ummmm

He paused, flipping the envelope over. The elegant handwriting on the front was instantly recognizable, sending a familiar, quiet jolt straight to his ribs. Pulling the card free, he read the script: Y/N L/N and Ethan Carter request the pleasure of your company.

He read the names twice. Then a third time.

It wasn't that he couldn't believe she was getting married; Garrett had actually mentioned the engagement months ago over drinks, somewhere between complaining about travel hockey schedules and asking Dean if he ever planned on dating anyone he hadn't met through a screen. At the time, Dean had just smiled, smoothly changed the subject, and ordered another round. But seeing it printed in ink made it real. A date. A venue. A little RSVP card waiting for a checkmark.

Dean stared at it until his coffee went completely cold in his hand. Then, with a dry, self deprecating smile, he checked the box beside ‘accepts with pleasure’.

The drive out to the coast felt shorter than it used to, though that was probably because he was actively trying not to think about why this specific trip felt so heavy.

The small seaside town looked picture-perfect through the windshield. The historic downtown, the harbor, the narrow coastal road running behind the boardwalk. It all seemed like something out of a travel brochure. Before he could stop himself, his eyes drifted toward a small coffee shop near the pier. She used to talk about visiting a place like this after graduation, always detailing the exact kind of bookstore she wanted to open, always laughing when he told her he'd buy out the entire stock just to keep her in business.

A faint smile tugged at his mouth. Some memories never lost their edges, no matter how much time you put between them.

The rehearsal dinner was exactly the kind of upscale, perfectly manicured event Dean expected. The waterfront venue was practically drowning in fairy lights and flowing champagne. Garrett was already there, somehow putting himself in charge of corralling extended family members despite not being related to a single soul in the room, while Logan was actively cornering anyone who would listen to him complain about the dress shoes Dean had forced him to wear.

Before Dean could even get both feet through the door, Hannah caught him in a fierce, perfume scented hug.

"You came," she said, pulling back to look at him.

"I said I would, Hannah."

"I know." She squeezed his arm, her expression softening with a look that was far too perceptive. "I'm just really glad you're here, Dean."

He knew exactly what she meant, and it had nothing to do with the long drive. She was talking about Y/N.

He didn't spot her until nearly an hour later. She was standing by the floor to ceiling windows overlooking the water, laughing at something Allie was saying. Her hair was longer than he remembered, cascading over the shoulders of a pale blue dress, and the diamond on her left hand caught the light every time she gestured.

She looked happy. Not the manufactured, glossy kind of happy people put on for photographs, but something deep rooted and settled. Like she’d finally landed exactly where she belonged after years of searching. Dean had always thought that was all he ever wanted for her. He just hadn't expected how much it would sting to see it realized by someone else.

"Dean?"

He turned, and there she was. Her smile was identical to the one he’d kept locked away in his head, just a little older now. Softer around the eyes.

"Oh my God," she laughed, stepping forward and wrapping her arms around his neck.

He hesitated for a fraction of a second, a brief, muscle memory instinct to pull her closer, before settling his hands against her back. He held her for exactly as long as old friends were supposed to. Not longer, not shorter.

When she pulled away, her cheeks were slightly flushed. "It's so good to see you."

"You too," he said, and he genuinely meant it, even if looking at her felt like reopening a scar he’d spent years convincing himself had faded into nothing.

They fell into step surprisingly fast, the old, easy rhythm of their banter returning without much effort. They talked about his work, laughed over Logan’s latest public disaster, and caught up on Garrett and Hannah. Then she started telling him about her new city, the elementary school where she was teaching, and eventually, about Ethan.

Dean listened closely, noticing the way her voice didn't waver when she said his name. There was no apologetic glance his way, no careful treading around Dean's feelings. Just pure, unadulterated affection. She loved the guy. Really loved him. And watching her, something inside Dean’s chest quietly clicked into place, finally accepting what his brain had known for months.

Later that evening, as the venue staff began setting up centerpieces for the morning, the house band started testing their equipment. Most of the remaining guests ignored them, but someone pushed a classic, upbeat pop track through the house speakers.

Dean caught her eye and let out a low laugh. "Seriously?"

Y/N looked over from a stack of linen napkins. "What?"

"You still owe me a dance, L/N."

She blinked, looking genuinely baffled. "I do?"

"Winter Formal. Junior year."

A sudden realization struck her, and she laughed so hard she had to cover her mouth with her hand. "Oh my God, Dean."

"You bailed halfway through the night," he reminded her, crossing his arms with a mock offended look.

"I had horrible food poisoning from that sketchy diner down the road!"

"Well, you said you’d make it up to me."

"I absolutely did not say that."

"You did," he insisted, his tone dropping into something a bit quieter, a bit warmer. "I remember."

She studied him for a long beat, the laughter dying down into a fond, gentle expression. It wasn't nostalgic or heavy with regret, just a sweet acknowledgment of the past. "One dance," she consented, stepping toward him. "As friends."

Dean nodded immediately, extending a hand. "As friends." He repeated it because he needed the reminder more than she did.

He placed one palm lightly against hers, his other hand settling respectfully at her waist. He kept a deliberate, careful distance between them, enough space to account for the years and the lives that now separated them. Around the room, people carried on, lifting chairs and adjusting table settings, completely ignoring the two old college friends swaying in the center of the room. Dean only wished it felt as simple to him as it looked to everyone else.

She let out a soft breath of laughter when his wingtip accidentally clipped the hem of her dress. "Your skating might be flawless, Di Laurentis, but you've somehow gotten worse at this."

"I was never good to begin with."

"No," she agreed softly, looking up at him. "But I still danced with you."

"Because you were young and easily impressed."

"You make me sound ancient."

"Well, we're getting there."

The laugh that surprised him was loose and easy. For the length of a three minute song, the weight of the world lifted. It felt effortless, like the biggest crisis they had to face was whether Garrett had remembered to pack a matching tie for the ceremony.

And during that dance, it was easy to forget how much time had passed. Then the diamond on her left hand caught the light as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. The years settled back between them all at once.

But as the track began to fade, Dean knew that if he didn't let go right now, he might lose his nerve entirely. So, he stepped back, dropping his hands.

She smiled up at him, breathless. "Thanks."

"No," he said, shaking his head slightly. "Thank you."

A faint line appeared between her brows. "For what?"

The real answers rushed to the back of his throat, nearly choking him. For showing me what love was supposed to look like. For being patient with a young me that was too stupid and damaged to love you back. For leaving before I managed to convince you that you deserved anything less than everything.

Instead, he smoothed his expression into a flawless, easygoing smile. "For finally making up that dance."

She laughed, the tension breaking. "I should've known you'd hold a grudge over a junior year formal."

"I've had a few years to practice the routine."

"Y/N?" A voice cut through the cavernous room, and she turned immediately toward the sound.

Ethan was walking toward them, balancing two glasses of champagne and looking around until his eyes landed on her. The exact moment he spotted her, his entire face lit up. It wasn't the look of a guy proud to show off a beautiful bride; it was the look of a man who genuinely couldn't believe his luck just being in her presence.

Dean watched as Y/N's smile widened instinctively, her hand already reaching out for Ethan's before he even reached the edge of the dance floor. It wasn't a polite, rehearsed gesture. It was pure instinct, the kind built from years of waking up and choosing the same person every single day.

Looking at them, Dean felt the final, jagged piece of his heart settle. It didn't break. It just quieted, like a heavy oak door softly clicking shut.

"I'll see you tomorrow," she said, turning back to him with a bright, happy glow.

Dean looked at her for one last, long second, memorizing the exact shade of her eyes before he smiled. "I don't think you will."

She frowned, confused. "What do you mean?"

He gestured vaguely toward the exit, his tone light and teasing. "You're going to be a little busy getting married. I'll catch you at the reception."

She laughed, stepping in for one final hug, quick, warm, and entirely comfortable. "I'm really glad you came, Dean."

He closed his eyes for a single beat, inhaling the familiar scent of her one last time. "So am I."

She pulled away, disappearing back into the crowd toward her fiancé. Dean stood there and watched as Ethan slipped his fingers between hers, the two of them walking away side by side.

And for the first time in years, Dean didn't try to picture what it would have looked like if it had been him standing by her side. He didn't wonder what would've happened if he'd loved her better. He just hoped that tomorrow, when she walked down that aisle, she wouldn't look back. Because she hadn't made a mistake. She had chosen the man who loved her the way Dean had spent years learning how he should’ve loved her from the start.

Sometimes, love didn't end with shattered glass or slammed doors. Sometimes it just ended with a quiet promise kept in an empty ballroom, and the peaceful understanding that the greatest gift you could give someone was letting them belong completely to the life they built without you.

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The Last Safe House | John Logan

❛❛Born into one of the city's most respected founding families, Y/N has spent her entire life believing The Concord deserves its place. Logan has spent just as long believing it doesn't. When circumstances force them together, each becomes the living contradiction of everything the other thought they understood.❜❜

tbd...

Every Lie Has a Witness | Dean Di Laurentis

❛❛Dean has always believed The Concord deserves protecting. His position within the Founders' Circle has given him every reason to trust the system. Until he meets someone who has quietly spent her life healing the people The Concord has overlooked.❜❜

tbd...

What We Leave Behind | John Tucker

❛❛John Tucker has always believed that people are more than the mistakes they inherit. After the fall of The Concord, he finds himself helping rebuild a city forced to confront everything it tried to forget. When he meets Y/N, someone determined to protect the people left behind, Tucker must decide what parts of the old world are worth saving and what deserves to be left behind.❜❜

tbd...

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The Concord Taglist:

But still.

She caught Garrett laughing at something the girl said, and before she realized what she was doing, she'd already wiped the same section of countertop three times.

The bell over the front door chimed.

"Please tell me my order's almost ready."

Logan shrugged off his jacket as he walked in, looking far more awake than anyone should on a Tuesday afternoon.

"It'll be another couple minutes," Hannah said. "You picking up dinner?"

"Yeah. Y/N got into town earlier than I expected."

Hannah nodded absently, her attention already drifting back toward the corner booth. Logan followed her gaze. The second he spotted the familiar head of hair, he laughed under his breath.

"Well...there she is."

Hannah frowned.

"You know her?"

Instead of answering, Logan headed straight across the diner. Hannah watched him weave between the tables before stopping behind the booth. The girl didn't even look up.

She simply reached one hand back without thinking.

Logan slipped his fingers through hers.

"Hi."

That finally made her glance over her shoulder.

"There you are."

Her face softened in a way Hannah hadn't seen all afternoon. Logan leaned down, kissed her temple, and slid into the booth beside her like it was the most natural thing in the world. She immediately shifted closer, making room without either of them saying a word.

Garrett looked up from the tablet and let out an exaggerated sigh.

"Finally. Please take your girlfriend back."

"I'm trying," Logan said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders anyway.

"You've had her all afternoon."

"I borrowed her."

"You kidnapped me," she corrected.

Hannah stared for a beat longer than she probably should have. Heat crept up the back of her neck. Oh.

Oh, no.

She grabbed the coffee pot mostly to give herself something to do before making her way over.

"You guys need anything?"

Logan looked up first.

"Hannah, have you two met?"

The girl smiled.

"I don't think so."

"This is Y/N."

Logan glanced between them.

"My girlfriend."

Hannah felt every ounce of embarrassment settle squarely onto her shoulders.

Well. That explained everything. She let out a quiet laugh at herself before rubbing a hand against the back of her neck.

"I owe you an apology."

Y/N looked up from the scattered stat sheets.

"For what?"

"I've spent the last hour convincing myself there was something going on over here." Hannah gestured vaguely between her and Garrett before shaking her head. "Turns out I was just making myself look ridiculous."

Understanding crossed Y/N's face. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth before she glanced across the table at Garrett.

"I mean..." she said with a soft laugh. "Looking at us right now, I probably would've thought the same thing."

Garrett leaned back against the booth.

"See?" He gestured toward the mess of papers spread across the table. "I've been the victim here."

Y/N reached over without looking and flicked the edge of his notebook closed.

"You panicked."

"I did not panic."

She only raised an eyebrow.

Garrett held out for all of two seconds before rolling his eyes.

"Maybe a little."

Logan laughed under his breath as he reached for one of the fries sitting forgotten on Garrett's plate.

"So you actually play?" Hannah asked.

"Grew up with it," Y/N said, absentmindedly straightening one of the pages Garrett had scribbled all over. "Garrett wanted another set of eyes before this weekend, so I came by for a couple hours."

"A couple?" Garrett scoffed. "You've been roasting me since lunch."

"Somebody had to."

Logan bumped his shoulder against hers. Y/N smiled into her coffee as Hannah laughed.

"I definitely owe both of you an apology."

"You really don't," Y/N said.

She reached for her mug, turning it slowly between her hands before looking back up.

"If I'd walked in and seen Logan sitting this close to another girl, I probably would've wondered what was going on too."

That earned a small smile from Hannah.

"Thanks."

Her eyes drifted over the papers covering nearly every inch of the table.

"You know," She pointed toward the hallway behind the kitchen. "We've got a private room in the back that's usually empty on Tuesdays. If you're planning on turning Malone's into a film room again, you'd probably be more comfortable back there."

Garrett looked at the mountain of papers spread across the booth.

"That actually sounds amazing."

"I'll go make sure nobody's using it."

As Hannah walked away, Garrett gathered the loose pages into one pile while Logan reached over to help, sliding stray papers back into a neat stack before Y/N could stop him.

"You know," Garrett said, "your girlfriend's terrifying."

Logan didn't even look up.

"You should've seen her when we had a group project sophomore year."

Y/N smiled.

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LOGAN

My thumb had been moving across my phone screen for twenty minutes, but I hadn't actually read a single text.

The group chat was full of Tucker and Garrett asking if I'd fallen into a ditch somewhere, but my brain kept replaying the same thing over and over.

Three o'clock in the morning.

Y/N losing her footing in the hallway and crashing straight into me.

I could still remember catching her. The feel of her waist under my hands. The split second where neither of us moved before she practically launched herself backward. Then she'd bolted into her room and locked the door.

I'd stood there in the dark like an idiot.

"Don't screw this up," I muttered to myself, staring blankly at the face of the recently slammed door. "You need this grade."

That was a lie. Well, not entirely a lie, I definitely needed the grade. But standing outside her locked door last night, my chest still heavy, I realized the grade wasn't my main worry anymore.

When morning came, the click of her bedroom door opening immediately dragged my attention away from my phone screen. I kept my eyes down, trying to look relaxed. Normal. Completely unaffected.

I was a college hockey player, for crying out loud. I threw myself in front of slap shots for fun. A conversation shouldn't have been the thing making me nervous.

"Good morning."

I looked up.

She was trying so hard to sound casual that it was almost impressive. Her hair was still messy from sleep, and she was holding a green mug with both hands like it was giving her emotional support.

For some reason, that nearly made me smile. My eyes stayed on her a second longer than they probably should have.

"Yeah," I said. My voice came out rough, so I cleared my throat quickly. "We're at a ninety four percent. I kept an eye on the sensor cycles after you went to bed. The simulator's respiratory track cleared up around four."

"Oh. Wow. Thank you." She set her drink down. "Well, since my shift is starting, you're free to head back to the hockey house. Tucker and Graham are probably wondering if you died."

I didn't want to leave. That realization hit harder than it should have.

I pushed myself off the couch and stretched, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands. Then I walked over to the kitchen island and stopped beside her.

"About last night..." I said.

"It was three in the morning," she blurted immediately. "The simulator was crying, we both grabbed it at the same time, the space was tight. Things happen when people are sleep deprived. We don't need to overanalyze it."

I stared at her. The words had come out way too fast, and she knew it, too. For a second, I just let the silence sit there.

Then I smiled. Not because I was trying to mess with her, but because somehow, it made me feel better knowing I wasn't the only one affected by whatever the hell happened last night.

"Right," I said slowly. "Things got weird."

I rested my hand on the counter, stopping just short of hers. That probably wasn't helping.

"But just so we're clear, partner..."

The look she gave me almost made me lose my nerve.

"...my heart wasn't beating that fast because of a plastic doll."

She froze. Completely froze.

I had to look away before I did something stupid. Like stay. Or say more. Or make this whole thing a lot harder than it already was.

I grabbed my duffel bag and slung it over my shoulder. "See you tonight at eight. Don't forget to feed the kid."

I headed for the door before my self control had a chance to speak out. The door clicked shut behind me, and the second I stepped into the hallway, I let out a long breath. Then I stood there for another few seconds, staring at absolutely nothing.

This was getting dangerous.

Not because of the project. Not because of the grade. Because if this is how our first night went, I can’t even imagine how difficult the rest of the semester will be.

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NEXT

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Fun fact, the midday Texas sun does not care about designer labels. It doesn’t care about the thread count of your clothes, the price tag on your shoes, or the fact that you spent the last two years living in a high rise with AC blasting 24/7.

By hour three of volunteering at the annual community ranch restoration (a mandatory local obligation my mother conveniently forgot to mention until she practically shoved me out the door and handed me a paintbrush) my favorite white button down was officially ruined. Rust streaked across the sleeves, paint speckled the cuffs, and every gust of wind glued another layer of red dirt to the fabric.

Down the fence line, someone hollered for another bucket of paint while a tractor sputtered to life near the old barn.

"You're going to give yourself a heat stroke just out of pure stubbornness," a voice called out.

I didn't even need to look up to know who it was. John Tucker was leaning against a weathered wooden fence post a few feet away, a heavy roll of chicken wire slung effortlessly over one broad shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing. He’d traded the grease stained Carhartt shirt from a week ago for a faded gray tank top, his shoulders already glistening with a fine sheen of sweat under the brutal noon sun. A smudge of dark dirt cut across his collarbone, highlighting the sharp lines of his frame. It was an aggravatingly rugged look.

"I’m actually doing a flawless paint job, Johnny. Leave me to my art," I said, aiming a sharp glare at him through the top of my sunglasses. My hands were already cramping from gripping the cheap, splintering handle of the brush, and my lower back was screaming.

He let out a low snort, dropping the heavy roll of wire to the dusty ground with a thud that vibrated through the soles of my shoes. "Art? Darlin', you’ve been painting the same three feet of fence for forty five minutes. And you're using the wrong sealant. The first heavy rain we get is going to wash that expensive chalk right into the dirt."

"It's weather resistant enamel, you caveman," I snapped, though I secretly had no idea if that was true. Truthfully, I’d just grabbed the can with the prettiest label.

Before I could bite back with a retort about his utter lack of faith in my artistic vision, John crossed the distance between us.

He didn't ask permission. He just reached out and took the brush from my fingers.

His hand brushed mine in the process, warm and rough, and my hand twitched under his.

"Watch," he said.

I expected him to step beside me and demonstrate from a reasonable distance.

Instead, he moved behind me.

My entire body went rigid as he reached around my side, guiding my hand back onto the brush handle.

"You're holding it like a pen," John murmured.

His hand settled over mine.

His shoulder brushed mine as he adjusted my grip. I forgot entirely what I was supposed to be looking at.

"Too rigid. You're fighting the wood." His grip shifted slightly, guiding my wrist. "Let it do the work."

I stared determinedly at the fence.

At the paint.

At literally anything except the fact that John Tucker was standing close enough for me to feel the heat coming off him.

"Like this."

He guided the brush in one smooth stroke down the board.

The hostility we'd spent years hiding behind suddenly felt a lot less convincing.

"Right," I said.

John went still for a second.

Then another.

Neither of us moved.

Around us, the ranch kept moving. Somewhere behind, a hammer struck metal with a sharp clang that made both of us blink.

When he finally stepped back, the space between us felt oddly thick. Thicker than the normal humidity.

"There," he said.

I looked up, expecting the familiar smirk.

It wasn't there.

"Tucker!" someone called from the far end of the property. "You got a second?"

His jaw tightened slightly, dark eyes fixed on mine for a moment longer than necessary.

"Keep that up," he muttered, nodding toward the fence, "and you might actually finish before the sun goes down."

He grabbed the roll of wire mesh and headed toward the far end of the property without another word.

I stood there holding the paintbrush, staring after him.

Someone brushed past me carrying a ladder, snapping me out of whatever had just happened.

Then I looked down at the fence, realizing….

I'd painted the same board three times.

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The roar of the gymnasium, the shrieking whistles, the heavy thud of a stray kickball, the collective hum of dozens of parents, snapped back into focus like a sudden slap to the face.

You couldn’t breathe. As he walked toward you, everything else in the gym seemed to disappear from his view. Every step he took across the polished wood floor felt like a countdown.

Your first instinct was to grab Lily’s hand and run. You could make it to the double doors, throw her into her car seat, and drive until Hastings was nothing but a speck in your rearview mirror.

But Lily was already moving.

"Look, Mommy! He has stickers!" Lily chirped, entirely oblivious to the ground opening up beneath her mother's feet. She pointed a tiny, denim clad arm directly at Garrett as he stepped into the small circle space by the kindergarten teacher’s desk.

"Lily, sweetie, we have to go find your cubby," your voice came out breathless, tight, and completely unconvincing. You forced your feet to move, stepping into the space just as Garrett arrived.

Up close, the reality of him hit you like a wave. He smelled the same, something sharp and clean, mixed with the faint trace of old leather, but the boyish arrogance was completely gone. His eyes, once so bright and teasing, were dark and swimming with shock. He was looking at Lily, then up at you, his jaw tight as he actively fought to keep his composure in a room full of townspeople.

"Hi there," Garrett said. His voice came out rough enough that he had to clear his throat before trying again. He forced a polite, tight smile for the kindergarten teacher, though his eyes never truly left Lily's face. "I'm... I'm Garrett. I run the youth rec leagues here."

The teacher smiled warmly. "Oh, wonderful! Garrett, this is Lily Y/L/N. It's her very first day."

"Lily," Garrett repeated, the name tasting heavy and foreign yet entirely right on his tongue. He slowly lowered himself down to one knee, bringing himself eye level with the little girl. His hands trembled where they rested on his knees. "It's... it's really nice to meet you, Lily."

Lily beamed, entirely captivated by the shiny gold sticker sheet he was holding. She took a step closer to him, her light up sneakers clicking against the floor. "I like your shirt. It looks like a policeman shirt."

Garrett let out a breathless, wet laugh, his chest heaving as he stared into her wide eyes. He reached out, his fingers hovering for a fraction of a second before he gently pressed a star shaped sticker onto the front of her denim jacket. "It is just a volunteer shirt, Lily. But thank you."

He looked up then, his gaze rising from the little girl to lock onto you. The warmth in his eyes vanished. He looked at you instead, searching your face for something, an explanation, a denial, anything that made sense of what he was seeing.

"Do you like sports, Lily?" Garrett asked, his eyes remaining fixed entirely on your face. His voice carried a heavy, double meaning that went completely over the teacher's head but pierced right through you. "Do you like to run fast?"

"I can run super fast," Lily bragged, bouncing on her toes. "Mommy says I have too much energy."

"Is that so?" Garrett murmured, his jaw flexing. He slowly stood to his full height, and suddenly there wasn't nearly enough room between you. He kept his hands tucked into his pockets, a clear effort to keep them from shaking. "Your mommy sounds like she has her hands full."

"We should go, Lily," you managed to say, your voice barely louder than a whisper. The noise around you blurred into something distant. "The teacher needs to take everyone to the classroom now."

The kindergarten teacher clapped her hands together, calling out to the remaining parents and children in the corner. "Alright, penguins! Time to line up by the door! Parents, this is where we say our quick goodbyes so we can start our morning adventure."

Lily did not hesitate. She turned and hugged your knees tightly, giving you a quick, sticky kiss on the cheek before running over to the neat line forming by the exit. She did not look back, completely ready to conquer her first day.

You stood frozen as the line of children filed out into the hallway, leaving the gymnasium suddenly feeling massive and terrifyingly quiet.

You turned on your heel to sprint for the main exit, but Garrett was already moving, his heavy footsteps echoing right behind you.

The hallway blurred around you as you hurried toward the heavy glass doors, your purse strap slipping off your shoulder. 

"Wait."

The word was not loud, but it had the authority of a command.

You kept walking, your heart hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. "Garrett, please. I have to get to work."

A hand wrapped gently but firmly around your forearm, stopping your momentum. The warmth of his hand seeped through your sleeve. He did not pull you, but the sheer weight of his presence forced you to turn around.

When you looked up, Garrett looked completely undone. The composed volunteer from the gym was gone. His eyes were red at the rims, confusion twisting his features.

"Five years," Garrett whispered, his grip loosening on your arm until his hand just hovered there, trembling. "You chose Hastings. You came to a town forty minutes away from the city. Why here?"

"Because it was quiet," you said, your voice breaking as the tears you had been holding back finally slipped down your cheeks. "Because nobody knew me here."

Looking at him now, the hallway disappeared.

Suddenly it was June again. Graduation music drifted through the open doors. His father's voice carried from somewhere down the hall, talking about scouts, training camp, the draft. Garrett had been trying to listen to both conversations at once, and you had known, even before the fight started, that neither of you was going to walk away happy. It hadn't been one explosive mistake that ended you. It had been months of trying to fit two futures together that no longer matched. The argument had only been the final crack. Raised voices. Tears. A slammed door. Then silence. The kind that settled between two people who still loved each other but no longer knew how to stay. You hadn't walked away because you stopped loving him. You had walked away because, for one terrible night, letting go had seemed kinder than asking him to choose. But Garrett didn't know what happened two weeks later.

"You didn't look for me," Garrett said, his voice dropping to a whisper, his eyes searching yours. "After that night... after everything we said to each other, I thought we were just letting go. I thought we were leaving the wreckage behind. But you knew."

"I found out right after I moved into my apartment here," you confessed, a sob catching in your throat. "Garrett, we had just spent hours shouting about how impossible our lives were going to be. You had the draft. You had scouts watching your every move, and your dad counting down the seconds until you made it to the pros. I was terrified. We had already parted ways, and I didn't want to be the reason you looked back and felt trapped by a life you didn't choose."

"I would have come back," he said instantly. He took another step, closing the distance between you until you could feel the warmth radiating from him. "If I had known, the draft wouldn't have mattered. The fight wouldn't have mattered. I would have turned right around and walked away from everything if you had just given me the choice. You did not give me a choice."

The hallway fell silent. Neither of you moved.

Five years settled between you all at once. Five birthdays. Five years of scraped knees, bedtime stories, and school pictures Garrett had never known existed.

You dropped your gaze to the scuffed linoleum floor, unable to bear the look on his face any longer.

"What happens now?" you whispered.

Garrett didn't answer immediately.

He looked toward the glass doors leading outside, then back down the hallway where Lily's classroom had disappeared only minutes earlier. His chest rose with one slow breath before he looked back at you.

When he spoke, his voice was quieter than you'd ever heard it.

"I'm not going back to the city today." Your eyes lifted to his.

"I'm finishing my shift at the rec table," he continued. "And at three o'clock..."

He swallowed.

"...I'll be sitting on that bench outside."

His eyes never left yours.

"I don't expect you to have everything figured out by then." He paused. "Hell, I don't either."

The corner of his mouth lifted into a tired, almost disbelieving smile.

"But I'd like the chance to meet my daughter."

The words cracked something open inside you. Not because they were angry. Not because they demanded anything.

Because they were so heartbreakingly simple.

He wasn't asking five years back. He was asking for three o'clock.

You closed your eyes for a second before giving a small nod.

"I'll bring her."

Garrett's shoulders sagged with a relief so quiet it almost hurt to look at.

"Thank you."

For a long second, neither of you knew what came after that.

Then Garrett stepped back.

"I'll see you this afternoon."

You watched him disappear through the gym doors, his shoulders a little straighter than before. The exit stood only a few feet away, but you found yourself staring after him instead.

The life you'd built in Hastings wasn't hidden anymore.

And for the first time in five years you weren't sure you wanted it to be.

Three o'clock came far too quickly.

Garrett was already sitting on the weathered wooden bench outside the front entrance when the final bell rang. He'd been there for nearly twenty minutes, elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together tightly enough that his knuckles had gone pale.

Every time the doors opened, another wave of children poured outside. Some sprinted toward waiting parents. Others dragged oversized backpacks behind them, already talking a mile a minute about finger painting and recess.

Garrett watched every single one.

He wondered what Lily had been like on her first day of preschool.

Whether she'd cried when you left.

Whether she'd made friends easily.

Whether she'd always talked with her hands the way she had this morning.

Five years.

Five years of little moments that nobody could ever give back.

The doors opened again. This time, you stepped outside first. Your eyes found him immediately. For a second, neither of you moved. Then you walked over slowly, stopping a few feet away.

"She takes forever packing up," you said quietly.

Garrett let out the smallest huff of laughter.

"Yeah?"

You nodded.

"She always wants to make sure every crayon makes it back into the box." A tiny smile tugged at your mouth before disappearing again. "She says they get lonely."

Garrett smiled despite himself.

"That..." He swallowed. "That sounds like you." You looked at him.

"No," you said softly.

"It sounds like you."

The words hit him harder than he expected. You glanced back toward the school doors.

"She also hates peanut butter."

He blinked.

"What?"

"Everyone assumes kids like peanut butter." You shrugged lightly. "She won't touch it. Said, she might meet a friend that gets sick because of it."

Garrett listened carefully. As though each tiny fact was something precious.

"She sleeps with a turtle night light."

Another pause.

"She can't whistle."

His eyes stayed on yours. You weren't just making conversation. You were quietly handing him five years he'd never gotten to live.

"I don't know why I'm telling you all this," you admitted with a shaky laugh.

"I do," Garrett said. Your eyes lifted to his.

"Because you're trying to catch me up."

Neither of you noticed the school doors opening again until a familiar little voice echoed across the sidewalk.

"Mommy!"

Lily came barreling outside with her backpack bouncing wildly behind her. She launched herself toward you before stopping short the moment she spotted Garrett.

"The sticker guy!"

Garrett stood so quickly the bench scraped against the concrete.

"Hi, Lily."

She smiled at him like seeing him twice in one day was the most natural thing in the world.

"I finished my cat."

"You did?"

She nodded enthusiastically before wrestling a slightly crumpled piece of paper out of her backpack.

"I made him orange."

Garrett accepted the drawing with both hands. The cat had one ear bigger than the other. Its whiskers were purple, and its tail somehow curved through its own body.

Across the top, written in uneven kindergarten letters, was:

MR. CAT

Garrett stared at it. Not because of the drawing. Because it was the first thing his daughter had ever given him. His vision blurred.

"It's perfect," he whispered.

"I know," Lily said proudly.

You laughed. It was the first laugh Garrett had heard from you that sounded like the girl he'd fallen in love with. Lily slipped her little hand into his without thinking twice.

"Come on."

Garrett looked down.

"Where are we going?"

"To Mommy's car."

She said it like the answer should have been obvious.

"You didn't see my turtle backpack."

Garrett looked up at you. You held his gaze for a long moment. Then, almost too quietly to hear.

"You can walk us."

Relief washed across his face so quickly it almost hurt to witness. He tightened his fingers around Lily's hand just enough for her to feel it.

"I'd like that."

The three of you started across the parking lot together. Lily filled the silence all by herself, talking about glitter glue, recess, and how Mrs. Simmons let everyone pick their own reading rug.

Garrett listened to every word.

Not because the stories were extraordinary. Because he'd waited five years to hear them. You walked beside them, watching Lily chatter happily between the two of you.

Nothing had changed.

There were still difficult conversations ahead. Years that couldn't be reclaimed. Trust that would have to be rebuilt one day at a time.

But as Garrett laughed at something Lily said and she immediately reached for his hand again, you realized something you hadn't let yourself believe was possible.

Maybe moving forward didn't have to mean leaving the past behind.

Maybe it just meant finally letting someone walk beside you through it.

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"I want to see the fire truck, Mommy," she whined, bouncing on the heels of her light up sneakers. The school was hosting a Community Heroes welcome day in the gymnasium, and the roar of excited five year olds already echoing down the hall.

"We’re going. Just let me fix your clip." You patted her shoulder, giving her a gentle nudge toward the double doors. "Go find your name tag at the circle rug. I’m going to hand your medical forms to the nurse and I’ll be right in, okay?"

She didn't need telling twice. She bolted into the gym, a tiny blur of pink and determination running away from you.

Inside the gym, the noise hit you immediately. Local volunteers, EMTs, and off duty firefighters were standing around, letting kids try on oversized helmets and climb on plastic displays. Near the back corner, standing by a booth for the local youth recreation league, Garrett was adjusting a stack of sign up clipboards.

He was older now. Broader along the shoulders and less reckless looking than the boy you'd known. The sharp edges of his twenties had softened into something steadier, more grounded. He wore a simple navy volunteer shirt, laughing as he handed a sticker to a little boy. He was happy.

And then he heard it.

Above the chattering parents and squeaking sneakers, a clear, high pitched voice rang out just a few feet away from his table. Lily had marched right up to the kindergarten teacher holding the clipboard.

"Hi! I’m Lily," she announced with all the fierce confidence of a child who had practiced her introduction in the mirror all morning.

"Well hello, Lily," the teacher smiled, pen poised over the attendance sheet. "What's your last name, sweetie?"

"Lily Y/L/N."

The clipboard slipped an inch in Garrett’s grip.

He froze entirely, the breath physically leaving his lungs. The chatter around him blurred into meaningless noise. Y/L/N. Your last name. A name he hadn't spoken out loud in half a decade, but one he still remembered far too well.

His head snapped toward the source of the voice.

She was tiny, but Garrett saw it immediately. The shape of her face. The stubborn tilt of her chin. But her eyes (wide, dark, and bright) were undeniably yours. She was holding a crumpled drawing of a cat, completely unaware that the man staring at her had just realized she was his daughter.

Garrett's heart hammered against his ribs.

"Lily!"

The voice came from the gym entrance. Garrett’s eyes instinctively tracked the sound, cutting through the crowd of parents until they landed on you. You were catching your breath, holding a stray permission slip, looking around the room with that familiar, protective scanning gaze.

Then, your eyes met his.

The blood drained from your face so fast you felt dizzy, your hand dropping to your side. The noise of the gym faded into the background. 

As Garrett stared at Lily, he realized just how much of her life he'd missed. Five years. His eyes moved to yours, searching your face like he was hoping he'd somehow gotten it wrong.

He hadn't.

When he looked back at the little girl standing in front of him, his eyes filled before he could stop them.

"Oh, baby," he whispered.

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“Hey, Bug.”

It starts before I’m ready for it. I press play anyway. I can’t help myself.

Beau’s voice floods the room, loud and careless, coming through the speaker with that warmth he only used when he was completely comfortable.

“Mom says you’re ignoring her again, which is honestly impressive considering she’s been texting you like you’ve gone missing or something.”

A rustle. The heavy, familiar thud of his gym bag hitting the floor in the background.

“I told her you’re probably just being dramatic.” He laughs under his breath, knowing I’d roll my eyes at him for that.

And I do. Even now. Even when it doesn’t matter anymore.

"I swear you're worse than I am. And that's saying something." A pause follows. Not a clean one. It’s heavy, filled with the faint hum of his fan turning. He’s hesitating, weighing whether to actually say something real or just ruin the moment with a joke. "Call me back, yeah? Love you, Bug. Talk to you later."

Click. The voicemail ends. 

I don’t move for a while. I just sit there with my phone pressed to my palm, waiting for it to miraculously bring him back. It never does.

But Beau is still everywhere anyway. He’s in the stupid couch cushion that’s permanently warped on the left because he never learned how to sit like a normal person. He’s in the crusty, half empty glass on the counter. I’ve left it there forever because washing it feels too much like scrubbing him out of existence. Sometimes, when the floorboards creak down the hall, I actually half turn, expecting him to stumble through the door late for dinner.

I finally force myself to stand up and wander into his room. I don’t go in here much anymore, mostly because everything reminds me that he’s not coming back. His football jersey is still draped over the desk chair and homework spread across his desk, untouched. 

He just paused his life and forgot to unpause it.

That was always Beau. Everything half finished except the way he loved people. Especially me.

My eyes catch on the old, scuffed football sitting on his nightstand, the one we used to throw around in the backyard until the streetlights came on. Just looking at the worn leather pulls me right back into the past, making the memory rush in before I can stop it.

I’m eight again. Barefoot, the grass wet against my skin. My skinned knee stings in a way that feels like the end of the world, even though I know, even then, it isn’t. I’m crying before I fully understand why. Beau was beside me before I could catch my breath. “Hey,” he says immediately, dropping into the dirt beside me. He must have been running toward me before I even hit the ground. “Hey, look at me.” “I fell,” I manage between hiccups. “I see that,” he says, way too serious for twelve. Like this is a problem he can solve if he just focuses hard enough. “Okay. New rule.” I sniff. “What rule?” “If you’re gonna fall,” he says, reaching out to pull me closer, “you have to fall in my direction.” “That’s not a rule,” I tell him through my tears. “It is now.” “And if I don’t?” He doesn’t even hesitate. He just lifts me onto his back, his shoulders already broad and steady. “Then I carry you anyway.”

A sharp, aggressive vibration against my thigh violently yanks me out of it. The apartment suddenly feels twice as empty, the quiet settling in.

I glance down at the screen. I already know who it is without looking.

Dean.

He always checks in like this, quiet, careful, as if he’s afraid too much pressure will break whatever’s left of me.

Dean: just checking in. you don’t have to reply. Dean: I’m here if you need anything.

I stare at the blue bubbles until the screen goes dark. Admitting I need something means admitting I’m drowning, and I can't say that out loud yet. I shove the phone into my pocket and turn to leave Beau’s room, but a flash of white under the front door catches my eye.

My name is printed across the front in rigid, typed letters. With a bright red ‘Notice’ tagged at the front. I don't even have to tear the envelope to know what it is, but my hands shake anyway as I pull out the paper.

I already know what it is before I even slide the paper out.

Lease termination. I’m forced to vacate within thirty days. 

Property holder: Beau Maxwell.

I read his name three times. It doesn’t stop feeling wrong. It doesn’t stop feeling final.

The paper slips through my fingers, hitting the floor with a soft smack. I can't even bring myself to bend down and pick it up. Because it’s not just that my brother is gone. It’s that the world is actively clawing back every single thing that still holds his memory.

My knees give out slightly, and I find myself sliding down against the front door, staring at the white envelope. The panic locks tight around my throat. Thirty days to pack up his room. Thirty days to erase the last place he existed.

I can't call my mom, she’s already one bad day away from an absolute breakdown. I also, can't face the landlord alone.

With shaking fingers, I pull my phone back out and open the thread I've been avoiding. I don't type out a long explanation. I don't tell him I'm breaking down. I just send a text back to the only guy at Briar who doesn't look at me like a ghost.

Y/N: Can you come over?

The reply comes back almost instantly, before I can even regret sending it.

Dean: On my way.

I didn't sleep that night. Dean had shown up twenty minutes after my text, sitting with me on the entryway floor until the panic finally passed, but the rest of the night was a blur of tossing and turning. Every time I closed my eyes, I heard Beau’s voicemail looping somewhere just out of reach. His voice didn't fade the way it should. It just lingered, as if he were waiting for me to answer him properly this time.

By morning, I’ve stopped pretending I can sleep.

The cardboard boxes arrive before I’ve even made coffee. Dean had slipped out at dawn to get them from a local hardware store, and he lets himself back into the apartment without knocking. He does that now, as if the locks were a mere suggestion.

“Thought you might need these,” he says, setting the heavy stack down carefully near the kitchen counter.

I don’t thank him. Not because I’m ungrateful, but because I know if I start talking, the tears will start again and I won't be able to stop.

Dean looks around the room. It isn't nosy or invasive. He is just aware, checking to see which parts of Beau are still intact today. His gaze catches on Beau’s bedroom door. The door is still closed, still untouched.

“You don’t have to do all of this today,” he says softly.

“I know,” I say, even though I don’t believe it myself.

Dean doesn’t argue. He just nods once, a slow, grounding movement. “Okay. I’ll stay then.”

He says it like that’s just what he does now. He stays.

The first box takes me too long. It’s just clothes, so it shouldn't feel heavy. Beau’s shirts still smell faintly like laundry detergent, outside air, and a life that used to feel normal. I start to fold a faded gray t shirt and completely forget what I’m doing halfway through. With the next one, I don’t even try to fold it. I just hold it against my chest.

Dean doesn’t interrupt. He just sits on the floor across from me, sorting through a stack of old sports magazines quietly, understanding that there’s no right way to do this. There is only a way to keep moving.

Eventually, a photograph slips out of a textbook on his desk. It’s Beau at fifteen in his junior varsity football gear, smiling like he already knows exactly where he’s going in life. He always did.

I don’t realize I’m crying until Dean shifts slightly on the hardwood.

“Hey,” he says softly.

I shake my head before he can say more, wiping my cheeks with the sleeve of Beau's shirt. “I’m fine.” The lie comes out automatically, pure muscle memory at this point.

Dean doesn’t push. He just says, “Okay,” letting me know he’s decided to let me have the lie.

The apartment gets more suffocating as the hours pass. Everything I touch turns into a reminder. A chipped coffee mug that Beau drank out of every single morning like it was the only cup in the kitchen. A stack of old mail that he tossed onto the counter without opening. A pair of muddy cleats shoved under the living room couch because he planned to deal with them later.

Later. That was always his favorite word. As if there was always going to be one.

By the time we’ve packed most of the kitchen, the apartment doesn’t feel like Beau anymore. 

Dean is at the sink, rinsing dishes I know he doesn’t need to wash. He just needs something to do with his hands.

“So,” he says after a while, keeping his eyes on the running water. “Your brother was really bad at cleaning up after himself.”

A small laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. The sound surprises both of us. Dean glances over his shoulder, his expression softening as if he’s holding onto the sound of my laughter carefully.

“There it is,” he murmurs.

I look away immediately, because laughing feels entirely wrong here, even when it’s real.

I wander back into the living room to tackle the final drawer of the entertainment center, a spot I haven't opened in months. Inside, it’s mostly junk, old receipts and ticket stubs from his games. But as I clear out the papers, I notice a notification on my old tablet sitting at the bottom of the drawer.

My breath catches. It's a saved voicemail notification on the cloud account. The date is stamped three days before the accident. An unopened message from Beau that I somehow missed during the chaos of the funeral.

My thumb hovers over the screen, but I can't press play. I can't do it yet. It sits there like a question I don’t know how to answer, making my stomach twist.

Behind me, I hear Dean walk into the room. I quickly slide the tablet under my arm, but he notices the tension in my shoulders immediately.

“You okay?” he asks.

I don't answer, because I'm not.

Instead, I look down at his hands. He is holding his backup phone, the cracked one he usually keeps in his gym bag. He has headphones plugged into it, a single earbud dangling down, the audio paused on his screen. He catches me looking and pulls the other earbud out quickly, looking like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn't.

I don’t ask what he was listening to. I already know. It has to be Beau, some old video or a recording from the locker room.

“You have more?” I ask quietly, my voice cracking. “More recordings of him?”

Dean hesitates, his jaw tightening as he looks at the phone in his hand. Then, he nods. “Yeah.”

Something in my chest shifts. I thought I was the only one doing this, holding onto pieces of a ghost in the middle of the night. Turns out I wasn't even close.

We don’t talk about it after that. We just keep packing, side by side, the quiet between us no longer feeling empty. It just feels shared. And for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm not the only one carrying him.

——

I didn’t realize how late it was until the light outside turned the wrong color, spilling long, amber shadows across the bare floorboards. Everything in the apartment looked different under it, softer and warmer. It looked almost like it used to when Beau would come home after a long practice and leave the front door wide open because he never liked how quiet the place felt when it was shut.

Now it was just quiet no matter what I did.

Dean was here. He never asked if he should come over anymore, he just did. I watched him move around the kitchen, stacking empty boxes like he was trying to force order out of a situation that completely refused to be organized. There was something incredibly steady about the way he did it, as if grief hadn't made him chaotic the way it had made me. Or maybe he just hid it better.

“You don’t have to keep doing that,” I said quietly when he started trying to fold a cardboard box that was already completely full.

He glanced up, blinking as if pulling himself out of a trance. “Doing what?”

“Helping.”

There was a long pause, the hum of the refrigerator filling the gap between us. Then, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, he said, “But I want to.”

I didn’t respond to that because I didn’t know how to.

We ended up sitting on the living room floor, our backs against the couch. The apartment was mostly emptied now, stripped down to its bare bones. For a while, neither of us talked.

Then Dean cleared his throat, his arms resting loosely on his knees. “He used to talk about you a lot, you know.”

My chest tightened. “I know.”

“No,” Dean said gently, finally turning his head to look at me. “I mean a lot. In the locker room, after his games, I’d sneak in and congratulate him. Him and his teammates would talk about families and he’d get that look, like he was pretending it wasn’t a big deal, but he was really bad at pretending.”

That made something ache deeply behind my ribs. “That sounds like him.”

“Yeah,” Dean said quietly, his eyes drifting back to the empty hallway. “He noticed everything about you.”

I didn’t know what to do with that, so I just sat with the heavy comfort of it.

Eventually, a restless energy pulled me up, and I found myself standing in Beau’s doorway. The room was almost empty now, just a bare bed frame and a few remaining things we hadn’t touched yet.

Dean noticed immediately, but he didn't follow me. He just waited in the living room, understanding that this part of the night wasn’t something you interrupt.

I stepped inside, my movements slow and careful, as if Beau might be here if I didn’t move too fast. My hand brushed the edge of his desk, and a layer of dust caught on my fingers.

“I used to think he’d just,” my voice broke before I could finish the sentence.

Dean didn’t make me finish it. From the hallway, he just murmured, “Yeah.”

Because he knew exactly what I meant. I used to think he’d just come back, as if his absence were temporary if I just waited long enough. It wasn't.

I knelt down to open his bottom desk drawer, and the moment the wood creaked, a memory hit me. Pulling me right back to the tailgate party outside the stadium last fall.

The air had been thick with barbecue smoke and loud music, the campus alive with the buzz of a game day. Beau had been standing too close to the grill, laughing with his teammates. I had been sitting on the steps of the team trailer, scrolling through my phone, when I noticed Dean across the quad. He was wearing his Briar hockey jersey, helping someone move heavy coolers, just talking and laughing. He looked different like that, not loud, not trying to be the center of attention. Just there. Beau had dropped onto the step beside me, shoving a plate of food into my lap. “Stop staring,” he’d said immediately. “I wasn’t staring.” “You were absolutely staring.” “I wasn’t, Beau.” He leaned back, grinning. “Sure. You keep telling yourself that, Bug.” He let me steal a fry from his plate, always letting me get away with things. Then, his expression shifted, his eyes darting across the quad toward Dean before looking back at me. I didn’t fully understand the weight of his expression until much later, but I remembered his exact words. “Just saying, you’re both really bad at pretending.” I hadn't asked what he meant then. I wasn’t ready to know yet. 

Blinking back to the present, I realized I was still staring at the empty bottom drawer of his desk. Dean was standing in the doorway now, watching me closely but not stepping across the threshold.

I looked at him, and for the very first time, I noticed something I hadn’t before. He was holding himself together in the exact same fragile way I was, just doing it much quieter.

“I didn’t know you stayed in Hastings after the accident,” I said softly.

Dean huffed a quiet laugh.

“Yeah, well. Every time I left, it felt like I was leaving a part of him behind.”

That landed differently than I expected. It wasn’t about a sense of obligation to my family. It was about Beau. 

——

A few nights later, we found ourselves back in the living room. It had become a habit without either of us agreeing to it.

Dean broke the silence first. “Do you ever think about calling him?”

I froze, my hand tightening in my lap.

He shook his head quickly, looking down at his boots. “Not like actually calling. Just,” he exhaled a long breath, “I still do it sometimes.”

My throat tightened so much it hurt. “Yeah,” I admitted.

Dean nodded, as if that confession were enough, as if he already knew. There was a long, heavy pause before he spoke again, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You know, I thought of him as a brother before I even realized it. And now it just feels like I don’t know how to stop missing him in everything we used to do.”

That was the closest either of us had ever come to saying it out loud. What Beau was to both of us, and what he still was.

The apartment felt entirely different in the dead of night, the bare walls echoing the small sounds of our breathing. I had stepped away into the hallway under the pretense of going to the bathroom, needing a second to breathe away from the crushing weight of that unopened voicemail on my screen.

The front door was clicked shut, locking us into the quiet space, but as I walked back toward the kitchen, the sound of a voice stopped me dead in my tracks.

“Hey,” Dean said quietly.

There was a heavy pause, and then his voice dropped softer, completely stripped of the defensive, easygoing armor he wore on campus. “Beau.”

My hand stopped mid motion against the drywall. I didn't move. I couldn't even breathe right.

Through the shadow of the doorway, I can see him leaning heavily against the counter, his phone pressed so hard to his ear his knuckles are white. He’s dialing the old number. The one that doesn't go anywhere anymore.

“Hey, man. I don't... I don't really know why I keep doing this. Just habit, I guess. Keep thinking you're gonna pick up and call me an idiot." He swallows hard, his jaw tight. "I know you're not going to. Obviously."

It doesn't sound like acceptance. It sounds raw and bitter.

I pressed my palm flat against the wall, only just realizing that my entire body was shaking.

"I'm with her right now," Dean goes on, his eyes fixed blindly on the floorboards. "Helping her pack up the apartment. I didn't really ask if it was okay, I just kind of showed up, which you'd probably lose your mind over. You were always weird about boundaries." He tries to laugh, but it catches in his throat, turning into something ragged. "She's losing it, Beau. She's really not okay."

The words landed heavy.  He didn't say it like a casual observation. He said it like a confession, like admitting it cost him a piece of himself.

"And I don't know what to do," he whispers, his voice cracking slightly. "I know, I know you'd tell me it's not my job to fix it. But I keep remembering you saying she was tougher than she looked. So I'm just... I'm trying to believe you. I'm trying to hold it together."

He pauses, rubbing a hand across his face, looking utterly exhausted under the dim kitchen bulb.

"And I miss you. God, man, I miss you so much it's stupid." Another long, suffocating silence stretches out. When he speaks again, it's barely a breath. "And, look... you were right. Even though you never told me this straight up… but I knew you had your thoughts and all that. And…. I think I'm falling in love with her."

The air leaves my lungs entirely. I take a blind step forward, stumbling right into the light of the kitchen doorway.

Dean was still facing away from me, the phone gripped tightly in his hand as if he hadn't decided if he was done speaking to the ghost between us. He hadn't seen me yet.

“I don’t think that’s something I planned,” he continued, his voice rough and uneven. “But I also don’t think you’re surprised. You always knew things before I did.” He let out a short, humorless laugh. “I’m just trying not to feel like I’m replacing you. And I can’t tell if I’m failing, or if I’m just still grieving you too much to tell the difference. I just wish you were here.”

The voicemail ended, cutting off with a sharp click. He didn't move after. For a long time, it was just Dean standing under the dim kitchen light, waiting for a response he knew would never come.

I didn't think before the sound left my mouth. “I–.”

His shoulders tensed instantly, locking up as the phone nearly slipped from his fingers. Slowly, he turned around to face me. There was absolutely nothing careful or guarded in his expression. There was just exhaustion, deep grief, and a vulnerability that looked a lot like fear.

“I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” he rasped, his eyes searching mine desperately.

“I know,” I said, stepping fully into the light. My voice came out much quieter than I expected, but it was steady enough to surprise both of us. “I know, Dean.”

A long silence stretched between us. I looked down at his phone, at the screen where the call log was still fading into black.

I pulled my own phone out of my pocket, looking at the unopened message from three days before the crash. “I still haven’t listened to it,” I admitted softly, holding it out between us.

Dean didn't say anything right away. He didn't try to make an excuse or smooth it over with a joke. He just walked across the small distance between us and nodded once, a grounding, solid presence in the middle of the empty apartment.

“We can listen to it whenever you're ready,” he whispered, his hand gently finding mine in the quiet. “Together.”

We didn’t move for a long time.

Not everything was fixed.

But neither of us let go of each other’s hand.

——

We didn’t talk much after that. Not because there was nothing left to say, but because there was simply too much.

The apartment felt entirely bare now. The walls were empty in places that used to hold pictures, and echoes completely replaced the sound of laughs. Even the moonlight spilling through the window felt temporary.

Dean and I were sitting on the hardwood floor again. My phone sat directly between us on the floor, the screen still glowing, still waiting. The unopened voicemail from three days before Beau died stared back at us.

I didn't realize I was holding my breath until Dean spoke up. “You don’t have to listen to it,” he said quietly, his shoulder brushing mine.

I let out a short laugh, though it didn't sound like real humor. “I know.” I paused, staring at the digital time stamp. “But I think I do.”

Dean didn’t argue. He just nodded once, a slow, grounding movement that let me know he’d been waiting for me to reach this point for a very long time.

I tapped the screen before I could change my mind. The audio file opened. For a second, there was nothing but a faint rustle of static. Then, Beau’s voice filled the empty room.

“Hey, Bug.”

My chest tightened instantly. It wasn't because his voice sounded different. It was because it sounded completely the same. It was warm, loud, and entirely untouched by time, as if the universe had trapped a piece of him right here before everything went dark.

“Okay, I know you’re probably gonna ignore this for a few days and then pretend you didn’t, so I’m just gonna say it now.” There was a brief pause on the line. I glanced at Dean out of the corner of my eye, but he wasn't looking at me. He was completely still, his eyes fixed on the floorboards, just listening.

“Dean’s been around the apartment a lot lately,” Beau continued, and I could hear the familiar, teasing smile in his voice. “Like a lot. I think Mom is starting to think he actually lives here. She literally asked me last night if I adopted him.”

That got a sound out of me before I could stop it, a broken, watery noise that was almost like a laugh. Beau kept going on the recording, completely oblivious of the grief that's taken over me.

“And before you get weird about it, don’t. You don’t see it yet, Bug, but I do. He’s good for you. Annoyingly so since he is my best friend. You’re gonna absolutely hate that I’m right about this one.”

Dean shifted slightly beside me, not interrupting, just letting me feel his presence.

Beau exhaled a long breath into the microphone, the sound of wind rustling. “Look, after I graduate and things get crazy with senior year wrapping up, I know I'm gonna be traveling a ton for scout days and training camp. When I'm wrapped up in all that football chaos, just promise me you won’t shut everything out, okay? Stop acting like you have to carry the whole world alone. You were never good at that anyway.”

My eyes blurred completely, the tears finally spilling over my lashes.

“And don’t give Dean too hard of a time while I'm busy,” Beau added, his voice softening in a rare moment of genuine, unfiltered honesty. “He’s trying. I’m serious, Bug. You deserve to be happy, even if things feel overwhelming or weird for a while.”

A long silence stretched through the line, full and heavy. Then, quietly, he delivered the final blow. “I love you. And I’m proud of you. Always.”

The voicemail ended with a sharp click. It was him, still completely himself, and still entirely gone.

The silence that rushed back into the room was unbearable for exactly one second. Then Dean let out a shaky breath, as if he had been holding it in since the voicemail started.

I didn't realize I was crying until the tears were dripping down my neck. It was a quiet release of the pressure that had been building in my chest for six months.

Dean shifted closer, slowly, asking for permission without using words. I didn't hesitate. I leaned right into him, burying my face against his shoulder before I could talk myself out of it. For the very first time since the accident, it didn't feel like I was falling apart when I leaned on someone. It felt like I was finally being held together.

We sat there on the floor for a long time, the shadows stretching across the room. The apartment around us didn't feel broken anymore. The grief was still there. It probably always would be. But it felt lighter somehow, like we weren’t carrying the weight all alone.

Dean broke the quiet eventually, his chin resting against the top of my head. “Of course he knew,” he muttered softly.

A small, broken laugh escaped my lips. “Yeah,” I whispered, squeezing his hand. “He always did.”

Outside the frosted window, life on campus kept moving forward like it always did. But inside, in the quiet space we had built together over the last several months, I finally let myself stop waiting for time to rewind.

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John Logan is not calm. He’s not curated. He’s loud in a way that doesn’t even require volume (and not in a good Elle Woods type of way). He’s the kind of person who walks into a room and suddenly you’re missing the librarian saying "Shhhh."

He has this specific, effortless charm that makes everyone else fold like paper. He’s used to girls dropping everything for a flash of his dimples (which I have to admit, stops me in my tracks sometimes).

And for reasons I don’t fully understand, he makes me act insane.

Like legal-contract-over-a-plastic-baby insane.

Which brings me here.

"I still can't believe you managed to secure John Logan as a co-parent," Chloe says, leaning on my kitchen island like she pays rent here as she's watching me feed my sourdough starter for the thousandth time.

The apartment smells like yeast and vanilla incense. It’s raining outside in that slow, annoying way that makes everything feel slightly too quiet.

“He’s not my co-parent,” I say automatically. “He’s a… liability forcibly assigned by academia.”

“That’s worse,” she says.

“Probably.”

Her eyes drift to the car seat on my armchair. The simulator baby is asleep, which feels suspicious. Like it’s faking it.

"And where is the doting father right now?" she asks.

“Practicing. His shift starts at eight.” I check my phone again even though I already know the time. 7:45. “He’s technically supposed to arrive any minute.”

Chloe hums as she’s walking out the door. “That man is going to ruin your life.”

After what felt like eternity (in reality it was more so 3 minutes), there was a heavy, rhythmic knock on my front door.

I take a breath. Fix my sweater. Decide, again, to be normal about this.

Be chill. Be normal. Be the version of yourself that does not argue with men over simulated infants.

I open the door.

And immediately regret believing in my own emotional stability.

Logan was leaning against the doorframe, soaking wet from the sudden downpour outside. Hair dripping into his eyes. Gray Briar Hockey tee clinging in a way that should be illegal. He had a massive duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a box of late night pizza in his hand, and that same, infuriatingly beautiful smirk on his lips.

"Hey, roommate," he murmured, his voice a low, rumbling contrast to the thunder that cracked in the distance. "I brought dinner. And, uh… clothes... Cause apparently this is my life now."

“You’re dripping on my floor,” I say.

He looks down. Slowly. Like he’s considering it.

“Noted.”

And then he just walks in.

I close the door too slowly. Hoping he would suddenly change his mind and walk right back out.

Somewhere between pizza and the indie movie I pretend to have chosen ironically, the night becomes… normal. Annoyingly normal.

Logan eats like it's nobody's business. He asks questions about the movie like he actually cares. He laughs at something I say, like properly laughs, not that fake frat boy thing.

At some point, I stop viewing him like a threat. That feels like a mistake I will later regret.

Then, 3:00 AM hit.

The storm outside turned vicious, a crack of lightning lighting up the entire living room, followed instantly by a piercing, high pitched, ungodly wail.

I bolted upright in my bed, my heart hammering against my ribs. It took me three seconds to realize it wasn't a real emergency - it was Simulator Number Four.

I threw off my duvet and rushed into the living room. Logan was already awake, sitting on the edge of the couch, looking utterly bewildered in a pair of gray sweatpants. The plastic baby was screaming at the top of its digital lungs in the car seat.

"I scanned my fob!" Logan shouted over the noise, frantically tapping his digital wristband against the baby's chest sensor. "It's not stopping! Y/N, it's not stopping!"

"Let me try," I said, kneeling on the floor next to him. I scanned my fob. Beep. The baby kept screaming. "Wait, it's a crisis window. It needs a feeding and a diaper change sequence."

"I got the feeding," Logan said, his voice dropping the playful edge completely. He grabbed the plastic bottle, aiming it at the doll's mouth. His hands were huge, his knuckles white as he tried to be precise. "Come on, little guy. Eat."

The doll just kept wailing. The green light on its chest was flashing red.

"Logan, you're holding it wrong, the sensor isn't registering," I said, my own stress levels spiking as I envisioned our 80% grade crashing into the floor. "Here, let me."

I leaned over him, trying to adjust his grip on the bottle. But because the space between the couch and the coffee table was narrow, I ended up tumbling right into his lap. My hands clamped over his broad forearms, and my chest pressed against his shoulder as we both scrambled to hold the plastic bottle at the exact, perfect angle against the doll's mouth.

Beep.

The screaming instantly cut off, replaced by a low, rhythmic cooing sound.

Silence fell over the apartment, minus the heavy patter of rain against the windowpane.

The baby finally stopped screaming.

We didn’t move.

I was sitting in his lap, which felt like something I should acknowledge out loud but absolutely refused to.

My fingers were still wrapped around his wrists, feeling the steady, rapid pulse of his heartbeat. His chest was rising and falling heavily against my back, and his chin was hovering just inches from my neck. The scent of him: rain, warmth, and soap was completely overwhelming.

Slowly, I turned my head to look at him. Logan was already looking down at me. The cocky, teasing jock from the coffee shop was completely gone.

He was staring. Great. I hated how hyper aware I became with him around.

His hand, still holding the plastic bottle, shifted slightly, his thumb brushing against the bare skin of my wrist.

"We, uh..." Logan cleared his throat, his voice incredibly rough, sending a shiver straight down my spine. "We’re not failing because of a plastic demon, right?"

"Um," I breathed, my heart pounding so loud I was terrified he could hear it. "Hopefully not."

He didn't move to push me off. In fact, his other arm subtly tightened around my waist, keeping me anchored against him in the dark, warm living room. I didn’t know what to do with my hands, which was embarrassing.

Suddenly, the baby made a weird electronic hiccup noise again. Shit.

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NEXT

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