a nature documentary about terrifyingly codependent wolves.”

“Shut up, Dean,” Garrett laughs around a mouthful of crust. “It’s cute.”

“It’s gross,” Dean argues, pointing a slice of meat lovers at Beau. “Can you not do the weird bird-feeding thing in the communal living space? Some of us are trying to eat.”

Beau doesn’t even look at him. He just waits for you to finish chewing before offering you the slice again. “I literally died an hour ago, Dean. You can put up with me being in love with my mate.”

The casual, effortless way he says it makes your breath catch. It’s insane. You’ve known him for roughly two hours. But as you look at his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle way he holds the food for you, it doesn’t feel insane at all. It feels like absolute truth.

“Fine, use the death card,” Dean grumbles, though he’s smiling. “But when you start baby-talking her, I’m moving out.”

“So,” Tucker says, leaning back against the couch and looking at you. “Y/N. We know you’re at Berklee. Vocal performance, you said?”

You nod, taking another bite of the pizza Beau is offering. “Yeah. My concentration is in classical crossover and contemporary theater.”

“Damn, so you’ve got pipes,” Logan says, looking impressed. “That’s intense. Berklee is no joke.”

“It’s a lot of work,” you admit, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “My professor currently thinks my vibrato is ‘too emotionally unrestrained.’”

Beau frowns, his brow furrowing. “Who is your professor? Give me their name.”

“Why?” You ask, amused. “Are you going to go beat up an eighty-year-old beta woman?”

“I’m going to go have a polite conversation with her about how my mate’s vibrato is perfect exactly the way it is,” Beau states matter-of-factly.

“Down boy,” Garrett chuckles. “So, theater? You want to be on Broadway?”

“That’s the dream,” you nod, a shy smile pulling at your lips. “Or doing session vocals for studio albums. I just love to sing. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”

“Can you sing for us?” Dean asks eagerly.

Beau’s arm tightens around you like a vice. A deep, territorial rumble starts in his chest. “No.”

Dean throws his hands up. “Bro! I just asked if she could sing!”

“No one is looking at my mate while she performs right now,” Beau snarls, his alpha brain clearly still in hyper-protective overdrive. “She’s mine.”

“Beau, relax,” you say gently, running your hand over his bare chest, right above his heart. His skin is blazing hot. “They just want to hear me sing.” You look at Dean. “I will sing for you guys eventually, I promise. But my throat is kind of raw right now from screaming at EMTs in the woods.”

“Fair enough,” Tucker nods in understanding. “We’ll hold you to that, though.”

“So, what about you guys?” You ask, leaning back completely against Beau, enjoying the feeling of his solid warmth enveloping you. “I know Beau is a quarterback. Are you all football players?”

“Hell no,” Logan scoffs. “We play a real sport. Ice hockey.”

“Hey,” Beau warns, though he chuckles.

“It’s true,” Dean says. “But yeah, we’re hockey players. Garrett is the captain. I’m just the good-looking one.”

“You’re the annoying one,” Logan corrects.

“Wait, so if you play football, and they play hockey, why do you live together?” You ask Beau, looking up at him.

Beau looks down, his eyes softening as he meets your gaze. “Because they’re my pack. Football is my team, but these guys … they’re my family away from Wisconsin. We look out for each other.”

The absolute sincerity in his voice makes something deep in your chest ache in the best way possible. You can see the bond these guys share. It’s written in the comfortable silence, the easy banter, the way they dropped everything and broke traffic laws just to make sure Beau was safe.

“He’s a softie,” Garrett stage-whispers to you, leaning across the table. “Don’t let the scary alpha act fool you. He cries during rom-coms.”

“I do not!” Beau barks indignantly.

“Dude, you literally bawled during 10 Things I Hate About You last week,” Logan points out. “You paused the movie to monologue about how Heath Ledger set unrealistic standards for modern romance.”

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, Logan, and the stadium bleacher scene is emotionally devastating,” Beau argues, entirely serious.

You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth.

Beau looks at you, his offended expression melting away the second he hears your laugh. A slow, devastatingly handsome smile spreads across his face.

“You think that’s funny, huh?” He murmurs, trailing a finger down your cheek.

“I think it’s adorable,” you tease. “My big, bad, feral alpha cries over Heath Ledger.”

“Only for Heath,” Beau whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the boys’ bickering. “But I’d cry over you, too.”

The sudden intensity in his voice makes the air leave your lungs. You stare into his baby blue eyes, completely captivated by the raw, open adoration shining there. The hospital, the crash, the freezing snow — it all feels like a lifetime ago. Right now, in this messy living room filled with the smell of pizza and the loud, chaotic voices of his pack, everything is perfect.

“You won’t have to,” you whisper back, reaching up to trace the perfectly unblemished skin on his neck, right where your claiming mark rests, hidden beneath the collar of the coat. “I’m right here.”

Beau exhales a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before he leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, reverent kiss. It tastes like pepperoni and salt, but underneath it is the undeniable, electric spark of a bond that is absolute and eternal.

“Okay, nope! No making out on the couch!” Dean yells, throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau’s head. “I’m drawing a line! Save it for the bedroom, lovers!”

Beau breaks the kiss, laughing against your mouth, his chest vibrating with pure, unadulterated joy. He catches the napkin out of mid-air and tosses it back at Dean, pulling you impossibly closer.

You smile into his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against yours. A heart that you kept beating. A heart that is now entirely, irreversibly yours.

***

The pizza boxes are half-empty and the chaotic banter of the hockey players is still echoing in the living room when Beau suddenly stands up. He doesn’t ask. He just scoops you up into his arms, right off his lap, supporting your thighs with ease.

“Hey, where are you going?” Dean protests from the armchair, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. “Tucker was just about to tell the story about the time Garrett got his tongue stuck to the goalpost.”

“I am stealing my mate,” Beau announces, his voice brokering absolutely no argument. “We’ve had a long night. You animals clean up the boxes.”

“Whipped!” Logan calls out, laughing.

“Shut up, Logan,” Beau says, but he’s smiling as he carries you toward the stairs.

“Goodnight, guys!” You call over his broad shoulder.

A chorus of “Night, Y/N” and “Welcome to the pack” follows you up the wooden staircase.

Beau carries you effortlessly down the hallway, kicking open the last door on the right and carrying you inside. He pushes the heavy wooden door shut with his foot. The lock clicks, and instantly, the noise from downstairs is muffled into a distant hum.

His room is exactly what you’d expect, yet entirely comforting. It’s large, with a massive king-sized bed dominating the center of the space. There are Briar University football posters on the walls, a massive flat-screen TV mounted across from the bed, and a desk cluttered with playbooks and protein powder shakers. But mostly, the room just smells like him. Cedar, pine, and the crisp bite of ozone. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, wrapping around your senses and making your omega hum with pure satisfaction.

Beau doesn’t put you down immediately. He just holds you against his chest, standing in the middle of the room in the dim light of a bedside lamp. The cocky, playful alpha from downstairs fades, replaced by something much more intense. His baby blue eyes are dark, tracing every feature of your face.

“You okay?” You whisper, resting your hands on his bare, broad shoulders.

“Yeah,” he breathes out, his voice thick. “Just processing.”

“It’s a lot to process.”

“Not that,” he murmurs. He slowly lowers you down until your boots touch the hardwood floor, but he doesn’t step back. His hands slide up your waist, gripping your hips tightly. “I mean … you. Here. In my room. Mine.”

He reaches up, his thumb brushing against your neck, right over your claiming gland.

You let out a soft gasp. The spot is agonizingly sensitive. It has been throbbing ever since the ambulance ride, a dull, pulsing ache that you’ve been trying to ignore. But with his touch, the ache flares into a sharp, undeniable need.

Beau’s brow furrows. He can feel it.

“It’s one-sided,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble.

“I know,” you say, your breath catching.

You saved him. You gave him your bite, pouring your soul and your omega energy into him to knit his body back together. But a bond is a two-way street. Right now, your mark is fully healed on his neck, but you remain unmarked. You can feel the echo of his emotions — his protectiveness, his overwhelming adoration — but he can’t fully feel yours. The connection is unbalanced, and your body is practically screaming for him to finish what you started on the side of that icy highway.

“You need my mark,” Beau says, his eyes darkening with primal instinct. “You need to be claimed.”

“I do,” you whisper, looking up at him. “I really do, Beau.”

That’s all it takes.

Beau lets out a ragged groan and crushes his mouth to yours. There is no hesitation, no gentle buildup. It is an explosion. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting like pepperoni and pure alpha heat. You melt against him instantly, your hands tangling in his dark, messy hair.

He walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then he’s pushing you down, following you onto the soft duvet.

“You have no idea how badly I want you,” he growls against your lips, his hands already working the zipper of your jacket. He pushes the heavy winter coat off your shoulders, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. “I’ve wanted you since the second I opened my eyes in that wrecked car and saw you looking at me.”

“You were dying, Beau,” you laugh breathlessly, helping him pull your sweater over your head.

“And my first thought was still fuck, she’s gorgeous,” he replies, entirely serious.

He strips you down with an urgent, desperate efficiency that speaks of pure alpha focus. When you are lying on his bed in nothing but your matching lace bra and panties, Beau finally stops. He sits back on his heels at the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his blue eyes raking over your body like he’s a starving man and you’re a feast.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, running a large, calloused hand up your thigh. “You are so beautiful. It’s actually insane.”

“Beau,” you whine, your hips tilting instinctively toward his touch. The ache in your neck is pulsing in time with the heavy, wet heat pooling between your legs. “Please.”

“I got you. I’m right here,” he soothes, the rough timber of his voice sending shivers down your spine.

He unhooks your bra, tossing it aside, before his large hands hook into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs and throwing them to the floor.

You expect him to move up. You expect him to crawl over you, to press his heavy, warm body against yours and sink his teeth into your neck to finalize the bond.

Instead, Beau grabs your ankles, gently but firmly pulling you toward him until your hips are at the very edge of the bed. He drops to his knees on the floor between your spread thighs.

“Beau?” You ask, your voice trembling.

“Relax, baby,” he murmurs. He wraps his large hands around your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, then another halfway up your thigh.

He inhales deeply, his chest expanding. “Fuck. You smell like vanilla and slick. You are so ready for me.”

“I need you to claim me,” you pant, your fingers gripping the duvet tightly.

“I will,” he promises, his hot breath ghosting right over your center. “But first, I’m going to take care of you. You saved my life today. Let me worship you a little.”

Before you can argue, Beau buries his face between your thighs.

A loud, startled moan rips from your throat. Your hips jerk up off the mattress, completely entirely of their own accord.

Beau is not tentative. He is an absolute menace. He laps at your core with a greedy, wet enthusiasm that makes your brain completely short-circuit. His broad hands grip your thighs like a vice, holding you perfectly in place as his tongue lashes over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

“Beau! Oh my god,” you gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.

He hums in response, the deep vibration buzzing directly against your clit. It is the most intensely pleasurable sensation you have ever felt. He sucks you right into his mouth, his tongue swirling and flicking with a devastating rhythm. He is ravenous, slurping and eating you out like it’s his last meal on earth.

“So fucking sweet,” he groans against you, his voice muffled. “You taste so good, Y/N.”

“You’re—oh, God, Beau, please,” you stammer, your fingers tangling blindly in the bedsheets.

He doesn’t slow down. If anything, his enthusiasm ramps up. He slips two thick fingers inside of you, pumping deeply in time with the relentless assault of his tongue. He is a huge munch, completely and utterly obsessed with the taste of his omega. He drinks your slick like he’s dying of thirst, letting out low, feral growls of approval every time your hips twitch and stutter against his mouth.

It is dirty, and messy, and completely mind-blowing.

“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he praises, his wet mouth sliding up to nip playfully at your inner thigh before diving right back to your center. “Let go for me.”

You are spiraling. The pleasure is building to an unbearable peak, a rushing tidal wave of sensation that leaves you completely breathless.

But beneath the blinding pleasure, the primal, driving ache in your neck is screaming. The bond is demanding to be completed. You can’t climax like this, not when the connection between your souls is still hanging by a single, one-sided thread.

“Beau,” you gasp, your voice cracking. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his dark, messy hair. You tug gently. “Beau, stop. Wait.”

He groans in protest, pulling back just an inch, his lips wet and shining in the dim light. “What? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you pant, your chest heaving. “No, it feels incredible. But you … I need you up here. The bond. It hurts, Beau.”

His eyes snap up to yours. The haze of pure lust in his gaze clears instantly, replaced by that sharp, protective alpha instinct. He sees the desperate need in your eyes, the way your hand reaches up to cover the throbbing claiming gland on your neck.

“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his voice rough.

He stands up, ripping his ruined jeans and boxers down his legs in one smooth motion. He kicks them away.

You finally get a good look at him fully naked, and your breath simply stops. He is massive. His chest and arms are heavily muscled, completely unmarked thanks to your bite, and his thick, heavy cock is completely rigid, bobbing against his stomach.

He crawls up the bed, caging you beneath his heavy frame. His skin is blazing hot against yours. The friction of his chest rubbing against your bare breasts makes you whimper.

“I got you,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly timber. He presses his hips into yours, letting you feel the thick, heavy heat of him resting right against your entrance. “I’m right here, Y/N. I’m claiming you.”

He slides one large hand under your neck, tilting your head to the side, exposing the sensitive, unbroken skin of your claiming gland.

The anticipation is maddening.

“Do it,” you beg, your nails digging into his back. “Beau, please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Beau aligns his hips and pushes forward, burying himself deep inside of you in one smooth, powerful thrust.

You cry out, your eyes flying wide open. He is incredibly thick, stretching you completely full. The sensation of him finally inside you is overwhelming, a perfect, puzzle-piece fit.

But he doesn’t give you time to adjust. The second he is fully seated inside you, Beau opens his mouth and sinks his teeth directly into your claiming gland.

The pain is sharp, a split-second sting that vanishes almost instantly.

Because the second his teeth break the skin, the bond snaps shut.

It hits you like a freight train. It is a blinding, white-hot explosion of emotion and sensation. Suddenly, you aren’t just feeling your own pleasure, you are feeling his. You feel his overwhelming adoration for you, his sheer, terrifying relief that he survived to meet you, and the heavy, intoxicating possessiveness that courses through his veins. It floods your mind, a two-way street of unfiltered connection.

“Mine,” he roars directly against your neck, his voice tearing through the room.

“Yours,” you sob back, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist.

Beau starts to move. He pulls back and slams into you with devastating force. He isn’t gentle anymore; he is a feral alpha completely consumed by the need to mate. His hips snap forward with a wet, heavy slap of skin against skin, driving deep into your core over and over again.

You are completely unmoored. You meet his thrusts, your hips rocking up to take every inch of him.

“Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good,” he groans, his teeth grazing over the fresh, bleeding mark he just left on your neck. “So tight. So perfect.”

“Beau,” you gasp, your head thrashing against the pillows. The pleasure is building too fast, amplified a thousand times by the completed bond. You can feel how close he is, how the pressure is building at the base of his spine, and it pushes you right over the edge.

“Let go, baby. Come for me,” he commands, his thrusts turning brutal and erratic.

You scream his name as you shatter. A violent, full-body climax rips through you, your internal muscles clenching down hard around his thick length.

Beau lets out a harsh, guttural shout. He drives into you one last time, pinning your hips to the mattress as he spills inside of you, his entire massive body shuddering with the force of his release.

For a long time, the only sound in the room is the heavy, ragged sound of your combined breathing.

Beau stays buried inside you, his full weight pressing you down into the mattress. He turns his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his nose practically touching the fresh bite mark. He inhales deeply, the steady, rhythmic vibration of his purr rumbling against your chest.

“You okay?” He finally rasps, his voice completely wrecked.

“Mhmm,” you hum, too exhausted to form words. You let your hands fall limply to the bed, your entire body feeling like it has been melted down and poured into a puddle of pure bliss. The aching, unbalanced feeling in your chest is completely gone. In its place is a steady, warm hum of absolute security.

Beau finally pulls back, shifting his weight off you. He rolls onto his side, pulling you flush against his chest and tangling his legs with yours. He reaches up, his thumb gently wiping a smear of blood away from the fresh mark on your neck.

“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his blue eyes soft and full of awe. “You’re perfect.”

“You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease weakly, resting your hand over his heart. It’s beating strong and steady.

Beau chuckles, kissing your forehead. “I’m going to take you on a real date tomorrow. No ambulances, no feral teammates. Just you and me.”

“I’d like that,” you smile, your eyes drifting shut.

“Good.” He pulls the duvet up over both of you, tucking it securely around your shoulders. He kisses you one last time, a soft, lingering promise. “Go to sleep, omega. I’ve got you.”

And for the first time all night, wrapped in the arms of your alpha, you let yourself completely relax. The fairytale was real. And it was just beginning.

***

The roar of fifty thousand screaming fans is absolutely deafening, a physical wall of sound that shakes the cold aluminum bleachers of the stadium. The crisp, biting winter wind whips through your hair, but you barely feel the chill. You are currently sandwiched between Beau’s dad and Dean, buried beneath three different layers of Briar University merchandise, including Beau’s oversized spare game jersey pulled over your winter coat.

“I can’t look,” you say, burying your face in your gloved hands. “Tell me when it’s over.”

“You can’t not look, Y/N, it’s third and goal!” Dean shouts over the crowd, elbowing you gently in the ribs. “Look at your man! He’s about to do something crazy, I can smell it.”

“He better not do anything crazy,” Beau’s dad grumbles from your other side, his hands tightly gripping the railing of the front-row VIP section. “He just needs to hand it off to the fullback. Safe and steady.”

“Mr. Maxwell, with all due respect, your son doesn’t know the meaning of safe and steady,” Logan chimes in from behind you, leaning over the bleacher seat. “The guy is a feral alpha with a football. He’s going to run it himself.”

You peek through your fingers, your stomach tying itself into a series of complicated knots.

Down on the pristine turf, under the glaring stadium lights, the Briar University offense is lined up on the five-yard line. The championship game has been an absolute bloodbath. Briar is down by four points. There are exactly fourteen seconds left on the game clock. This is the final play. It is literally do or die.

And right in the center of the chaos, standing in the shotgun formation, is your mate.

Even from the stands, Beau looks massive. His broad shoulders fill out his shoulder pads, his dark visor obscuring his baby blue eyes, but you don’t need to see his face to know exactly what he’s feeling. The bond linking your souls together is humming with a frantic, electric intensity. You can feel his pure, unadulterated focus. There is no fear. There is only the predatory, overwhelming alpha drive to win.

You close your eyes for a split second, taking a deep breath, and push a wave of absolute belief down the bond. You’ve got this.

Down on the field, Beau’s head snaps up. He looks away from the defensive line, his helmet tilting directly toward the VIP section. He can’t see your face in the sea of screaming fans, but he feels you. He taps his chest twice, right over his heart, a silent, public acknowledgment that sends a thrill straight down your spine.

“Oh, you guys make me sick,” Garrett groans from the row behind you. “He’s literally about to play the most important snap of his college career and he’s flirting with you telepathically.”

“It’s not flirting, it’s anchoring,” you argue, a nervous smile breaking across your face. “And shut up, Garrett, or I’m not making you guys breakfast tomorrow.”

“I take it back. You are a queen, and Beau is lucky to have you,” Garrett backpedals instantly.

“Hike!” Beau’s deep, booming cadence echoes through the stadium speakers, cutting through the crowd noise.

The ball snaps. The stadium collectively holds its breath.

The defensive line instantly collapses the pocket, a terrifying rush of three-hundred-pound linebackers charging directly at Beau. For a terrifying second, you think he’s going to get sacked. The pocket completely dissolves.

But Beau doesn’t panic. He spins, dodging a massive defensive tackle with a fluidity that shouldn’t be possible for a guy his size. He tucks the football tightly against his ribs and scrambles out to the right.

“He’s running!” Dean screams, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you. “I told you! He’s running it!”

“Throw the ball, Beau!” His dad yells, practically climbing over the railing.

But there is no one to throw to. The endzone is completely locked down by the opposing team. Beau has no choice. He lowers his shoulder and charges toward the pylon.

Two defenders close in on him at the two-yard line. It looks like a car crash waiting to happen. Your breath catches in your throat, a flash of memory from that icy highway hitting you, but the bond radiates nothing but sheer, bulletproof confidence.

Beau doesn’t slide. He leaps.

He launches his massive frame into the air just as the defenders dive for his legs. He absorbs a brutal hit in mid-air, spinning from the impact, but he extends his right arm, stretching the football as far as his reach will go.

The tip of the football crosses the bright orange pylon of the endzone just a fraction of a second before Beau crashes into the turf out of bounds.

The referee throws his hands straight up into the air.

Touchdown.

The stadium absolutely erupts. The noise is no longer just a roar; it is a physical earthquake. Fireworks explode from the top of the scoreboard, painting the dark December sky in Briar’s colors. The game clock hits double zeros.

They won. He won.

“He did it!” You scream, jumping up and down.

Dean grabs you by the waist and completely lifts you off the ground, spinning you in a circle while screaming unintelligibly. Logan and Garrett are hugging each other and jumping like little kids. Beau’s dad has his face buried in his hands, completely overwhelmed with pride.

“Put me down, Dean!” You laugh, smacking his shoulder until he drops you back onto the aluminum bleachers.

Down on the field, pandemonium has broken loose. The entire Briar sideline empties, a massive wave of players rushing the endzone to dogpile on top of Beau. Coaches are hugging, Gatorade coolers are being dumped, and a swarm of sports reporters and cameramen are already sprinting onto the turf.

You grip the railing, leaning over as far as you can, your eyes desperately searching the chaotic sea of jerseys for him.

The heavy, suffocating weight of the crowd and the overwhelming mix of scents should be triggering your omega anxiety, but it doesn’t. The only thing you feel is the blinding, radiant joy pouring through the bond from your alpha. He is ecstatic. He is triumphant.

And he is looking for you.

The massive dogpile finally unweaves, and Beau emerges from the center of it. He rips his helmet off, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face smeared with turf paint and dirt. He looks feral, wild, and incredibly beautiful.

A reporter shoves a microphone directly into his face, a cameraman practically tripping over Beau’s cleats. “Beau! Beau Maxwell! What a game-winning play! Can you tell us what was going through your mind during that final run?”

Beau doesn’t even look at the reporter. He gently but firmly pushes the microphone out of his face. “Excuse me.”

“Beau, just one question!” The reporter pleads, trailing after him.

Beau ignores him completely. He breaks into a jog, weaving through the celebrating players, the coaches, and the security guards. His baby blue eyes lock onto the VIP section. He locks onto you.

“Oh, boy,” Tucker laughs, leaning against the railing next to you. “Here comes the main character moment.”

“Shut up, Tucker,” you say, but your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

Beau reaches the bottom of the stands. The VIP section is separated from the field by a six-foot concrete wall, but that doesn’t even slow him down. He doesn’t look for the stairs. He steps up onto a medical cooler sitting on the sideline, grabs the top of the concrete barrier, and easily vaults his massive frame upward, his cleats catching the edge.

He ignores the security guards shouting. He ignores the flashing cameras.

He leans entirely over the railing, reaching into the stands.

You don’t even have to think. You step up onto the bottom bleacher seat, leaning over the railing to meet him.

Beau’s large, taped hands cup your face, his thumbs instantly pressing into your cheeks to tilt your head up. He smells like sweat, adrenaline, and that heavy, intoxicating scent of pine and ozone.

“You did it,” you breathe out, a massive smile taking over your face.

“We did it,” he corrects, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates straight to your core.

And then, he kisses you.

It isn’t a gentle, polite peck. It is a completely unrestrained, desperate, soul-consuming kiss. He crushes his mouth to yours, his tongue sweeping inside to taste you, claiming you all over again in front of fifty thousand people.

The crowd around you goes absolutely feral. Dean and the boys are whistling and howling like wolves. The sports cameras pivot, broadcasting the kiss to the jumbotrons towering over the stadium.

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his damp hair, kissing him back with everything you have. The bond flares so brightly it practically blinds you, a perfect, unbroken circle of love and devotion.

When he finally pulls back, you are both breathless.

He rests his forehead against yours, his blue eyes shining with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I love you,” he whispers, the words meant only for you, entirely cutting through the chaos of the stadium.

“I love you too,” you whisper back, brushing a smudge of dirt off his cheek. “Now go celebrate with your team before your coach has a heart attack.”

“Let him,” Beau smirks, turning his head just enough to press a kiss directly over the claiming mark on your neck, right where your pulse is racing. “You’re my real prize anyway.”

“Gross!” Logan yells from three feet away. “Get a room! Or at least get off the wall, you’re ruining the structural integrity!”

Beau finally looks away from you, glaring playfully at his friends. “Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Logan.” He looks over at his dad, who has finally stopped crying and is grinning ear to ear. “Hey, old man. Did you see that?”

“I saw you ignore the play call and give your mother gray hairs all the way from Wisconsin,” his dad laughs, reaching over to grip Beau’s shoulder pad. “But it was a hell of a run, son. I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Beau looks back at you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “I have to go do the trophy presentation and talk to the press. Go back to the locker room tunnel with the boys. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”

“Okay,” you smile. “Go be a hero.”

Beau drops back down onto the turf, his cleats hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He points a finger at Dean. “Keep an eye on her, or I’m ending your bloodline.”

“I got her, boss!” Dean salutes, though he completely ruins the serious moment by tripping over an empty popcorn bucket.

You watch Beau jog back toward the center of the field, instantly swarmed by his teammates who lift him onto their shoulders. It feels surreal. It has been exactly six months since the crash on Route 2. Six months since you pulled a dying alpha out of a wrecked car and completely derailed your entire life.

It was the best thing you ever did.

“Alright, Y/N, let’s move,” Garrett says, gently steering you by the shoulder. “The post-game crowd crush is going to be brutal. Let’s get down to the tunnels.”

The boys flank you perfectly, a massive, impenetrable wall of alpha hockey players shielding you from the chaotic crush of fans trying to rush the lower sections. They guide you down the concourse, flashing their VIP passes to security, and lead you into the quiet, concrete bowels of the stadium.

The hallway outside the Briar locker room is relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the absolute madness happening on the field above.

“So,” Tucker says, leaning against the cinderblock wall and crossing his arms. “Who had ‘Beau Maxwell becomes a hopelessly romantic sap’ on their yearly bingo card? Because I certainly didn’t.”

“I did,” Dean says smugly, stealing a half-eaten pretzel from Logan’s hand. “The guy has been a walking red flag for codependency since he made Y/N sit on his lap in the ambulance.”

“It’s not codependency, it’s called being a good mate,” you defend him, laughing.

“It’s called being whipped,” Logan grumbles, swatting Dean’s hand away. “He literally just paused the greatest moment of his athletic career to climb a wall and make out with you. If I ever do that, I want you guys to medically check my brain.”

“Don’t worry, Logan, you have to actually find someone willing to date you first,” Garrett deadpans.

You tune out their bickering, leaning your back against the cool concrete wall. You pull out your phone, sending a quick text to your mom.

We won! He’s safe. Call you tomorrow.

Her reply is instantaneous. Saw the kiss on ESPN! Your father is complaining about PDA but he’s smiling. So proud of him! Love you!

You smile, sliding the phone back into your pocket. The sound of heavy cleats clicking against the concrete floor echoes down the tunnel.

You look up.

Beau is walking down the hallway, completely alone. He’s ditched the reporters, the coaches, and the trophy. He has a towel draped over his neck, his jersey grass-stained and torn at the collar, but he walks with the swagger of a man who owns the entire world.

When he sees you, his entire posture softens. He doesn’t even acknowledge the boys. He walks straight up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.

“You smell so good,” he groans, inhaling deeply. “I’ve been surrounded by sweaty linebackers for four hours. My instincts were screaming at me to find you.”

“I’m right here,” you say softly, running your hands through his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know he loves.

“We’ll give you two a minute,” Garrett says, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to go raid the VIP buffet before the offensive line gets there and eats everything. Meet us at the car, Beau.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Beau dismisses them with a wave of his hand, not lifting his head from your neck.

The boys shuffle down the hallway, their voices fading into the distance, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet tunnel.

Beau finally pulls back, resting his hands on your hips. He looks down at you, really looks at you, his eyes searching your face.

“What?” You ask, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks under his intense stare.

“I’m just thinking,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “About the drive back from the city that night. Before the crash. My dad asked me if I had any prospects, and I told him I didn’t have time for a mate. That football was my only priority.”

“Well, you were a little busy,” you tease.

“I was an idiot,” he corrects, his voice completely serious. “I thought this — the game, the championship, the draft — I thought this was the best feeling in the world.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “It doesn’t even come close, Y/N. Winning this game feels great, but coming to the sidelines and seeing you waiting for me? That’s everything.”

Your heart swells, the bond flooding with such overwhelming warmth it brings tears to your eyes. “Beau …”

“I mean it,” he says, his grip on your hips tightening. “You saved my life, Y/N. But you also gave me a reason to live it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret climbing into that wrecked car.”

“I could never regret it,” you say, reaching up to cup his face. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, marveling at the fact that this incredible, fiercely devoted alpha belongs entirely to you. “You’re my knight, remember? It’s just like the fairytale.”

Beau smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression that he only ever reserves for you. “Yeah. Just like the fairytale.”

He leans in, kissing you again. It’s slower this time, a deep, lingering promise of everything to come. The noise of the stadium above you is a distant rumble, completely entirely irrelevant.

In the quiet of the concrete tunnel, wrapped in the arms of the boy who owns your soul, you know exactly how the story ends.

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.

"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.

she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.

"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.

you knew trinity meant well.

you really, truly did.

she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.

she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.

but trinity didn't have your history.

she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.

she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.

to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.

he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.

he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.

you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.

you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.

then came a party in early november.

emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.

you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.

and god, he had been wonderful.

that was the part that terrified you the most.

he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.

he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.

but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.

the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey trophies on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.

you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.

to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.

three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.

you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.

you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.

winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.

you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.

you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.

your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.

more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.

you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.

you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.

your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.

it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.

you would survive it.

you had to.

a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.

you looked up from the pages.

a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.

they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.

at the very center of the group was dean.

his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.

your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.

you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.

please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.

dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.

you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.

dean paused mid-stride.

his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.

the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.

the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had

felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.

he had looked for you for weeks after that night.

he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.

"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.

"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.

he started walking across the grass.

every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.

you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.

"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.

he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."

"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.

your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"

terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.

but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.

your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.

papers and highlighters tumbled out.

you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.

as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.

dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.

from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.

the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.

dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.

his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.

he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.

the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.

"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"

panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.

the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.

you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.

"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."

"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.

he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.

when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.

dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.

"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.

the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.

dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.

he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.

"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.

his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"

"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.

your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."

"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."

and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.

the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.

you told him everything.

you told him about your mother.

you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.

you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.

"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."

dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.

his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.

his chest rose and fell heavily.

when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.

he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.

his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.

"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."

you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.

"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"

"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.

the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.

the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.

he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.

at first, it was kind of awkward.

you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.

he became your shadow on campus.

he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.

he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.

"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.

"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."

you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.

dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.

huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.

but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.

in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.

"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.

"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.

and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."

you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.

the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.

but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.

you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.

he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.

"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.

you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.

he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.

you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.

the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.

you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.

dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.

he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.

at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.

thump-thump, thump-thump.

"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."

you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.

instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.

his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.

"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.

he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."

in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.

you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.

he was entirely, undeniably his own man.

and he was already a father.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.

walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.

the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.

every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.

one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.

you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.

dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.

dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.

he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.

"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.

"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.

"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."

dean stopped his movements.

his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.

slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.

he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.

"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."

your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."

"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."

your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.

for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.

there was no trap here.

there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.

"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.

dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.

the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.

it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.

his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.

when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.

"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.

you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.

beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.

inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.

his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.

when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.

rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.

some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.

you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.

you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.

his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.

you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.

coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.

dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.

instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.

trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.

dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.

rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.

"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.

dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"

rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.

"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."

"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.

balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.

he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

later that evening, the summer heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.

dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.

the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.

dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.

he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.

you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.

before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.

your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.

a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.

"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.

dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.

"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.

you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.

dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.

there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.

there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.

there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.

the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.

dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.

his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.

yet, he looked completely at ease.

he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.

"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."

a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."

you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.

a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.

for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.

it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.

it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.

and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.

from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.

rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.

before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.

he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.

"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.

you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.

he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.

rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.

dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.

your mother stopped eating.

she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.