Prettylittlewrites

note: i may or may not do a part two, my motivation fluctuates! hope you enjoy because this was super sad to write.

He’s looking at her.

His arm rests along the back of the couch, the sensation of it familiar enough that you barely notice it anymore. Every few minutes, when someone says something particularly funny, his hand shifts and his fingers brush against the exposed skin of your shoulder blade. It’s casual, absent-minded contact. It means nothing to him and everything to you.

Around you, the boys’ house is lively. Tucker is arguing with Birdie about the game they’ve been at for hours on the TV. Every once in a while, someone tells them to shut up. They do that for a total of five minutes before someone inevitably raises their voice, leading the other to do the same.

You should be finishing up your story. It was a stupid tale, one about falling asleep during a lecture.

Instead, you’re watching him.

Or rather, you’re watching where he’s looking.

His gaze drifts across the room so often that you’ve begun anticipating it, finding yourself following the path before he’s even finished turning his head. It happens during conversations. During periods of silence. During moments when he’s supposed to be paying attention you.

His eyes always find the same person.

You wonder if anyone else notices.

Maybe they don’t. Maybe they haven’t spent nearly ten years studying every version of John Logan.

Ten years.

Long enough to remember the cracked sidewalks of your hometown and the suffocating certainty that neither of you belonged there. Long enough to remember sitting on the roof of his garage at thirteen years old, passing back and forth what was always bag of Hot Cheetos while making promises far too big for kids your age.

You had been determined to leave.

And somehow, against every odd stacked against two middle-schoolers with seemingly unattainable dreams and no real plan, you did.

You earned your place through a STEM scholarship that had consumed countless nights and enough caffeine to raise alerts towards your cardiovascular system. He earned his through hockey, through early mornings and bruises and a relentless dedication that you supported him all throughout.

Different roads, same destination.

For nearly a decade, the two of you had existed side by side.

And for six of those years, you’ve loved him.

You weren’t sure when you realized it, but once you did, it felt as though things finally clicked into place. There had always been that speculation from others that you two were something beyond a mere friendship—but there was no weight to it. Not while it wasn’t true, anyway.

You thought it may have been the puberty. John was no longer a scrawny kid who you hovered over. He’d grown into himself as the years passed—taller, stronger, more confident. It was a simple crush that came as a result of change, you told yourself.

But you had began to think it was more than that, that it always had been. Once the feeling arrived, it made no effort to fade—settling into the empty spaces between inside jokes and late-night phone calls, between shared victories and devastating failures. It lodged itself so deeply within your bond that you stopped looking for where friendship ended and something else began.

Maybe that was your mistake.

Across the room, Hannah laughs.

The sound is soft enough that most people would miss it beneath the chatter, but John hears it.

Of course he does.

Hannah Wells has a way of drawing attention effortlessly. Her smile comes easily, brightening her entire face like a Christmas tree. Honey-brown hair spills over one shoulder as she speaks. Her deep cerulean eyes crinkle when she laughs. Hearing her sing for the first time made it no better.

And she is so kind.

She remembers your birthday, she asks you questions on a subject you think had long been over. She makes you feel seen.

It’s impossible to blame him for looking.

The problem is that lately, he hasn’t seemed capable of looking anywhere else.

His fingers brush your shoulder again, mindlessly.

Across the room, Hannah says something to Allie that you can’t quite make out.

Logan smiles.

And suddenly, despite his arm around you and his knee pressed lightly against yours and nearly ten years of friendship sitting comfortably between the two of you, you’ve never felt further away from him.

Tucker notices your shift in mood before Logan does. You like Tuck the most out of all of Logan’s friends. He’s a year below the rest of you, though you like to say he’s the most mature out of all of them. He’s observant, you learned.

He tilts his head at you, silently asking if you’re okay. You send him a half-hearted thumbs up. Something clicks for him and he accepts your answer, redirecting his attention to the game.

You think Tucker knows about your crush on John. A part of you hopes he doesn’t, but another part of you knows that he does.

At some point, Logan notices you’ve stopped talking. By the time he has, you’re fiddling with your bracelet. He frowns, glancing at his own matching one on his left wrist. You were both surprised they had never broken. Logan enjoyed referring to it as a testament to your long-standing friendship. The blue and purple embroidery of both your bracelets have become a halo of fuzz, but they remain intact nonetheless.

Logan glances back at you, studying you once again—knit eyebrows, lip tucked between your teeth. You’re upset.

“What’s wrong?”

You meet his doe eyed gaze and hate yourself for thinking about drowning in them. He knows you as well as you know him. So much so that you can’t lie and pretend you’re okay. He’s read you and he’s decided that you’re not.

So you do the next best thing.

“It’s just stuffy in here,” you reply passively, maintaining a poker face when you push off the couch and his fingertips leave your shoulder blades. “I’m gonna get some air.”

The cool evening air hits you the second the front door clicks shut, but it does nothing to clear the sudden suffocating weight in your chest. You walk over to the edge of the porch, gripping the wooden railing just to have something solid to hold onto.

Behind you, the front door opens and shuts. Familiar footsteps thud against the wood. You don’t need to turn around to know it’s him, you’d know the specific cadence of his stride anywhere.

"Hey," Logan says softly, stepping up beside you, jacket in his hand. He leans his forearms against the railing, his large frame blocking out the slight breeze. "You left your jacket inside. It’s freezing out here."

You make no effort to retrieve the coat from his grasp. You don’t look even at him. Instead, your eyes fixate on a tiny, industrious spider crawling across the top of a plastic patio chair a few feet away. It is small, frantic, and entirely unaware of the shifting plates of your universe, completely consumed by the monumental task of weaving a web between two cheap slats of faux-wicker. You envy it. You want to be anything else—a spider, a piece of dust, a thread on your frayed bracelet—anything but the girl standing under the porch light, slowly unraveling.

"I'm fine," you tell him, the words slipping out easily, rehearsed from a decade of practice.

"You're not fine," he insists softly. It’s not an accusation. It’s a statement of fact.

"I am fine," you repeat, but your voice is uneven.

You always are, somehow. It’s a reflex by now. Burn the midnight oil until your vision blurs, crash through exams on three hours of sleep, watch the boy you’ve loved for six years slip through your fingers like water—the answer is always the same: I’m fine.

"Don't do that," Logan mutters, turning his head to look at you. His eyes are swimming with an earnest yet frustrating concern that always makes you want to spill your guts. "We don't do that. Talk to me. Did someone say something inside? Did I do something?"

You let out a breath that cuts like a laugh, though there’s no humor in it. You look out at the dark front yard, at the dead leaves scattering across the pavement.

You finally turn your head to look at him. You note the exact way the yellow porch light catches the bridge of his nose, the slight shadow of stubble along his jawline. You know every iteration of this face. You know the childhood version, the teenage version, and this current, devastatingly handsome collegiate version.

And yet, looking at him right now, he feels like a stranger wearing your best friend's skin.

"That's just it, Logan. You haven't done anything." Your voice drops, stripped of its usual warmth. "You haven't been doing anything. Not with me, anyway."

He blinks, a small, defensive crease forming between his eyebrows. "I don’t understand.”

“I know you don’t,” you murmur.

“Then explain it to me.”

"It means you’re pulling away," you say directly, the words tasting like copper in your mouth, but you force them out anyway. You don't mention Hannah. You don't have to bring up the way his eyes track her, or the way his laugh sounds higher when she’s in the room. This isn't about her. This is about him. This is about the space where your best friend used to be. "You’re always somewhere else. I talk to you, and it’s like I’m throwing words into an empty room. You look right through me lately. You’re right here, and it feels like there’s a thousand miles between us."

Logan stiffens. For a second, his mouth opens to deny it, the knee-jerk reaction of a guy who prides himself on being loyal. But as he looks at you—at the tight line of your jaw, at the way you're holding onto your own arm like you’re trying to keep yourself from falling apart—you can see the fight slowly leave him.

The silence stretches, punctuated only by the joyous yells of your friends inside.

"I didn't. . .” Logan starts, his voice dropping an octave. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking down at his shoes. "I didn't realize I was making you feel like that. I swear to God, I didn't."

"Well, you are." Your voice trembles just a fraction, and you hate yourself for it, pulling your shoulders back to overcompensate. "I know that friends drift. But I don’t wanna be background noise in your life.”

Logan steps closer, closing the small physical gap between you. He reaches out, his large hand wrapping around your forearm—right over the frayed threads of your bracelet. You pray he doesn’t notice the hitching of your breath.

"You're not background noise," he says sincerely, his desperate eyes searching yours. "You could never be. I'm sorry. Seriously. I've had. . . I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately, and I’ve been distracted. I’ve been a shitty best friend, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m so sorry."

You look at his hand on your arm. You look at the genuine regret pulling at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't know that the distraction is killing you for an entirely different reason. He just knows he hurt his person, and he wants to fix it.

You swallow the ache in your throat, nodding slowly. You let the anger go, because holding onto it hurts worse than forgiving him does.

"It’s okay," you assure him. "Just don’t forget about me, dork.”

"Never," he promises, squeezing your arm before letting go. A small, relieved smile tugs at his lips, the tension leaving his shoulders. He makes no effort to back away from you. It’s all the more suffocating. "I promise. Hey, you still have that big winter showcase coming up in two weeks, right? For your department?"

"Yeah," you say, a genuine spark of nervousness lighting up your stomach. "It’s the Friday after this upcoming one."

"I'll be there," Logan says instantly, his voice full of the certainty that usually makes you feel safe. "Front row. I'll even wear a stupid button-down shirt so your professors think I'm respectable. Deal?"

You look at him, wanting so badly to trust the boy who used to share bags of Hot Cheetos on a garage roof.

"Deal," you agree.

The fluorescent lights of the auditorium are blinding. It is 5:30PM. The STEM showcase had officially kicked off at five, the culmination of sleepless semesters, data sheets that blurred into meaningless code by three in the morning, and enough stress to permanently alter your brain chemistry.

Your phone sits completely dark and powered down in the bottom of your tote bag. You hadn't sent Logan a reminder text today. You hadn’t wanted to seem needy, and besides, you figured he’d remember.

He knew what this meant to you. He’d been the one to hold you on the floor of your bedroom a week ago ago when the overthinking caught up to you, his large hands rubbing slow circles into your back while you sobbed into his chest, terrified that it wouldn’t be enough. He’d promised then, just like he’d promised on the porch, that he’d be here.

Last night, you had even swung by the hockey house, your presentation slides printed out and shaking in your hands, just looking for a final bit of reassurance to quiet the jitters. But Logan wasn't there. He’d been at Malone’s, helping Hannah setup tables and banners for the upcoming weekend showcase she offered to host for music majors.

It was fine, you told yourself. It really was. He was trying to be better, and you could see the effort. The crush was still a persistent ache in your ribs, but he hadn't let it bleed into your friendship the way he had before. You understood what it was like to be at someone’s beck and call—hell, you’d been at his for six years. You couldn't blame him for falling under Hannah’s gravitational pull.

Logan hadn't been there last night, but Tucker had.

Tucker had stopped chopping vegetables, wiped his hands on a dish towel, and sat you down at the kitchen island. He listened to you stumble through your abstract, giving you a supportive nod when you finished. When you told Tucker he didn't have to worry about coming tomorrow since it was so last minute and Logan would be there anyway, Tucker had just given you an easy smile.

“Then you’ll have two of us cheering you on," he’d promised.

Now, standing by your trifold and your laptop, the nerves are a sickening weight in your stomach. You’ve just finished presenting to the final round of judges. Your mouth is dry, your throat tight, but you’d gotten through it just fine.

Tucker had slipped into the back of the room right before your time slot, his broad shoulders cutting a reassuring silhouette against the crowded aisle. Seeing his familiar face had kept your knees from buckling.

But Logan’s seat in the front row—the one he’d promised to occupy in a stupid button-down shirt—remained completely empty.

It hurts. A sharp, localized sting right beneath your breastbone. You hadn't told anyone else in your life about the showcase because public speaking made you feel entirely naked, meaning Logan and Tucker were your only safety nets.

Everyone else would most likely be at Malone’s. You didn’t want them to choose between you and Hannah, because you knew they’d try to compromise, complicating things. You didn’t want a whole crowd, you were okay with just one person being there.

But you swallow the lump in your throat and smooth down the fabric of your slacks. It’s fine. Logan probably just got caught in campus traffic, or he had a handyman gig that kept him late. He missed the actual presentation, yeah, but there’s still time. The showcase goes until eight.

As long as he shows up before the winners are announced, it’ll be fine. He’ll still be there to celebrate with you. He has to be.

Two hours later, the auditorium is a blur of echoing applause and bright flashing cameras.

When the department head speaks your name into the microphone, announcing you as the first-place recipient of the showcase, the room erupts. Your peers are cheering, clapping you on the back as you walk up the stage, but the sound feels like it’s happening underwater.

Even the heavy glass they hang around your neck and the oversized novelty check—grant money that will entirely fund your next semester of research—do nothing to lift the leaden weight in your chest.

Tucker maneuvers through the crowd as soon as you’ve left the stage, a massive, proud smile lighting up his face as he pulls you into a bone-crushing hug. He hoists you slightly off your feet, laughing, telling you he always knew you had it in the bag.

But when he pulls back, his smile falters. He looks at your eyes, watery and strained, and the pride in his expression softens into a deep concern. He knows. He can tell exactly how badly you're hurting.

But even now, with a first-place medal heavy against your sternum, you find yourself building a fortress of excuses for John Logan.

You give him the benefit of the doubt, because the alternative is unendurable. He’d never do this intentionally. Not after last week. Not to you. Something had to have happened. A family emergency with his mom. Something with Jules. Maybe he’d taken a brutal hit at practice and was sitting in the training room with a concussion, his phone locked away. He had to be hurt. He had to be incapacitated.

"Let's get you out of here," Tucker says softly, his hand settling on the small of your back, shielding you from the lingering crowds as you pack up your laptop. "I can walk you back to your dorm."

"Actually," you say, your voice tight as you zip your tote bag, "can you take me back to the house? Honestly, after the day I’ve had, I’m dying for a home-cooked Tucker special. I need some real comfort food."

You try to make it sound like a casual request, but Tucker’s hand goes entirely still against your back. He doesn't laugh it off. Instead, an uncomfortable hesitation washes over his features. He looks away, his jaw tightening as he stares out at the emptying auditorium.

In that single beat of silence, a cold and sickening realization dawns on you.

Perhaps Logan isn't sick. Perhaps he isn't hurt. He isn't in a hospital or dealing with a family crisis. Tucker knows exactly where he is.

He forgot.

The thought devastates you, a physical blow that leaves you in theoretical agony, but right on the heels of the sadness comes a sharp, blistering wave of fury. You’re a winner. You just secured your future for the next semester. This should be one of the greatest nights of your life, and yet Logan has latched himself so deeply into the fabric of your existence that he can still ruin it without even being in the room. You hate yourself for letting him have that much power over you.

"You sure you want to go to the house right now?" Tucker asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, laced with a warning he isn't entirely voicing.

You stop, staring at him. Your chest heaves. "Why? Is he there?"

Tucker looks at you, his brown eyes full of a grim, reluctant pity. He stays silent. He doesn't say a word, but his silence tells you everything you need to know. He's there. He's perfectly fine, at the hockey house while you were standing on a stage alone.

A hot, dangerous spark ignites in your blood.

"Take me there," you say, your voice dropping all the compliance, hard as flint. He begins to say your name, but you don’t allow him to. "Tucker. Take me to the house."

The ride to the hockey house is quick, though you believe that’s a product of the heavy thrum of your own pulse. Tuck keeps one hand on the steering wheel, your grim mood proving itself to be contagious.

Every few minutes, his voice breaks through the quiet of the truck, telling you to take a breath, telling you to try to calm down. But you can hear the sharp undercurrent of his own anger fueling the engine. He’s pissed on your behalf, but you don't have the capacity to appreciate it right now. You just stare straight ahead.

When the truck comes to a stop in the driveway, you don't wait for Tucker to kill the ignition. You throw the door open and march up the steps, completely ignoring him as he calls your name.

You push the door open, not so much that it was disruptive, but it was noticeable nonetheless.

The warmth of the house hits you first, along with the loud, easy cacophony of a Friday night wind-down. The TV is on, and everyone is scattered across the living room. Allie, Garrett, Dean, and Hannah.

And Logan.

The sheer normalcy of the scene feels like a slap to the face. You stand in the entryway, the first-place medal swinging slightly against your chest, dressed in the gray slacks and blouse you’d picked out so carefully. For a fraction of a second, looking at their relaxed posture and happy faces, you feel entirely microscopic. Like an ant on the back of someone’s boot, completely insignificant to the world revolving around them.

Then, the room goes quiet.

Dean is the first one to look up from the couch. His eyes take in your sharp posture, the formal attire, and finally, the heavy piece hung around your neck catching the ambient light. A grin breaks across his face, completely ignorant of the storm cloud rolling off your shoulders.

"Look at that," Dean announces, raising his cup in a mock toast. "The prodigal daughter returns!"

He’s trying to be supportive. Under any other circumstance, you’d smile, you’d thank him through narrowed eyes. You know he doesn't know. He has no idea what Logan promised, or what it cost you to stand on that stage alone.

But you don't look at Dean. You don't look at Garrett or Allie or Hannah.

Your eyes lock onto Logan.

He’s sitting on the edge of the cushions, and the exact moment your gaze finds his, the color drains completely from his face. It’s like watching a man realize he’s stepped off a cliff. His eyes drop to the medal on your chest, then snap back up to your face, wide and absolutely crushed. The realization of what he’s done hits him in a ton of bricks.

Usually, that look on his face would undo you. Usually, seeing John Logan look that miserable would trigger every protective instinct you’ve harbored for him, making you want to soften the blow, to tell him it’s fine, to smooth it over.

But tonight, you feel absolutely nothing.

The reservoir of sympathy has completely dried up, replaced by a fury that has been bubbling beneath the surface for months.

He hadn't just missed a presentation. He had broken a promise. He had lied to your face on the porch, sworn he was back, and then willfully chose to be somewhere else.

You stare at him, the silence in the room turning suffocatingly loud as the others finally catch onto the tension, and the only thought roaring through your mind is how completely invisible you’ve been to him.

That look of shame is enough gratification for you. If he can feel only a fraction of the pain you’d allowed yourself to endure these past few years, that was good for you. You couldn’t stand staring into the eyes of the man you once thought you knew anymore.

You turn your heel against the floorboards, every instinct screaming at you to walk out that door, to erase John Logan from your life, and to leave him standing in the wreckage of a ten-year friendship.

"Wait," his voice cracks through the silence of the room as he calls your name. "Please wait. I’m sorry. Just—please, just wait!”

You halt entirely. Your flats glue themselves to the floor, the medallion thudding against your chest like a pendulum swinging into a dead stop.

Sorry?

The word tastes rancid just hearing it bounce off the walls of the hockey house. You hadn't known what you wanted him to say when you walked through that door.

You hadn't known if there was a combination of vowels and consonants in the English language that could possibly fix this. But hearing his apology serves as nothing other than gasoline thrown directly onto a grease fire.

Slowly, you turn back around.

Your friends look horrified. You almost feel bad that they’re forced to witness this. You almost want to turn around and leave, leaving this argument for when you’re less heated, less hurt.

But you can’t. He needs to hear you. If not last week or the week before that, now.

Logan takes a step toward you, his hands raised slightly as if approaching a wild animal. "I lost track of time. The showcase at Malone’s—"

"Shut up," you say quietly.

The words aren't screamed. They are quiet, sharp, and dripping with an edge that makes Logan freeze in his tracks.

"Just. . . shut the hell up, Logan." You take a step forward, your shoes clicking against the hardwood. "Don't you dare use that as an excuse for being a pathetic, spineless coward."

He glances at the group that has gone dead silent. You don’t know if what he says next is for your sake or his, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

“Let’s go outside,” he offers, his tone resembling something of a plea. “We can—“

“No!” you spat harshly. “You’re gonna listen to me.”

You’d never spoken to him this way. Not in such a venomous tone, stripped from all warmth. For once, Logan does exactly what you’ve asked of him—to listen. His lips part but no words escape them.

"You sat on the porch two weeks ago," you continue, your voice rising now, the heat finally breaking through the ice. "You held my arm, and you looked me in the eyes and promised me you’d change. Do you have any idea what today was?"

Logan swallows hard, his brown hues welling with a desperate, pathetic panic. "It was the department showcase."

"It was the biggest night of my academic career!" you explode, the anger tearing out of your throat. "I have spent months working on this! I broke down sobbing over this because of how tired I was, and you were the one who held me! You knew exactly how terrified I was. You knew I didn't invite anyone else! What would’ve happened if Tuck wasn’t there?"

You gesture wildly to the medal around your neck.

"I stood on that stage alone, John. I scanned that auditorium for two hours, giving you the benefit of the doubt. I thought something had happened. I thought you were lying in a ditch somewhere or bleeding out in a hospital, because that is the only reason the John Logan I grew up with would ever miss this!"

A tear escapes his eye, rolling down his tanned cheek. "I messed up. Fuck, I know I messed up. Let me make it up to you, please—"

"You didn't mess up, you chose!" you hiss, stepping right into his space, forcing him to look down at the fury burning in your eyes. "You’ve made it perfectly clear where I rank on your list of priorities."

"I am wearing a first-place medal," you continue, your voice trembling with a devastating mix of triumph and agony. "I just won enough grant money to pay for my entire next semester of research. This should be the happiest night of my life. But all I can think about is how my best friend couldn’t show up when I needed him.”

"Please," Logan chokes out, reaching a trembling hand toward your shoulder, his fingers twitching to make that familiar, absent-minded contact. "Just—“

You snap your shoulder back, avoiding his touch as if his hand were coated in acid.

But as you jerk away, the zipper of his jacket catches on the frayed, fuzzy threads of your embroidered bracelet. There is a sudden rip. The threads give out all at once, unraveling in a split second as the broken token of your childhood slips from your wrist and flutters uselessly to the floor.

Logan freezes, his eyes dropping to the colorful, ruined heap of strings resting on the hardwood between you two.

It’s symbolic, you think.

"Don't touch me," you say, your voice dropping into a flat, dead register. You stare at him, washing away every ounce of the six years of love, every ounce of the ten years of friendship, until there is absolutely nothing left between you but a void.

"Don't talk to me. Not now. Not tomorrow. Not ever. You’re dead to me, John."

You turn on your heel and march straight out the front door into the freezing night air.

Logan doesn’t even think before stepping forward to follow after you, but Tucker shuts the door, preventing him from doing so.

He doesn't yell. Instead, he steps into Logan’s space, grabs a fistful of his shirt right at the collar, and shoves him backward into the hallway leading toward the bedrooms. Logan doesn't even try to fight it—he stumbles back, his eyes wide and vacant, completely numb from the fallout.

Tucker slams the door of his room shut, but he doesn't bother locking it. He doesn't need to.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Tucker demands, his voice a growl that vibrates through the walls. He isn’t screaming, but he’s not exactly whispering. “Because right now, I’m having a hard time recognizing one of my best friends.”

“Tuck, I didn’t mean for any of this to happen—”

“You made her a promise, man!” Tucker cuts in sharply. “You told her you’d be there. You looked her dead in the eye and gave her your word. Do you have any idea what today was like for her?”

“I lost track of time. Hannah—”

“Don’t do that,” Tucker says, his eyes narrowing. “Don’t make this about Hannah. This is about you. You screwed up. You’ve been taking that girl for granted for long enough, and she’s been in your corner through every stupid decision you’ve made. Last night, I was the one sitting with her while she practiced that presentation because you were too busy being handyman.”

“She stood on that stage tonight. Every time those judges walked up to her, she checked those doors. Every damn time. She thought something happened to you, because that’s the only reason she could come up with for why you’d break your word to her. And the whole time, you’re moving tables at Malone’s? That’s your excuse?”

“I know I messed up,” Logan chokes out. “I know. I’ll fix it. I’ll talk to her—”

“No, you won’t,” Tucker says immediately. “Not today. Not anytime soon.”

He takes a step back, folding his arms across his chest.

“She told you to stay away. So for once, stop thinking about what you want and listen to what she asked for. You made this mess. If you actually want a shot at fixing it, give her some space and hope she decides you’re worth talking to when she’s ready.”

“Tuck—”

“I’m serious, Logan. Leave her alone. The last thing she needs right now is you showing up trying to make yourself feel better.“

Logan snorts, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his broad shoulder. “Mutually beneficial exchange of joy? Did you read that in a poetry textbook, Di Laurentis? Or is that just the line you used on the kappa sig girl last night?”

“First of all, her name was Britney,” Dean corrects, flashing a bright, wicked grin. “And second, I didn’t use any lines. I am simply a purveyor of good times. I like women. Women like me. It’s the circle of life, Elton John style.”

“You’re a menace,” Garrett mutters, though he’s grinning. Garrett is walking beside Beau, who is casually tossing a small foam football between his hands. Tucker brings up the rear, quiet and imposing, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his denim jacket.

“I am a public servant,” Dean fires back, spinning around so he’s finally walking forward, falling into step with the rest of the hulking athletes. Together, the five of them take up the entire sidewalk. They are Briar’s royalty — hockey stars and the football golden boy — and they know it. But Dean wears the crown with a different kind of ease. He doesn’t have the brooding intensity of Garrett or the quieter, intimidating stoicism of Logan. Dean is sunshine and sin, wrapped in a designer jacket that probably costs more than a semester’s tuition.

And he has nothing to be stressed about. His parents are two of the most high-powered attorneys on the East Coast. His mother’s family basically owns half the luxury hotels in the country. He grew up in Greenwich, Connecticut, in a house that looked like a castle, raised by parents who were shockingly down-to-earth and irritatingly in love with each other. He knows what love looks like. He just has absolutely no interest in it right now. Why tie himself down when the world is full of beautiful, willing women?

“You’re going to catch something one of these days, man,” Beau chuckles, spiraling the foam ball into the air and catching it effortlessly. “And I don’t mean feelings.”

“I am pristine,” Dean says, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “I am a beacon of health and vitality.”

“You’re a slut,” Logan corrects cheerfully. 

“I am comfortably sex-positive,” Dean counters, winking at a passing group of cheerleaders who immediately dissolve into giggles. He doesn’t break his stride. He rarely spends a night alone, and he likes it that way. 

“Hey, watch it,” Tucker says suddenly, putting a massive hand on Dean’s shoulder to stop him from plowing into a cluster of students gathered near the science building. 

Dean halts, taking a sip of his coffee. He glances over the heads of the crowd, his eyes scanning the courtyard purely out of habit. Looking for a pretty face, a nice smile, someone to spend the evening with. 

That’s when he sees you.

Dean stops breathing. Actually, physically forgets how to inhale. 

Across the courtyard, standing beneath the shade of a massive oak tree, is a woman. And not just any woman. She stands out against the sea of Briar University hoodies and sweatpants like a diamond sitting in a pile of gravel. She’s wearing a tailored camel trench coat, tied neatly at the waist, over a dark, elegant turtleneck. Her posture is immaculate — straight-backed, poised, the kind of posture drilled into someone through years of etiquette classes and formal dinners. 

But it’s not the clothes that make Dean’s heart violently hurl itself against his ribs. It’s the face. 

He blinks hard. He shakes his head, rubbing his free hand over his eyes. No, he tells himself. You’re hallucinating, Di Laurentis. Too much studying. Too much caffeine. Because it can’t be you. You are an ocean away.

You are the daughter of his mother’s best friend. The girl who grew up in the estate next door in Greenwich. The girl who used to build terribly constructed forts with him in the woods, who used to scrape her knees trying to keep up with him, who he used to share all his secrets with before the world got complicated. You were joined at the hip, practically a permanent fixture in the Di Laurentis household, until right before high school. 

That was when your father was appointed as the Ambassador to the United Kingdom. And just like that, you were whisked away to London. 

The distance had been a sudden, sharp ache that Dean had never fully known how to process. Over the years, the letters and FaceTime calls had dwindled as you both grew up and built separate lives. Last he heard from his mother, you were studying at Oxford. You were thriving. You were also, allegedly, dating some British aristocrat. A Lord, or an Earl, or a Viscount. Something pretentious. Not that Dean was jealous. He absolutely wasn’t jealous. He was a Briar hockey star; why would he care about some tea-drinking Earl in tweed?

But the woman standing under the tree looks exactly like the girl he used to know, overlaid with a breathtaking, mature beauty that makes his throat go dry.

“Whoa,” Beau murmurs, having followed Dean’s line of sight. “Who is that? She looks like she belongs on the cover of Vogue, not outside the geology building.”

“Transfer student?” Garrett guesses, narrowing his eyes. 

“I call dibs,” Logan says immediately.

“Shut up,” Dean snaps. The harshness of his own voice surprises him, and it definitely surprises the guys, who all turn to look at him in bewilderment. 

Dean ignores them, his eyes locked on the figure under the tree. The woman is talking to two girls from Dean’s sports psychology class. She looks slightly shy, her hands clasped elegantly in front of her. 

Then, one of the girls says something, and the woman laughs.

It’s a soft, musical sound, ringing clear across the crisp autumn air. 

Dean drops his coffee. 

The paper cup hits the concrete, splashing warm, brown liquid over his pristine white sneakers, but he doesn’t even notice. He would know that laugh anywhere. He has heard it a thousand times in his childhood — when he fell off the monkey bars, when he told a terrible joke, when they stayed up past midnight watching movies they weren’t supposed to see.

“Y/N?” Dean breathes. 

He doesn’t realize he’s moving until he’s already shoving past a group of freshmen. 

“Whoa, Dean! Where are you going?” Tucker calls out.

Dean ignores them. He closes the distance across the courtyard in long, frantic strides. His heart is pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his sternum. As he gets closer, he raises his voice, the desperation bleeding through.

“Y/N!” 

You pause. The polite smile falters on your lips as you hear your name. You turn, your eyes scanning the chaotic campus crowd in confusion. You look bewildered, slightly out of your depth, a delicate flower suddenly dropped into the chaotic wilderness of an American college campus. 

Then, your eyes land on him. 

Dean stops a few feet away, his chest heaving as if he just skated three periods back-to-back. 

You stare at him. Your wide, expressive eyes blink once. Twice. Your lips part in shock. You take in the messy blonde hair, the broad shoulders that have filled out significantly since you were fourteen, the familiar, handsome face that has haunted your memories for years.

“Dean?” Your voice is a soft gasp, carrying a subtle, elegant British lilt that completely wrecks him.

“Holy shit,” Dean breathes out. “It’s really you.”

Before you can even formulate another word, Dean crosses the remaining distance. He doesn’t think. He just acts. He throws his arms around you, pulling you flush against his chest. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling the scent of you. You smell like expensive vanilla and Earl Grey tea, sophisticated and warm and so intensely you that it makes his head spin.

For a second, you freeze, completely shocked by the sudden, overwhelming embrace. But then, instinct takes over. You melt against him, your arms wrapping around his waist, holding onto him with a fierce, quiet desperation. 

The entire courtyard seems to stop. 

“Is that … Dean Di Laurentis?” A girl whispers loudly nearby. “Is he hugging someone?”

“Like … romantically?” Another asks in disbelief. “I thought he didn’t do public affection.”

“I thought he only hugged girls when they were horizontal.”

Dean hears the whispers, but he couldn’t care less. He squeezes you tighter, lifting you off your feet just a fraction of an inch, relishing the feeling of you in his arms. It’s a completely foreign sensation for him — touching a woman not with the intent to seduce, but out of overwhelming adoration and relief. 

When he finally, reluctantly pulls back, he keeps his hands on your shoulders, his thumbs gently grazing the soft fabric of your coat. He looks down at you, really looking at you, taking in the elegant curve of your jaw, the soft flush on your cheeks, the way your eyes sparkle with unshed tears.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, his voice thick with an emotion he can’t quite name. “You’re … God, you’re beautiful. You’re all grown up.”

You blush, a deep, pretty pink spreading across your cheeks. You duck your head shyly, a demure gesture that completely contradicts the bold, brash girls Dean usually surrounds himself with. “You haven’t done too badly yourself, Dean. Though I see you’re still as dramatic as ever.”

Dean laughs, a bright, genuine sound. “What the hell are you doing here? Mom told me you were at Oxford. Getting cozy with royalty or whatever.” He tries to keep the bitterness out of his voice, but a tiny sliver slips through.

Your smile falters slightly, a shadow passing over your eyes. You glance around, suddenly aware of the massive crowd of students staring at you, and more specifically, the four giant athletes slowly approaching from behind Dean, their jaws practically on the floor. 

“It’s … complicated,” you say softly, your hands nervously twisting the belt of your trench coat. “I transferred. I’m going to Briar now.”

“You’re going to Briar?” Dean repeats, his brain struggling to compute this information. You, the diplomat’s daughter, the Oxford scholar, at a party school in Massachusetts? “Since when?”

“Since about a week ago,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “Dean, I …”

“Hold on, hold on,” Logan’s voice interrupts, loud and booming. Dean groans inwardly, dropping his hands from your shoulders as his friends finally catch up. 

Logan, Garrett, Tucker, and Beau form a massive, intimidating wall of muscle behind Dean. They are all staring at you as if you just dropped out of the sky in a flying saucer. 

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, his eyes darting between you and his best friend. “Are you going to introduce us to your … friend?”

Dean feels a sudden, fierce wave of protectiveness wash over him. He steps slightly in front of you, shielding you from their intense gazes. 

“Guys, this is Y/N,” Dean says, his voice taking on a serious tone that the guys rarely hear. “Y/N, these are my idiot friends. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, and Beau.”

You offer them a small, polite smile, dipping your head in a graceful nod. “It is very lovely to meet you all. Dean has mentioned … well, he actually hasn’t mentioned you, but his mother has.”

Beau chuckles, immediately charmed. “Well, aren’t you a breath of fresh air. How do you know our boy here?”

“We grew up together,” you explain softly, your eyes darting back to Dean. “In Greenwich. We were best friends.”

“Best friends,” Logan repeats, his eyebrows shooting up to his hairline. He looks at Dean, a slow, annoying smirk spreading across his face. “Funny. Dean never mentioned he had a gorgeous, British-sounding best friend.”

“She’s not British, she just lived there,” Dean snaps, glaring at Logan. “And I didn’t mention her because you degenerates don’t deserve to know about her.”

Tucker chuckles, tipping his imaginary hat to you. “Ma’am. It’s a pleasure.”

“Please, just Y/N is fine,” you say, your cheeks still flushed. 

Dean turns his attention back to you, completely ignoring his friends. He reaches out, gently catching your hand. Your fingers are freezing. 

“You’re shaking,” he notes, his brow furrowing. “And you didn’t answer my question. Why are you here, Y/N? And don’t give me some bullshit about wanting to experience American college life. Oxford was your dream.”

You look down at your intertwined hands, your thumb unconsciously tracing the knuckles of his hand. It’s an intimate, familiar gesture that sends a jolt of electricity straight to Dean’s groin, but he aggressively shoves that reaction down. This is you. He cannot corrupt you. 

“My father,” you start, your voice trembling slightly. You swallow hard, looking up into Dean’s eyes, seeing the genuine concern radiating from him. “He … he was getting threats. At the embassy. Serious ones.”

The air around the group instantly shifts. The playful banter evaporates. Garrett’s posture straightens, Tucker crosses his arms, and Dean’s entire body goes rigid. 

“Threats?” Dean asks, his voice dropping an octave, losing all of its usual playful cadence. “What kind of threats?”

“Political ones,” you say vaguely, not wanting to spill state secrets in the middle of a busy quad. “Things got very tense very quickly. Security advised that my family be relocated. My parents are back in D.C. under heavy detail, but they didn’t want my education completely derailed. Briar has an excellent political science program, and they accepted my transfer credits immediately. Plus, it’s far away from Washington, but still in the States. They thought I would blend in here.”

You gesture helplessly to your immaculate outfit, contrasting sharply with the neon leggings and hoodies around you. “Though I suppose I’m failing a bit at the blending in part.”

Dean doesn’t laugh. His jaw is ticking, a muscle feathering in his cheek as he processes what you’re saying. You were in danger. You were threatened. The thought makes a sudden, terrifying rage spike in his chest. 

“Are you safe here?” Dean demands, his hand tightening around yours. 

“Yes,” you assure him quickly. “I have … well, I have discrete security. But officially, I’m just a normal student now. Or trying to be.”

Dean looks at you, really looks at you. He sees the exhaustion lurking beneath your perfectly applied makeup, the faint dark circles under your eyes, the tension in your shoulders. You have been uprooted, terrified, and dropped into a completely alien environment. 

“Where are you living?” Dean asks.

“They put me in a single dorm in the upperclassman hall,” you say softly. “I was just trying to find the registrar’s office to get my schedule sorted, but this campus is rather massive.”

Dean makes a split-second decision. 

“You’re not staying in a dorm,” Dean says definitively. 

You blink in surprise. “Pardon?”

“He said,” Logan chimes in, correctly reading Dean’s mood and seamlessly backing him up, “that the dorms are trash. And you’re not staying in one.”

“I—I have to,” you stammer, looking overwhelmed. “It’s already paid for, and-”

“I don’t care if the President himself paid for it,” Dean says, stepping closer to you. “You’re not sleeping in a building with a broken security door and a bunch of drunk frat boys running down the halls. You’re coming home with me.”

Your eyes go wide. “Dean, I couldn’t possibly-”

“I live in an off-campus house,” Dean continues, his tone leaving absolutely no room for argument. “With Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We have a spare room. It’s supposed to be a gaming room, but we’ll clear it out. You’re staying with us.”

“Dean,” Garrett says slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, we’re not exactly … quiet.”

“She’s staying with us, Garrett,” Dean repeats, shooting his captain a look that dares him to argue. 

Garrett holds his hands up in surrender. “Hey, I’m not arguing. It’s your call. Just warning the lady.”

You look entirely flustered, your elegant composure cracking as you look between the massive hockey players and your childhood best friend. “Dean, really, it’s too much. I don’t want to intrude. You have your own life, your own friends-”

“Y/N,” Dean says softly. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek. The contact makes you gasp quietly. His thumb strokes your cheekbone, his eyes softening as he looks into yours. “You are never an intrusion. You’re family. And right now, you need someone to look out for you. Let me do this.”

You stare up at him, your heart doing a complicated flutter in your chest. The boy you used to know — the skinny, hyperactive kid who used to catch frogs in the creek — is gone. In his place is a man. A broad, commanding, impossibly handsome man who is looking at you with such fierce, protective devotion that it makes your breath catch. 

“Okay,” you whisper softly. “Okay. If you’re sure.”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” Dean says, offering you a breathtaking, devastating smile. The kind of smile that breaks hearts on a daily basis. 

He turns to the guys. “Beau, go to the registrar and sort out her schedule. Take her ID. Garrett, Logan, Tucker — we’re going to her dorm to pack up her shit and move it to our house.”

“Wait, I didn’t agree to be manual labor,” Logan complains. 

Dean shoots him a dark look. 

“Manual labor is my favorite,” Logan corrects immediately. “Point me to the boxes.”

Dean turns back to you, slipping your hand securely into his, lacing your fingers together. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s get you out of this quad.”

As Dean leads you away, with three massive hockey players trailing behind like your personal bodyguards, you can’t help but feel a profound sense of whiplash. Within twenty minutes, your entire terrifying, lonely American college experience has been hijacked by Dean Di Laurentis. 

You look down at your intertwined hands, feeling the heat of his palm against yours. 

Maybe coming back to America wasn’t such a bad thing after all. 

***

The walk to your dorm is a surreal experience. The Briar campus is bustling with mid-morning activity, and you are acutely aware of the stares. Specifically, the stares directed at your joined hands. 

“Dean,” you murmur, leaning closer to him so the guys trailing behind you won’t hear. “People are staring.”

“Let them stare,” Dean says easily, his thumb rhythmically stroking the back of your hand. “They’re just jealous because I’m walking with the prettiest girl on campus.”

You roll your eyes, though a hot blush creeps up your neck. “You haven’t changed. Still a terrible flirt.”

“I’m not flirting,” Dean says, sounding genuinely offended. “I’m stating facts. I have an eye for aesthetics, Y/N. You know this.”

“I know that your mother used to complain that you spent more time looking in the mirror than she did,” you tease gently. 

Dean barks out a laugh. “That was one time! And I was styling my hair for the seventh-grade dance.”

“You used an entire can of hairspray,” you remind him, a genuine smile finally breaking through your anxiety. “You smelled like a chemical hazard.”

“And yet, you still danced with me,” he counters, throwing a wink over his shoulder. 

“I took pity on you,” you reply primly. 

Behind you, Logan lets out a low whistle. “She’s got jokes, Di Laurentis. I like her. Can we keep her?”

“She’s not a stray dog, Logan,” Garrett groans. 

“She’s too classy for us,” Tucker adds in his slow, Southern drawl. “Look at her. She looks like she should be having tea with the Queen, not walking next to a guy who ate cereal out of a frisbee this morning.”

You glance back at Tucker, slightly horrified. “You ate cereal out of a frisbee?”

“All the bowls were dirty,” Logan defends him. “It was a logistical necessity.”

You turn back to Dean, your eyes wide. “What exactly have I agreed to?”

“Chaos,” Dean admits cheerfully. “Absolute, unmitigated chaos. But I promise we’ll keep the house clean for you. I’ll personally hire a maid if I have to.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “I can clean. I’m quite domesticated.”

Dean stops walking. He turns to look at you, his expression completely serious. “Y/N. You are not cleaning our house. I will literally physically restrain you before I let you scrub a toilet that Logan has used.”

“Hey!” Logan yells from behind.

“I’m serious,” Dean says, his eyes boring into yours. “You’re a guest. You’re my … you’re with me. You don’t lift a finger.”

His words send a strange shiver down your spine. There is a possessiveness in his tone that you’ve never heard before. It’s thrilling, and terrifying, and completely unexpected. 

You finally reach your dorm building. It’s a standard, slightly run-down brick building that smells vaguely of cheap beer and floor wax. Dean wrinkles his nose as you lead them inside and up to the third floor. 

When you unlock your door and push it open, the stark, depressing reality of the tiny room hits you again. A single twin bed with a thin mattress, a particle-board desk, and two large suitcases sitting unpacked in the center of the floor. 

Dean steps inside, looking around with blatant disgust. “Yeah, no. This is a prison cell. Grab what you need for the day, we’re taking the rest.”

“It’s not that bad,” you say softly, walking over to your suitcase. 

“It’s inhumane,” Dean corrects. He turns to his teammates. “Grab the bags. Let’s go.”

Garrett and Tucker easily heft your massive, heavy suitcases as if they weigh absolutely nothing. Logan grabs a smaller duffel bag and a few hanging garment bags. 

“Is this everything?” Dean asks. 

You look around the barren room, clutching your handbag. “Yes. I haven’t exactly had time to unpack.”

“Good,” Dean says. He steps close to you again, his presence overwhelming in the tiny space. He reaches out, gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. His fingers brush against your skin, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core. 

“You’re safe now,” he murmurs, his voice so low only you can hear it. “I’ve got you, Y/N. I promise.”

You look up into his warm, green eyes, seeing the fierce sincerity there. The fear and isolation that had been gripping your chest for the past week slowly begins to uncoil. 

“I know,” you whisper. 

For the first time since you landed in America, you actually believe it. 

Dean smiles, a soft, intimate thing that makes your breath catch. He takes your hand again, leading you out of the dismal dorm room and toward whatever crazy, chaotic new life awaits you at the off-campus house. 

As you walk out of the building, surrounded by a phalanx of massive hockey players, you realize one very undeniable fact. 

Dean Di Laurentis might be known as the campus womanizer, but to you, he is something entirely different. He is your past, your protector, and quite possibly, the most dangerous thing to your heart.

The walk to the house is a blur of falling autumn leaves and the continuous, rapid-fire banter of the Briar hockey players. You mostly listen, fascinated by the easy camaraderie between Dean and his friends. It’s vastly different from the stiff, overly polite circles you ran in at Oxford, where every conversation felt like a chess match. Here, the insults are hurled with affection, and there are absolutely no filters. 

“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, easily matching your pace despite carrying a suitcase that weighs half as much as you do. “Politics, huh? You want to be a diplomat like your dad?”

“That’s the plan,” you say, your voice steadying as you find your footing in the conversation. “International relations, specifically. Though right now, I think I’d settle for just passing my midterms without causing an international incident.”

“If you need help studying, Logan is basically a genius,” Dean chimes in, though his tone is heavily laced with sarcasm. “He once tried to put metal in the microwave to see if it would sparkle.”

“It was a scientific inquiry!” Logan defends loudly from the back. “And I was a freshman!”

“You were a sophomore,” Tucker corrects mildly. 

You let out a soft laugh, the sound bubbling up naturally. Dean’s head snaps toward you, his eyes catching yours. The playful smirk on his face softens into something warmer, something that makes the knot of anxiety in your stomach loosen even more. 

“Here we are,” Dean announces, gesturing grandly to a large, slightly weathered two-story house sitting on a quiet residential street just off campus. The lawn could use a trim, and there’s a stray hockey stick leaning against the porch railing, but it looks incredibly inviting. It looks like a home. 

Dean leads you up the steps and pushes the front door open, stepping aside to let you enter first. 

You step into the foyer, immediately assaulted by the scent of pine cleaner, old leather, and something distinctly masculine. The living room to the left is massive, dominated by a huge sectional sofa and a television that belongs in a movie theater. 

“It’s … very big,” you remark politely, stepping further inside. 

“It’s a pigsty,” Dean corrects, glaring at a pair of discarded sneakers in the hallway. He kicks them into a closet. “I’m going to murder whoever left their shoes out.”

“Those are your shoes, bro,” Logan points out, dropping your bags at the base of the stairs. 

Dean doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m a complex man. I contain multitudes. Come on, sweetheart, let me show you your room.”

He takes your hand again — a gesture that is quickly becoming a habit — and leads you up the wide wooden staircase. You trail behind him, acutely aware of how small your hand feels in his. 

At the end of the hallway, Dean pushes open a door. 

“This was the designated gaming room,” Dean explains, flipping on the light switch. “But we have another TV downstairs, so it’s basically just storage. Give us an hour to clear out the Xbox and the beanbag chairs, and we’ll bring up a bed from the basement. It’s a real mattress, I swear. Not that dorm room cardboard.”

You step into the room. It’s spacious, with a large window overlooking the backyard. Right now, it’s cluttered with video game cases, a ratty sofa, and empty pizza boxes. 

You turn to Dean, feeling overwhelmed all over again. “Dean, I can’t ask you to give up your space for me. I can just stay in the dorm. It really isn’t-”

“Stop,” Dean says softly, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, placing his hands lightly on your waist. The heat of his palms bleeds through your trench coat, sending a violent shiver down your spine. 

“Look at me,” he commands gently. 

You look up, meeting those devastating green eyes. 

“I am not letting you stay in a dorm where anyone could walk in,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a serious, gravelly register. “I know you have security, but I don’t care. I need to know you’re safe. I need to know that when I go to sleep at night, you’re just down the hall. Let me do this for you, Y/N. Please.”

His plea is so earnest, so completely stripped of the cocky armor he usually wears, that it breaks your heart a little. You realize then that this isn’t just about protecting you; it’s about him needing the reassurance. 

“Okay,” you whisper, nodding slowly. “Okay, Dean. Thank you.”

He exhales a long breath, a stunning smile breaking across his face. “Good. Now, sit on that disgustingly stained sofa and supervise while I make these idiots do heavy lifting.”

For the next hour, you sit and watch in amusement as the hockey players dismantle the gaming room. They move furniture with shocking efficiency, bickering the entire time. Dean is a relentless taskmaster, snapping orders and threatening bodily harm if anyone scratches the walls. 

When they finally lug a heavy wooden bed frame and a pristine mattress up from the basement, Dean insists on making the bed himself. 

You lean against the doorframe, watching as the notorious campus playboy meticulously tucks in a fitted sheet with absolute precision. 

“You have excellent domestic skills, Di Laurentis,” you tease, crossing your arms over your chest. 

Dean smirks, tossing a pillow onto the bed. “My mother taught me that a man should always know how to make a bed perfectly. Among other things.”

He shoots you a wicked, heavily implied wink that makes your face burn. 

“Down, boy,” Garrett warns as he walks past, carrying the last stack of video games. “Don’t scar the poor girl.”

“I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests, fluffing the pillow aggressively. 

Once the room is cleared and your suitcases are placed at the foot of the bed, Dean ushers the other guys out of the room. 

“Give her some space to unpack,” Dean orders, practically shoving Logan out the door. “We’ll order pizza for lunch. Y/N, you like pepperoni?”

“I love pepperoni,” you say softly. 

“Perfect. Unpack. Breathe. Come down when you’re ready,” Dean says. He lingers in the doorway for a second, his eyes tracing over your features as if he still can’t believe you’re actually standing in his house. 

“Welcome home, Y/N.”

And as he pulls the door shut, leaving you alone in the suddenly quiet room, you press a hand to your chest, feeling the frantic, terrifyingly fast beat of your heart. 

You are thousands of miles from the life you knew, hiding from threats you barely understand, living in a house full of giant athletes. 

But as you look at the perfectly made bed, and remember the fierce, protective heat in Dean’s eyes, you realize something profound. 

For the first time in weeks, you aren’t afraid. 

By the time you finish unpacking your essentials and hanging your tailored clothes in the small closet, the scent of melted cheese and greasy pepperoni is wafting up the stairs. Your stomach gives an unladylike rumble, reminding you that you haven’t eaten since a piece of dry toast at 6:00 AM. 

You take a deep breath, smoothing down the front of your sweater. You swapped the formal trench coat and turtleneck for a pair of fitted dark jeans and a soft, oversized cashmere sweater — an attempt to match the casual vibe of the house without losing your own sense of style. 

When you walk down the stairs, the volume of the house hits you instantly. The television is blaring a sports broadcast, and three overlapping arguments are happening simultaneously in the kitchen. 

You peek around the corner. The massive kitchen island is covered in flat cardboard pizza boxes. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker are all standing around, shoving slices into their mouths at an alarming rate. 

Dean is leaning against the counter, a slice of pizza in one hand and a beer in the other. He looks perfectly in his element, relaxed and gorgeously disheveled. 

Then he spots you. 

The conversation around him continues, but Dean completely tunes it out. His eyes lock onto yours, sweeping over your casual outfit. A slow, devastating smile spreads across his face, lighting up his features in a way that makes your breath catch. 

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cutting through the noise in the room like a knife. 

The other guys immediately stop talking and turn to look at you. 

“The Queen descends,” Logan jokes, offering you a greasy salute with his pizza crust. 

“Ignore him,” Dean says, pushing off the counter and walking over to you. He grabs a clean paper plate, loads it with two slices of pepperoni pizza, and hands it to you. “Eat. You look like a stiff breeze could knock you over.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, taking the plate. You walk over to the island, hyper-aware of Dean shadowing your steps. You take a delicate bite of the pizza, the warm, greasy goodness making you close your eyes in appreciation. “Oh, that is heavenly.”

“See?” Dean says, looking incredibly smug. “American pizza. Way better than whatever boiled garbage they serve in England.”

“They don’t boil pizza, Dean,” you point out dryly, taking another bite. 

“Whatever,” he dismisses smoothly. He leans against the counter next to you, his shoulder brushing against yours. The physical contact is completely casual for him, but it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your brain. “So, did Beau text back about your schedule?”

Tucker pulls out his phone. “Yeah, Beau texted the group chat while you were upstairs. He got her registered. Emailed the schedule to her student account. She’s got Political Theory at 8 AM tomorrow.”

You groan softly, dropping your head forward. “Eight AM. The cruelty of the American education system.”

Dean laughs, a rich, warm sound that vibrates in his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you.”

You look up at him, startled. “Dean, you don’t have to do that. I can walk. I’m sure you have your own classes.”

“I don’t have class until eleven,” Dean says simply, taking a sip of his beer. “And you’re not walking across campus alone. Not right now. Until we get a handle on … your situation, you don’t go anywhere alone. Understand?”

His tone leaves no room for argument. It’s the voice of a man who is used to getting his way, but beneath the bossiness, there is a thick layer of genuine anxiety. He is worried about you. 

“Alright,” you agree softly. “If you’re sure it’s not a bother.”

“You,” Dean says, leaning in so his face is only inches from yours, his green eyes intense, “are never a bother.”

The kitchen suddenly feels very small, and very hot. You stare into his eyes, completely forgetting how to breathe, let alone speak. The undeniable, pulsing tension between you is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

Someone clears their throat loudly. 

You jump, breaking eye contact with Dean and looking over to see Garrett leaning against the fridge, arms crossed, observing the two of you with raised eyebrows. 

“So,” Garrett drawls, a hint of amusement in his voice. “Childhood best friends, huh? You guys used to play in the sandbox together?”

“I used to push him into the mud,” you correct, finding your voice. “Regularly.”

Logan barks a laugh. “I knew I liked her.”

“She was vicious,” Dean agrees, turning back to the guys but keeping his body angled toward you. “One time, she convinced me that poison ivy was a rare type of mint. I was covered in rashes for a week.”

“You were terribly gullible,” you say innocently, taking another bite of pizza. 

“I trusted you!” Dean gasps in mock betrayal. “You were the diplomat’s daughter! You were supposed to be honorable.”

“Diplomacy,” you counter smoothly, “is just the art of letting someone else have your way. I wanted to see what would happen.”

The guys burst into laughter, and even Dean chuckles, shaking his head. He reaches out and nudges your shoulder gently. “You’re lucky you’re cute, Y/L/N.”

The casual compliment makes your heart stutter. You duck your head to hide the sudden blush painting your cheeks. 

As lunch winds down, the guys scatter to their respective routines. Garrett and Logan head to the living room to play NHL on the Xbox, and Tucker retreats upstairs to study. 

Which leaves you alone in the kitchen with Dean. 

You start gathering the empty pizza boxes, intending to throw them away, but Dean intercepts you. His hands cover yours, stopping your movements. 

“I told you,” he says softly. “You don’t clean.”

“Dean, it’s just boxes,” you protest weakly, staring down at his large, warm hands covering yours. 

“I don’t care,” he says. He takes the boxes from you and tosses them into the large trash can by the door. Then, he turns back to you, his expression turning uncharacteristically serious. 

“Y/N. Come here.”

He grabs your hand and leads you out of the kitchen, pulling you toward the back of the house and out onto a small patio. The crisp autumn air bites at your cheeks, but you barely feel it. Dean lets go of your hand and leans against the wooden railing, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“Tell me the truth,” he says, his eyes boring into yours. “How bad are the threats?”

You wrap your arms around your middle, suddenly feeling very small. The playful banter of the kitchen is gone, replaced by the stark, terrifying reality of why you are actually here. 

“They were … specific,” you whisper, looking down at the wooden planks of the patio. “Letters delivered directly to the embassy. Photos of me at Oxford. Walking to class. Sitting in cafes. Someone was following me.”

Dean curses violently under his breath, his hands gripping the railing so hard his knuckles turn white. 

“My father’s security detail intercepted them before I saw most of it,” you continue, your voice trembling slightly at the memory. “But they told him that the people making the threats knew my schedule perfectly. They wanted my father to vote a certain way on an upcoming international trade sanction, and they were using me as leverage.”

Dean pushes off the railing and steps closer to you. He doesn’t touch you, but his physical proximity is a comfort in itself. “So they pulled you out.”

“In the middle of the night,” you nod, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my professors or my friends. They packed my bags, put me on a private jet with four armed guards, and flew me to D.C. I stayed in a safe house for three days before they decided Briar was a safe enough distance to hide me.”

You look up at him, a single tear spilling over your lashes and tracking down your cheek. “I’m terrified, Dean. I’m trying to be brave, but every time I look over my shoulder, I expect to see someone watching me.”

“Hey,” Dean breathes, closing the remaining distance between you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you firmly against his chest. You bury your face in his shoulder, letting out a shaky breath as his arms envelop you completely. 

“No one is watching you here,” Dean whispers fiercely into your hair, his hands stroking up and down your back. “I swear to God, Y/N, no one is going to touch you. You have me. You have Garrett, Logan, and Tucker. We are literally a house full of giant, violent hockey players. You are the safest person in the state of Massachusetts.”

You let out a wet, watery laugh against his sweater. “You’re not violent.”

“I can be,” Dean says, and the deadly serious tone of his voice makes you pause. “For you, I could be.”

You pull back slightly, looking up into his face. The cocky, charming playboy is entirely gone. In his eyes, you see a fierce, unyielding devotion that takes your breath away. 

“Why are you doing this, Dean?” You whisper. “You have your own life. You don’t need to babysit me.”

Dean reaches up, his thumb gently wiping away the tear track on your cheek. His touch is impossibly tender. 

“Because you’re mine,” he says simply, the words slipping out naturally, as if it’s the most obvious fact in the universe. “You always have been, Y/N. Since we were kids. I lost you once when you moved away. I’m not letting anything happen to you now that I have you back.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. The words echo in your head, thrilling and terrifying all at once. You stare at him, seeing the sudden realization of what he just said flicker in his own eyes. Dean swallows hard, his gaze dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before darting back up to your eyes. 

The air between you is highly combustible. All it would take is one lean, one tilt of the head, and years of childhood friendship would go up in flames. 

Dean slowly leans in, his face inches from yours. You find yourself leaning closer, your eyes fluttering shut, anticipating the slide of his lips against yours. 

BANG.

The sound of the back door flying open shatters the moment like glass. 

You and Dean spring apart instantly, your faces flushed, breathing heavily. 

Logan stands in the doorway, oblivious to the heavy tension he just interrupted. “Yo, Di Laurentis! Are we doing the grocery run or what? We’re out of beer and Y/N probably needs, like, fancy British tea or something.”

Dean closes his eyes, taking a deep, ragged breath. When he opens them, he shoots Logan a look of pure, unadulterated murder. 

“I’m coming,” Dean snaps, his voice completely strained. 

Logan blinks, finally sensing the weird vibe. “Uh … did I interrupt something?”

“Yes,” Dean says bluntly. “Go start the car.”

Logan throws his hands up in surrender and retreats back inside. 

Dean turns back to you, dragging a hand through his messy blonde hair. He looks incredibly frustrated, but a small, breathless smile tugs at the corner of his lips. 

“We’re going to pick up some things for you,” Dean says softly, his eyes dropping to your lips again. “Get settled. Take a nap. I’ll be back soon.”

You nod silently, still trying to get your erratic heartbeat under control. “Okay.”

He hesitates for a second, looking as though he wants to close the distance again, but then he shakes his head and steps back. “Lock the door behind me.”

As Dean walks back inside, leaving you alone on the crisp patio, you press your fingers against your lips. They are tingling, buzzing with the phantom feeling of a kiss that never happened. 

You are hiding from a terrifying political threat, living in a house of hockey players, and you are dangerously close to falling completely, irrevocably in love with the biggest playboy on campus. 

Welcome to Briar University.

***

It has been exactly three weeks since you moved into the off-campus hockey house, and the entirety of Briar University is operating under the collective, terrifying assumption that Dean Di Laurentis has been abducted by aliens. Or cloned. Or possessed by a very chaste, very domesticated demon. 

There is simply no other logical explanation. 

“I’m telling you, it’s not him,” Logan says, his voice hushed but frantic as he peeks around the kitchen doorframe. He’s staring into the living room, where Dean is currently sitting on the couch. “Look at him. Just look.”

Garrett sighs, leaning against the counter and crossing his massive arms. “He’s reading a textbook, Logan. It’s called studying. Normal college students do it.”

“Dean doesn’t!” Logan hisses, gesturing wildly. “Dean pays attention in class just enough to coast, and he spends his free time trying to get horizontal with anything that has a pulse and a nice smile! He hasn’t brought a girl home in twenty-one days, Garrett. Twenty-one! Do you know what that means?”

“That we don’t have to bleach the living room rug anymore?” Tucker suggests mildly from his spot at the kitchen island, not looking up from his breakfast.

“It means his brain has been hijacked,” Logan insists. 

Beau, who had stopped by to steal their food, chuckles and takes a bite of an apple. “Or, and hear me out, it means his childhood best friend moved in, and he’s realized he has to actually be a functional human being to keep her safe.”

They all fall silent, turning to look back out into the living room. 

You are sitting on the opposite end of the oversized sectional. You have a thick political science textbook resting on your knees, your brow furrowed in concentration as you highlight a passage. You’re wearing a pair of soft grey sweatpants — a recent, highly encouraged addition to your wardrobe by the guys — and an oversized Briar hockey hoodie that absolutely swallows your delicate frame. The hoodie belongs to Dean. 

And Dean? Dean is sitting about a foot away from you, his own textbook open, but he isn’t reading. He’s just watching you. His arm is draped along the back of the sofa, his fingers lightly, almost unconsciously, playing with the frayed end of your hoodie string. His eyes are soft, tracing the line of your profile with a reverence that borders on religious. 

“It’s freaky,” Logan mutters. “He went from being a certified campus manwhore to … a golden retriever. A very protective, aggressively loyal golden retriever.”

“He’s whipped,” Garrett says, though there’s a fond smile pulling at his lips. “And they aren’t even dating.”

“Yet,” Beau corrects softly. “Give it time. The guy looks at her like she hung the moon and the stars.”

In the living room, you let out a soft sigh, rubbing your eyes. You’ve been studying for three hours straight. The sudden shift from the British educational system to American midterms has been jarring, and the added stress of your security situation hasn’t helped your focus. 

“Tired?” Dean asks instantly, his voice a low, soothing rumble. 

You turn to look at him, offering a small, exhausted smile. “A bit. Rousseau is incredibly dense when you’re running on four hours of sleep.”

Dean frowns, his hand dropping from the hoodie string to gently brush a stray lock of hair out of your eyes. “You need a break. We have class in an hour anyway. Come on, I’ll make you tea.”

“I can make it,” you protest gently, starting to close your heavy book. 

“Absolutely not,” Dean says, already standing up. He reaches down and effortlessly plucks the massive textbook from your lap, tossing it onto the coffee table. “You sit. I brew. That’s the deal.”

As Dean walks into the kitchen, Logan, Garrett, and Beau immediately scatter, trying to look as though they weren’t just intensely analyzing his every move. Dean ignores them completely, walking straight to the kettle. 

You watch him from the couch, your heart doing that familiar, terrifying little flip. The way he treats you is entirely at odds with the reputation that precedes him. You’ve heard the whispers on campus. You know what people say about Dean. You know the girls point and stare, whispering about his conquests. But the man who makes your bed when you forget, who insists on walking you to every single class, who glares at any frat boy who looks at you for too long? That man is careful. He treats you like you are something precious, something made of spun glass that he is terrified of breaking. 

Ten minutes later, Dean emerges from the kitchen with a travel mug. He hands it to you. 

You take a sip and close your eyes, a genuine hum of pleasure escaping your lips. “Dean … this is Earl Grey. With exactly a splash of oat milk and half a teaspoon of honey.”

“I know,” Dean says, grabbing his backpack and slinging it over one broad shoulder. 

“How do you remember that?” You ask, staring up at him in wonder. “I haven’t ordered this in front of you since I moved here. I’ve just been drinking whatever drip coffee the guys make.”

Dean pauses, looking down at you. The easy, arrogant smirk he usually wears is nowhere to be found. “I remember everything about you, Y/N. Everything. I didn’t forget your favorite tea just because you moved across an ocean.”

Your breath catches. You stare at him, feeling a hot flush rise to your cheeks. 

“Come on,” Dean murmurs, his voice softening even further. He reaches down, grabbing your heavy tote bag before you can even reach for it. “Let’s go to class. I want a good seat.”

The walk across campus is, as always, an exercise in public scrutiny. Dean walks slightly ahead of you, his large frame parting the sea of students effortlessly. Every time you pass a group of girls, you see the hopeful glances directed his way, followed immediately by total confusion when Dean doesn’t even spare them a second glance. His entire focus is tethered to you. 

When you enter the massive lecture hall for your Political Science seminar, it’s already crowded. Dean immediately zeroes in on two seats near the middle row. He drops your bag onto one chair and his own onto the other, effectively claiming the territory. 

“Hey, Dean,” a high-pitched, bubbly voice calls out. 

You both turn to see a stunning blonde in a cropped sweater leaning over the row behind you. She flashes Dean a brilliant, practiced smile. “I was hoping you’d be here. There’s an empty seat next to me if you want it. We could … share notes.”

You feel a sudden, sharp prickle of insecurity. She is exactly the kind of girl you imagine Dean with — bold, beautiful, and completely uninhibited. You instinctively shrink in on yourself, looking down at your hands. You are so fundamentally different. You are quiet, painfully shy, and the thought of public displays of affection makes you want to spontaneously combust. 

But Dean doesn’t smile back at the blonde. In fact, his expression remains completely blank, almost bored. 

“I’m sitting with Y/N,” Dean says flatly, leaving absolutely no room for interpretation. 

“Oh,” the girl falters, her smile slipping as she glances at you with thinly veiled disdain. “Right. The … new girl.”

Dean’s jaw ticks. He steps slightly in front of you, a clear, territorial block. “Yeah. My girl. Excuse us.”

The words send a dizzying rush of heat straight to your core. You sink into your seat, your face practically burning, as Dean sits down next to you. He casually drapes his arm across the back of your chair, his solid, warm presence a shield against the rest of the room. 

“You didn’t have to be rude to her,” you whisper, though secretly, you are terribly glad he was. 

“I wasn’t rude,” Dean whispers back, leaning in so close his breath ghosts over your ear. “I was honest. I don’t care about her notes. I only care about you.”

You bite your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile fighting its way onto your face. Dean’s eyes track the movement of your teeth on your lip, his pupils dilating slightly, but he quickly forces his gaze away and pulls his notebook out. He is so restrained with you, so careful not to push your boundaries, and it only makes you fall for him harder.

Friday night arrives with the heavy, pulsing bass of a house party. 

The guys decided to throw a rager to kick off the start of the hockey season. Under normal circumstances, you would have locked yourself in your room with a pair of noise-canceling headphones. But Dean had looked at you with those big, green eyes and promised he would stay by your side the entire night, so here you are. 

You are standing in the corner of the crowded living room, clutching a red Solo cup filled with ginger ale. You are wearing a high-necked, long-sleeved black dress that hits mid-thigh. It’s elegant, understated, and completely out of place in the sea of neon crop tops and miniskirts surrounding you. 

“Are you okay?” 

You look up as Dean materializes through the crowd. He’s wearing a fitted black Henley that highlights every single muscle in his chest and arms, and his hair is perfectly, artfully messy. He looks like pure, unfiltered trouble. But the moment his eyes land on you, the dangerous edge softens. 

“I’m fine,” you say, though you have to shout slightly over the music. “It’s just … very loud.”

“We can go upstairs,” Dean offers immediately, stepping closer so he doesn’t have to yell. His body acts as a natural barrier, preventing a stumbling frat boy from bumping into you. “We can lock the door and watch a movie. I don’t care about the party.”

You stare at him in disbelief. “Dean, this is your house. Your team. You can’t just hide upstairs with me. Everyone expects the legendary Dean Di Laurentis to be out here, working the room.”

Dean scoffs, taking a sip from his own cup. “Let them expect whatever they want. I’ve retired.”

“Retired?” You echo, a small laugh escaping you. 

“Yep,” Dean says, leaning against the wall next to you. “Hung up my jersey. I’m a one-woman man now.”

The casual confession makes your breath hitch. He says it so easily, so confidently, but the weight of the words is staggering. 

Before you can formulate a response, a girl with bright red hair pushes her way through the crowd and practically throws herself at Dean. 

“Deeeaan,” she purrs, trailing a manicured hand down his bicep. “I haven’t seen you all night! We should go to the kitchen and do shots. Or go somewhere … quieter.”

She presses her chest against his arm, shooting a triumphant look at you. It’s the kind of blatant proposition that the old Dean would have accepted before she even finished her sentence. You’ve heard the stories. You know that more than once, he’s hooked up with girls right here in the living room while a party raged around them. 

You instinctively take a step back, the familiar, suffocating shyness gripping your throat. You can’t compete with this. You don’t want to compete with this. 

But Dean doesn’t even blink. He physically steps back, dislodging the redhead’s hand from his arm as if she’s made of acid. 

“Not interested, Lexi,” Dean says, his voice devoid of any warmth. 

“What?” Lexi pouts, looking genuinely shocked. “Come on, Dean. Don’t be boring. It’s Friday!”

“I said no,” Dean repeats, his tone dropping into a freezing, commanding register that makes the girl actually flinch. “I’m busy.”

He reaches out, grabbing your hand and pulling you firmly to his side. He intertwines your fingers, holding your hand up slightly so the girl can see it. 

“I’m with her,” Dean states unequivocally. “Have a good night.”

Lexi stares at your joined hands, then looks up at your flushed face. She huffs in annoyance, turning on her heel and stomping away into the crowd. 

You look up at Dean, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. “You really didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I did,” Dean says, looking down at you. His thumb strokes the back of your hand, a grounding, soothing motion. “I told you, Y/N. I don’t want anyone else. They don’t even register on my radar anymore. It’s just you.”

“Dean …” you breathe, feeling completely overwhelmed by the raw honesty in his eyes. 

“Hey, lovebirds!” 

The moment breaks as Tucker and Logan push their way over to your corner. Logan is grinning like a madman, holding two fresh beers. 

“Di Laurentis,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I just watched you turn down Lexi. The Lexi. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor?”

“I’m perfectly fine,” Dean snaps, though he doesn’t drop your hand. 

“He’s domesticated,” Tucker drawls, leaning against the wall and tipping his cup toward you. “You’ve tamed the beast, Y/N. The whole hockey team is terrified of you.”

You blush furiously, looking down at your shoes. “I haven’t done anything.”

“That’s the crazy part,” Logan laughs. “You literally just exist, and he acts like a knight in shining armor. It’s disgusting. I love it. Can I get a hug?”

Logan opens his arms, stepping toward you. 

Before you can even react, Dean steps directly between you and Logan, pressing a flat hand to his teammate’s chest. 

“Do not touch her,” Dean growls, half-joking, half-deadly serious. 

Logan puts his hands up in surrender, laughing harder. “Alright, alright! Guard dog mode activated. I respect it.”

As the guys fall into an easy banter, Dean pulls you slightly closer, tucking you into his side. You lean your head against his shoulder, letting the chaos of the party wash over you. Surrounded by the towering hockey players, anchored by Dean’s warm, protective grip, you feel something you haven’t felt since you lived in London. 

You feel entirely safe.

The next evening is the first official home game of the season. 

The Briar University arena is packed to the rafters, a sea of black and red violently cheering as the Zamboni finishes clearing the ice. The energy is electric, thick with anticipation and the smell of roasted peanuts and cold air. 

You are standing outside the home locker room, clutching a plastic cup of overpriced hot chocolate. 

The door swings open, and Dean steps out. 

He is fully geared up, massive in his shoulder pads, his Briar jersey stark and imposing. He looks like a gladiator about to step into the Colosseum. But the moment his eyes find you, the ferocious intensity of his game-face melts away, replaced by that soft, devoted smile reserved entirely for you. 

He walks over, his skates clacking loudly against the rubber floor mats. 

“Hey,” he says, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hey yourself,” you reply softly, looking up at him. “You look … intimidating.”

Dean chuckles, a low, nervous sound. “Good. That’s the point. But I don’t want to intimidate you.”

“You never intimidate me, Dean,” you say truthfully. 

Dean swallows hard, his eyes dropping to your outfit. You are wearing a simple black turtleneck and jeans. He frowns slightly. 

“Hold on,” Dean says. He reaches back and grabs the hem of his game jersey, pulling it up and over his head in one fluid motion. 

You gasp, your eyes going wide as he stands there in just his black under-armor shirt, the tight material clinging to every ridge of his abs and chest. “Dean! What are you doing?”

“You’re not wearing my colors,” Dean states simply. He shakes out the massive jersey and holds it out to you. “Put it on.”

“Dean, it’s your game jersey,” you protest, your heart doing a wild, frantic dance. “You need it to play!”

“I have a spare in my locker,” he dismisses easily. “Put it on, Y/N. Please. I want … I want everyone in that arena to know whose side you’re on.”

The intense possessiveness in his voice makes your knees weak. With shaking hands, you hand him your hot chocolate and take the jersey. You pull it over your head. It is ridiculously large on you, the heavy fabric falling almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands entirely. 

But across the back, in massive block letters, it reads DI LAURENTIS 66.

You smell like him now — a mix of clean laundry detergent, ice, and that distinct, spicy cologne he wears. 

Dean stares at you, his chest heaving slightly as he takes in the sight of you swimming in his jersey. His eyes darken, a visceral, primal reaction flashing across his features before he aggressively reels it in. 

“Yeah,” Dean breathes, his voice rough. “That’s exactly how you’re supposed to look.”

He hands you back your drink and steps closer, reaching out to gently tug on the collar of the jersey. “I have to go to the bench. Beau is saving you a seat three rows behind our box. It’s next to the glass. You’ll be safe there.”

“I’ll be cheering for you,” you promise softly. 

Dean leans down, and for a terrifying, exhilarating second, you think he’s going to kiss you. But instead, he presses his lips firmly to your forehead, lingering there for a long moment, inhaling your scent. 

“Watch me, sweetheart,” he whispers against your skin. “I’m going to play for you.”

When you finally take your seat next to Beau in the stands, the entire arena seems to be buzzing. Beau takes one look at the oversized jersey swallowing you whole and bursts out laughing. 

“Oh, he is so gone,” Beau cackles, shaking his head. “If he plays half as aggressively as he’s acting right now, we’re winning a national championship.”

The puck drops, and the game begins. 

It is violent, fast-paced, and incredibly stressful. You sit on the edge of your seat, your hands clutched tightly in your lap as you watch the boys crash into the boards. 

But Dean is a revelation. 

He skates with a fluid, lethal grace, dodging defenders and making plays that leave the opposing team looking foolish. He is a blur of motion, hyper-focused and ruthless. 

Midway through the first period, Briar gets a breakaway. 

Logan intercepts a pass and sends it rocketing up the ice. Dean is there, catching it flawlessly. He tears down the center, the crowd rising to their feet, screaming his name. He fakes left, drops his shoulder, and sends a devastatingly fast wrist-shot right over the goalie’s glove. 

The red light flashes. The horn blares. The arena completely erupts. 

You jump to your feet, screaming in delight, your hands flying up in the air. 

On the ice, Garrett and Logan immediately tackle Dean, shoving him against the glass in celebration. Dean laughs, shaking them off, and skates directly toward the bench. 

But he doesn’t stop at the bench. 

He skates right up to the glass where you are sitting. The crowd around you goes wild, but Dean doesn’t look at them. He looks right at you. 

He taps his stick against the plexiglass twice, right in front of your face. Then, he presses his gloved hand to his chest, right over his heart, and points directly at you. 

The gesture is so public, so undeniably romantic, that the entire section of fans surrounding you completely loses their minds. Girls are screaming, Beau is howling with laughter, and you are standing there, wearing his name on your back, feeling completely cherished.

Two hours later, the game is over. Briar has decimated the visiting team 4-1, and the post-game high is practically vibrating through the concrete walls of the arena corridors. 

You are standing in the secluded hallway just past the locker rooms, waiting. The crowds have mostly filtered out, heading to the inevitable victory parties, but you stayed exactly where Dean told you to wait. 

The heavy locker room door opens, and the boys start pouring out. They are showered, dressed in their street clothes, and loud. 

When Dean finally emerges, he looks exhausted but radiant. His hair is damp from the shower, curling slightly at his forehead, and he’s wearing a simple grey t-shirt and jeans. He has a massive sports duffel slung over his shoulder. 

He spots you leaning against the wall, still drowning in his game jersey, and a slow, exhausted smile spreads across his face. He drops his bag immediately and crosses the hallway in three long strides. 

“Hey,” he breathes out, stopping right in front of you. 

“Hi,” you say, looking up at him with wide, shining eyes. “You were incredible out there, Dean. Truly.”

“Yeah?” He asks, his eyes searching your face, seeking your approval above all else. 

“The best on the ice,” you confirm softly. 

The boys are filtering past you both, offering catcalls and teasing whistles. 

“Get a room, Di Laurentis!” Logan shouts as he walks by with Tucker. 

“Shut up, Logan!” Dean yells back without breaking eye contact with you. 

The hallway finally clears, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet, fluorescent-lit corridor. The adrenaline from the game is still humming in the air between you, mixing violently with the unspoken tension that has been building for three weeks. 

Dean steps closer, invading your personal space. He reaches out, his large hands resting gently on your waist, over the heavy fabric of the jersey. 

“I meant it,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping an octave. “When I pointed to you. That goal was for you, Y/N.”

You look up at him, at the handsome, reckless boy you grew up with who has somehow morphed into this incredible, devoted man. You realize, with a sudden, crystal-clear certainty, that you don’t want to be scared anymore. You don’t want to hide behind your shyness or your fears of ruining your friendship. 

“Dean,” you whisper. 

You reach up, your hands slipping out of the oversized sleeves. You place your palms flat against his chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beat of his heart through his t-shirt. 

Dean completely freezes. His breath catches in his throat. He doesn’t move a muscle, terrified that if he does, you will pull away. 

You rise up on your tiptoes. Dean instinctively tilts his head down, meeting you halfway. 

You press your lips to his. 

It is not a hungry, open-mouthed kiss. It is chaste. Soft. Sweet. It is a gentle press of lips, a quiet, tender thank you, a desperate confession of everything you are too afraid to say out loud. 

It lasts only three seconds. 

When you pull back, dropping down to your flat feet, you keep your eyes closed for a moment, terrified of his reaction. 

When you finally open them, you gasp. 

Dean Di Laurentis — the guy who has quite literally been with half the campus, the guy who knows every sexual maneuver in the book, the guy who thrives on marathon, sweaty, athletic encounters — looks completely devastated. 

He looks like he has died and gone to heaven. 

His green eyes are blown wide, his pupils completely dilated. His jaw is slack, his lips slightly parted, pink and damp from your brief touch. His chest is heaving as if he just skated ten periods back-to-back. 

“Y/N,” Dean breathes, the word trembling on his lips. 

He raises a shaking hand, pressing his fingers to his own mouth, as if he can’t quite believe what just happened. 

“Was that … was that okay?” You whisper, your insecurity suddenly flaring up. “I know it wasn’t … I know you’re used to-”

“Don’t,” Dean interrupts, his voice cracking slightly. He drops his duffel bag entirely and reaches for you, wrapping both arms around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. 

“Don’t you dare compare yourself to anyone else,” Dean says fiercely, staring down at you with a reverent, blazing intensity. “That was … Y/N, that was the best thing that has ever happened to me.”

“It was just a small kiss,” you murmur, your face burning. 

“It was everything,” Dean corrects, his hands gripping your waist tightly. “You’re everything. God, I’m so in love with you.”

The words slip out of his mouth before he can stop them, tumbling into the quiet hallway like a grenade. 

You freeze, your heart slamming against your ribs so hard it hurts. “Dean …”

Dean closes his eyes, resting his forehead against yours. He lets out a shaky laugh, a sound of pure relief and surrender. 

“I know,” he whispers, his breath fanning across your lips. “I know it’s fast, and I know you’re scared, and I know I have a terrible reputation. But I’m yours, Y/N. I have always been yours. You just had to come back for me to realize it.”

He opens his eyes, looking deep into yours. 

“You don’t have to say it back,” Dean promises, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for. I just needed you to know. I’m not playing games, sweetheart. I’m playing for keeps.”

You stare up at the man holding you, feeling the absolute truth in his words. The terrifying world outside — the threats, the politics, the uncertainty — melts away entirely. 

You rise on your tiptoes again, but this time, Dean doesn’t wait. He captures your lips, kissing you with a tender, devastating passion that seals your fate completely.

***

The collective student body of Briar University is, for lack of a better term, completely losing its mind. 

It has been nearly two months since the legendary, untouchable Dean Di Laurentis officially took himself off the market. Two months since he dragged a beautiful, shy transfer student into his orbit and never let her go. And yet, the novelty of his absolute, unrelenting devotion hasn’t worn off. If anything, it’s only become more aggressively apparent.

It’s a chilly Tuesday afternoon, and the campus coffee shop, The Daily Grind, is packed with students seeking refuge from the biting wind. 

You and Dean are standing near the pickup counter. You are wearing a cream-colored knit sweater, the sleeves pulled down over your knuckles, your posture as impeccable as ever. Dean is standing practically flush against your back, his large hands resting possessively on your hips. He’s leaning down, his chin resting near your shoulder, listening intently as you softly explain a concept from your international relations seminar.

A few yards away, sitting at a cramped corner table, Logan and Garrett are nursing their coffees and watching the spectacle.

“I give up,” Logan says, shaking his head. “I literally give up. I don’t know who that man is. He’s an imposter. A body double.”

“He’s in love,” Garrett corrects, though he looks equally bewildered. “I mean, we knew it was bad, but this is … this is advanced whipped.”

A group of sorority girls at the next table over are openly staring, whispering behind their hands. 

“Do you remember sophomore year?” One of the girls mutters loud enough for Logan to catch. “When he hooked up with those two girls on the literal pool table at a Theta party? He didn’t even care who was watching! It was like a spectator sport for him.”

“I know,” her friend replies, eyes wide. “And now look at him. He looks like he wants to build a white picket fence right here in the cafe line.”

At the counter, the barista calls out your name. “Y/N! London fog latte and a black coffee.”

You step forward to grab the drinks, but a hulking frat boy in a backward cap, rushing to grab his own macchiato, bumps hard into your shoulder. 

You stumble slightly, letting out a soft, surprised gasp. 

Instantly, the atmosphere in the coffee shop shifts. Dean’s relaxed posture vanishes. He steps in front of you, his chest broad and imposing, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle feathers dangerously. His green eyes turn to ice as he glares at the frat boy. 

“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice low but carrying across the suddenly quiet shop. “Watch where the hell you’re going.”

The frat boy pales, taking in the sheer size of the angry hockey player. “My bad, man. I didn’t see her.”

“Well, open your eyes, or I’ll wire your jaw shut so you don’t have to worry about drinking your little coffee,” Dean threatens, taking a menacing step forward. 

Before Dean can escalate a simple accident into a full-blown brawl, you move. You reach out, your delicate hands flattening against the solid wall of his chest. 

“Dean,” you murmur, your voice soft, sweet, and perfectly calm. 

Dean freezes. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under your palms. 

You offer him a small, placating smile. You slide your hands up his chest, resting them gently on his broad shoulders. Then, ignoring the dozens of eyes fixed on you, you rise up on your tiptoes. You press a soft, lingering kiss to his tense jawline, right over the ticking muscle. 

“I’m alright,” you whisper softly against his skin. You reach up, gently smoothing down the collar of his flannel shirt. “He just bumped me, Dean. Let it go. Please?”

The transformation is instantaneous. 

The murderous rage evaporates from Dean’s eyes. His shoulders drop. He lets out a shaky exhale, his hands coming up to wrap around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He leans his forehead against yours, completely ignoring the terrified frat boy who scurries away. 

“I know,” Dean breathes, his voice entirely soft, meant only for you. “I just … I hate when people aren’t careful with you, sweetheart.”

“You’re careful enough for the both of us,” you tease gently, your cheeks flushing a pretty, soft pink at the public display, even though it was entirely initiated by you. You give his chest a gentle pat. “Now, carry my tea, please. It’s dreadfully hot.”

Dean practically melts into a puddle on the floor. “Whatever you want, baby.”

He grabs the tray of drinks, completely docile, and follows you out of the shop like a well-trained puppy. 

The moment the bell above the door jingles shut behind you, the coffee shop erupts into whispers. 

“Did you see that?” Logan says, staring blankly at the door. “She literally just rebooted his operating system with a kiss on the cheek.”

“It’s a superpower,” Garrett murmurs in awe. “She’s a witch. A beautiful, polite, sort of British witch.”

Later that evening, the off-campus house is blissfully quiet. Garrett and Logan are at the library (allegedly), and Tucker is out on a date. 

You are in Dean’s bedroom. Or, rather, your shared bedroom. The spare room you initially moved into has slowly become little more than a closet for your clothes, as Dean flat-out refused to sleep in a bed that you weren’t occupying. 

The contrast between the Dean that the campus sees — the fiercely protective, completely obsessed boyfriend — and the Dean behind closed doors is staggering. 

In public, you are shy, demure, and easily flustered by too much attention. Dean respects that. He shields you, gives you space, and handles the spotlight so you don’t have to. 

But here, in the dim, amber glow of the bedside lamp, with the heavy wooden door locked and the world shut out? Here, Dean worships you. And he systematically, patiently dismantles every ounce of your shyness. 

You are sitting on the edge of his massive mattress, wearing one of your elegant silk nightgowns. It’s champagne-colored, modest by most standards, but the way Dean is looking at you makes you feel completely exposed. 

He is kneeling on the floor between your parted thighs. He hasn’t even taken off his jeans yet, though he shed his shirt hours ago. His broad, muscular chest is on full display, his skin golden in the low light. 

“You’re blushing,” Dean murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrates straight through to your core. 

You duck your head, your hands nervously smoothing the silk over your thighs. “You’re staring at me.”

“I’m admiring,” Dean corrects softly. He reaches up, his large, warm hands wrapping around your ankles. His thumbs slowly, deliberately stroke the delicate skin there. “I can’t help it. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. And I love it when you flush for me, Y/N. I love knowing exactly what it does to you when I look at you.”

Your breath hitches. His words are always so direct, so unapologetically filthy and sweet all at once. He is a master of this — of seduction, of bodies, of pleasure — but he treats you as if you are the very first woman he has ever touched. There is a reverence to him that completely wrecks your defenses. 

“Dean,” you whisper, a soft plea leaving your lips. 

“Look at me, sweetheart,” he commands gently. 

You force your eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark, completely blown out with desire, but there is an anchor of absolute patience there. He never rushes you. He has spent the last few weeks slowly, meticulously broadening your horizons, taking you further than you ever thought you’d go, and making sure you feel entirely safe the entire time. 

He slides his hands up your calves, his rough palms sending a shockwave of heat over your skin. He stops at your knees, leaning in to press a soft, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your right knee. 

You gasp, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

“So pretty,” he breathes against your skin. He shifts higher, pushing the hem of your silk nightgown up your thighs. “You get so pink, Y/N. It starts on your cheeks …” 

He kisses higher up your thigh, his tongue darting out to taste the sensitive skin. You let out a soft whimper, your back arching slightly. 

“… and then it spreads down your neck,” he continues, his hands sliding up to grip your hips securely. “Down your chest. All over your stomach. You blush everywhere for me, don’t you, baby?”

“Only for you,” you manage to gasp out, your heart pounding a frantic rhythm against your ribs. 

Dean growls, a low, primal sound of satisfaction. He rises up onto his knees, towering over you slightly. He reaches for the thin straps of your nightgown, slipping them slowly off your shoulders. 

You instinctively cross your arms over your bare chest, that ingrained, polite shyness flaring up even now. 

Dean gently catches your wrists. He doesn’t force them away, but he holds them softly, his thumbs stroking your pulse points. 

“Don’t hide from me,” he whispers, leaning in so his lips are barely a breath away from yours. “I want to see you. I want to worship every single inch of you. Let me see, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

His words melt your resistance entirely. You slowly uncross your arms, letting your hands fall to his broad shoulders. 

The silk nightgown pools around your waist, leaving your top half completely bare to his hungry gaze. 

Just as he predicted, a deep, beautiful flush of pink spreads rapidly down your neck, blooming across your chest and stomach. 

Dean lets out a ragged breath. He looks at you as if you are a religious artifact, something holy and miraculous. “God, you’re perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

He leans in, replacing his intense gaze with his mouth. He kisses the hollow of your throat, his lips hot and demanding. You tip your head back, a soft, breathy moan escaping your lips as his mouth trails lower. 

He takes his time, kissing the swell of your breasts, the valley between them, worshipping the flushed skin just as he promised. When his mouth finally closes over one sensitive peak, drawing it in and laving it with his tongue, you completely lose your mind. 

“Dean!” You cry out, your hands gripping his shoulders hard, your fingernails digging into his skin. 

“I’ve got you,” he hums against your skin, the vibration sending a fresh wave of electricity straight down to your core. “I’m right here. Just feel it, baby. Let go.”

He is relentless in his devotion. His hands are everywhere, mapping your body, learning exactly what makes you gasp, what makes you arch into his touch. For a man who used to thrive on quick, athletic hookups, Dean is agonizingly slow with you. 

He pulls away just long enough to shed his jeans and boxers, tossing them carelessly to the floor. When he returns to you, he is fully bare, completely aroused, and radiating heat. 

He gently pushes you back until you are lying flat on the mattress, your hair fanned out over his pillows. He follows you down, his massive frame hovering over yours, supporting his weight on his forearms so he doesn’t crush you. 

“Tell me this is what you want,” Dean says, his voice strained with the immense effort it’s taking to hold himself back. He needs to hear it. He needs your verbal consent, your absolute certainty. 

“It’s what I want,” you whisper, reaching up to cup his handsome, tense face. “I want you, Dean. Please.”

That is all it takes. 

Dean shifts his hips, settling himself between your thighs. He reaches down, guiding himself to your entrance. He pauses there, his eyes locked onto yours, searching for any sign of hesitation. When you only nod, your eyes wide and completely trusting, he slowly, steadily pushes inside you. 

You let out a sharp cry, your eyes fluttering shut as the feeling of him filling you completely takes over. It is overwhelming, intense, and deeply, achingly intimate. 

Dean freezes, his jaw clenched tight. “Y/N? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you gasp, opening your eyes. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his face down to yours. “No, Dean, it feels … it feels incredible. Don’t stop.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against yours. “You’re so tight, baby. So incredibly sweet. I’m going to take it slow. I promise.”

And he does. He begins to move, pulling back slowly and pressing in deep, establishing a steady, torturously good rhythm. Every time he hits the back of your slick heat, he presses a kiss to your lips, your jaw, your neck. 

He murmurs dark, dirty praise into your ear, perfectly contrasting your elegant nature. He tells you how good you feel, how beautiful you look laid out in his bed, how much he loves the sounds you make when he hits that one specific spot. 

You are completely undone by him. Your shy, reserved exterior is shattered entirely under his careful worship. You are writhing beneath him, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, matching his rhythm, chasing the blinding pleasure he is feeding you. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice breaking as the pressure builds low in your stomach. “I can’t … it’s too much.”

“It’s not too much, sweetheart,” he grunts, his pace quickening, his hips snapping against yours with more force. “You can take it. Let it happen. Come for me, baby. Just for me.”

The possessive command is the final push you need. You shatter entirely, a high, keening cry escaping your lips as your body goes rigid. The climax rips through you in violent, beautiful waves, your internal muscles clenching tightly around him. 

Dean groans loudly, his control snapping the second he feels your release. He drives into you a few more times, fast and deep, before burying his face in the crook of your neck and finding his own release with a deep, guttural shout. 

He collapses against you, his heavy chest heaving, his heart hammering against yours. You hold him tightly, your hands stroking his damp hair, entirely sated and floating in a euphoric haze. 

Dean eventually rolls to the side, taking his weight off you, but he pulls you tightly against his chest, tucking your head under his chin. He pulls the heavy duvet over both of your bodies, enveloping you in warmth. 

“God,” Dean breathes into the quiet room, sounding entirely awestruck. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “I love you. I love you so damn much, Y/N.”

“I love you too,” you whisper sleepily, pressing a kiss to his bare collarbone. “You’re wonderful, Dean.”

“Only with you,” he promises, his arms tightening protectively around you as you drift off to sleep. 

The next morning, the campus is bustling with the standard Wednesday chaos. 

Dean is walking you to your 10 AM lecture. He’s wearing his Briar hockey letterman jacket, looking impossibly large and handsome. 

You are walking beside him, holding his hand. The contrast from last night is almost comical. 

You are back in your tailored clothes — a pleated wool skirt, tights, and a high-necked cashmere sweater. Your hair is perfectly styled, and your posture is immaculate. You look every inch the untouchable, elegant diplomat’s daughter. 

As you walk past the quad, a group of guys from one of the fraternities walk by. One of them, not noticing Dean immediately, lets out a low, appreciative whistle directed at you. 

“Damn, baby. Looking good,” the guy calls out. 

Instantly, that furious, shy blush races up your neck and paints your cheeks bright pink. You immediately duck your head, feeling incredibly embarrassed by the crass public attention, and instinctively turn your face in toward Dean’s bicep to hide. 

Dean wraps a heavy arm around your shoulders, tucking you safely into his side. He shoots the frat boy a look so terrifying, so full of lethal, possessive promise, that the guy practically trips over his own feet trying to hurry away. 

But as Dean looks down at you, hiding your bright red, blushing face against his jacket, a slow, incredibly smug smile spreads across his lips. 

Everyone on campus thinks you are a fragile, shy angel who can barely handle a compliment. 

But Dean knows the truth. 

He knows what you look like completely undone, blushing that exact same shade of pink while tangled in his bedsheets. He knows the sounds you make, the way you scratch his shoulders, the way you let him broaden your horizons in the dark. 

The dichotomy is thrilling. It makes his heart race with a fierce, possessive joy. You are this sweet, untouchable, elegant creature to the rest of the world, but behind closed doors, you belong entirely to him. 

“You okay, sweetheart?” Dean asks softly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“I’m fine,” you mumble against his jacket, still embarrassed. “People are so loud here.”

Dean chuckles, a rich, warm sound that vibrates through his chest. He pulls you a little closer, kissing your temple. 

“Don’t worry about them,” he murmurs, his green eyes sparkling with a secret only the two of you share. “They don’t know anything about you. But I do. And I think you’re perfect.”

You peek up at him, seeing the wicked, knowing gleam in his eye, and your blush somehow deepens even further. 

“You’re terrible,” you whisper, though a small smile plays on your lips. 

“I’m the best,” Dean corrects easily, pulling open the door to the lecture hall for you. “And you know it.”

You do know it. And as you walk into the classroom, your hand firmly intertwined with the biggest playboy turned most devoted boyfriend in Briar University history, you wouldn’t trade him for the world.

***

The late November air bites sharply at your cheeks as you and Dean walk out of the political science building. The Briar University campus is painted in stark shades of grey and deep, dying auburn, the sky threatening an early winter snow. 

You are bundled in a thick wool coat and a cashmere scarf, your hands buried deep in your pockets. Dean is walking beside you, seemingly impervious to the cold in just a Briar Hockey quarter-zip, though he has your heavy canvas tote bag slung effortlessly over his broad shoulder. 

“I still think the professor has it out for me,” Dean complains, bumping his shoulder gently against yours as you navigate the crowded sidewalk. “I answered the question perfectly.”

“You compared the socioeconomic impacts of the Industrial Revolution to the plot of Transformers,” you point out mildly, though a fond smile pulls at your lips. “It wasn’t exactly a perfect academic parallel.”

“It’s about the rise of machines, Y/N,” Dean argues, a wicked, charming grin spreading across his handsome face. “It’s deeply metaphorical. He just doesn’t appreciate my genius.”

“Of course,” you say, laughing softly. “That must be it. You’re a misunderstood scholar.”

Dean stops walking suddenly, turning to fully face you. He reaches out, pulling your cold hands from your coat pockets and wrapping his large, warm ones around them. He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a kiss to the chilled skin right there in the middle of the quad. 

“I don’t care if I’m a scholar,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours with that familiar, breath-stealing intensity. “As long as I get to sit next to you.”

A blush instantly warms your cheeks, combating the winter chill. It’s been weeks of this — weeks of Dean completely upending his life to revolve around yours, weeks of his fierce protection and tender worship — and you still haven’t gotten used to the sheer force of his devotion. 

“Come on,” Dean says softly, tugging your hands. “Let’s go get lunch. Garrett said he was craving-”

Dean’s words cut off abruptly. 

You look up, following his line of sight, and your heart skips a sudden, violent beat. 

Standing near the edge of the courtyard, completely out of place amidst the sea of stressed-out college students in sweatpants, is a man in an immaculate, bespoke navy suit. He is flanked by two very large, very discreet men in dark overcoats who exude a quiet, lethal sort of professionalism. 

“Dad?” You gasp, the word slipping out in absolute shock. 

Your father turns his head at the sound of your voice. His stern, diplomat’s face instantly softens into a warm, relieved smile. 

“Y/N,” he says, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the pavement. 

You don’t think. You just run. You drop Dean’s hands and sprint across the quad, throwing yourself into your father’s open arms. He catches you effortlessly, wrapping his arms tightly around you and pressing a kiss to the top of your head. 

“Dad, what are you doing here?” You ask, your voice muffled against his lapel. “Is everything okay? Are you safe? Is Mom okay?”

“We are perfectly fine, sweetheart,” your father assures you, pulling back just enough to look at your face, his hands resting on your shoulders. “Everything is fine. In fact, it’s more than fine.”

You blink, confused, as Dean slowly walks up behind you. He is standing a respectful distance away, his posture rigid, his jaw clenched tight. The playful, flirtatious college boy has completely vanished, replaced by a tense, hyper-vigilant protector. 

“Ambassador Y/L/N,” Dean says, his voice respectful but cautious. 

Your father looks up, his sharp eyes taking in Dean’s massive frame, the Briar hockey quarter-zip, and the canvas tote bag adorned with your handwriting that Dean is still holding. 

“Dean Di Laurentis,” your father replies, a small, knowing smile touching his lips. “It has been quite a few years. You’ve grown into a mountain of a young man. How are your parents?”

“They’re doing very well, sir. Thank you,” Dean says stiffly. 

You look between the two of them, the tension crackling in the cold air, before turning back to your father. “Dad, please. Tell me what’s going on. You’re supposed to be locked down in D.C. Why are you in Massachusetts?”

Your father sighs, a sound of profound, weary relief. He gestures to a nearby stone bench. “Let’s sit down for a moment.”

Dean remains standing, flanking the bench like a bodyguard as you and your father take a seat. 

“The threat has been neutralized, Y/N,” your father says quietly, his voice dropping into the serious, commanding tone he uses for state briefings. “Completely.”

Your breath catches. “Neutralized? How?”

“It was a joint operation,” your father explains, glancing around the quad to ensure no one is within earshot. “MI6 and the FBI have been tracking the extortion ring for months. The group using you as leverage to manipulate the trade sanctions made a mistake. They tried to move funds through an offshore account that had been flagged. The authorities raided their compound in Zurich two days ago. The key players have all been indicted, and the network has been dismantled.”

You stare at him, your brain struggling to process the magnitude of his words. For the past two months, you have lived with a persistent, low-grade terror thrumming in your veins. You had accepted that your life would never look the same, that you would always be looking over your shoulder. 

“Are you absolutely sure?” You whisper, your voice trembling. “They’re gone?”

“They are gone,” your father confirms firmly, covering your hand with his. “The Director of Intelligence personally assured me this morning. You are no longer a target, my darling. The danger has passed.”

A wave of dizzying relief washes over you. You slump forward slightly, tears of sheer release pricking the corners of your eyes. Your father wraps an arm around you, holding you close as you let out a shaky sob. 

Above you, Dean lets out a long, ragged exhale. The rigid tension bleeding from his broad shoulders is almost palpable. 

“Thank God,” Dean breathes, running a hand through his blonde hair. “Thank God.”

“Indeed,” your father says. He reaches into his suit jacket and pulls out a crisp, white envelope, handing it to you. “Which brings me to the secondary reason for my visit.”

You sniffle, wiping your eyes carefully as you take the envelope. It bears the official crest of Oxford University. 

“I spoke with the Dean of your college at Oxford yesterday,” your father continues, his tone gentle. “They understand the extenuating circumstances of your sudden departure. They have held your spot, Y/N. Your transfer credits from Briar will apply. You are entirely free to return to England and resume your studies next semester, just as you planned.”

The words hang in the freezing air, heavy and catastrophic. 

Behind you, Dean stops breathing entirely. 

The color drains rapidly from Dean’s face. His heart, which had just been soaring with relief for your safety, suddenly plummets straight into his stomach, crashing violently against the cold dread pooling there. 

Return to England. Resume her studies. Leave Briar. 

Leave him.

Dean feels physically ill. It’s only been a month and a half. He has only had you back in his life for a fraction of a semester, but in that time, you have become the absolute center of his universe. You are the air he breathes, the reason he wakes up in the morning, the only thing that makes this chaotic, loud world make sense. The thought of you packing your bags, getting on a plane, and crossing an ocean again feels like a physical blow to his chest. 

He remembers the ache of losing you when you were both fourteen. He remembers how quiet his house felt, how empty his days were without his best friend. But this? Losing you now, after he has tasted your lips, after he has held you in his bed, after he has realized that his soul is irreversibly tied to yours? 

It will break him. He knows, with absolute, terrifying certainty, that if you leave, he will not recover. 

Dean instinctively takes a half-step backward, the physical manifestation of his emotional retreat. His hand, which had been resting on the back of the stone bench near your shoulder, drops to his side. He stares at the ground, his jaw locked so tight his teeth ache, preparing himself for the inevitable. You belong at Oxford. You belong in grand libraries and ancient halls, not in a messy hockey house with a guy who barely scrapes by in political science. 

You look down at the heavy, embossed envelope in your lap. 

Oxford. It was your dream. You had worked tirelessly to get in. You had friends there, a life there, a clear, pristine path laid out for your future in diplomacy. Returning is the logical, smart, expected thing to do. 

You look up at your father, seeing the quiet expectation in his eyes. 

Then, you turn your head to look at Dean. 

He won’t meet your gaze. He is staring fiercely at the concrete, his broad shoulders hunched as if bracing for an impact. You see the subtle tremor in his clenched jaw, the absolute devastation radiating from his rigid posture. He has already convinced himself that you are leaving. He is already letting you go, because that is the kind of man he is — he would tear his own heart out before he ever held you back from something you wanted. 

A fierce, protective warmth blooms in your chest. 

You don’t want Oxford. Not anymore. The ancient halls and polite, intellectual debates suddenly seem terribly cold and lonely compared to the chaotic, vibrant, fiercely loyal life you’ve found here. You don’t want a life without Garrett stealing your snacks, without Logan’s terrible jokes, without Tucker’s quiet drawl. 

And, most importantly, you absolutely refuse to exist in a world where you don’t wake up next to Dean Di Laurentis every single morning. 

You slide the envelope back across the bench toward your father. 

“No, thank you,” you say softly, but your voice is remarkably steady. 

Dean’s head snaps up so fast you’re surprised he doesn’t pull a muscle. He stares at you, his green eyes wide, raw shock and desperate hope colliding in his expression. 

Your father arches a dark eyebrow. “No? Y/N, you loved Oxford. It is one of the premier institutions in the world for your field.”

“It is,” you agree, reaching out to gently lay your hand over the envelope. “And I am grateful they held my spot. But I don’t want to go back to England, Dad. I want to stay here. At Briar.”

“Briar is an excellent school,” your father acknowledges smoothly, ever the diplomat. “But it is a significant shift in your trajectory. Are you certain this isn’t a reaction to the trauma of the past few months? Now that the threat is gone, you don’t need to hide anymore.”

“I’m not hiding,” you say firmly. You stand up from the bench, stepping closer to Dean. You reach out, your delicate fingers sliding into his large, calloused hand. Dean gasps softly, a quiet, broken sound, and immediately crushes your hand in his, holding on as if you are a lifeline. 

You look up at Dean, offering him a smile so full of love and absolute certainty that the last lingering remnants of his panic melt away. 

You turn back to your father, your hand firmly anchored in Dean’s. “I’m not hiding, Dad. I’ve built a life here. I have friends here. I’m happy here. Really, truly happy. I want to stay.”

Your father looks at your joined hands. He looks at the way Dean is looking down at you — as if you are the sun and he has spent his entire life in the dark. The Ambassador has spent his career reading people, analyzing motives, and deciphering unsaid truths. It takes him less than five seconds to understand exactly what is happening in front of him. 

A slow, genuine smile breaks across your father’s stern face. 

“Very well,” your father says, standing up and smoothing the front of his suit jacket. “It is your life, Y/N, and your education. If Briar is where you wish to remain, I will not attempt to convince you otherwise. I trust your judgment.”

You let out a massive sigh of relief, your shoulders dropping. “Thank you, Dad.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” your father says, his eyes shifting to Dean. “My driver is waiting by the main gates. I have reservations at Ostra in Boston for lunch. You are both joining me.”

It isn’t a request. 

Dean swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Yes, sir.”

The drive to Boston is quiet, insulated by the tinted windows and plush leather of your father’s town car. You sit in the middle of the spacious backseat, your father on your right, and Dean on your left. Dean hasn’t let go of your hand since the courtyard. His thumb traces anxious, rhythmic circles into your palm, betraying the calm, stoic mask he is trying desperately to maintain. 

Ostra is exactly the kind of restaurant your father frequents — impeccably designed, quietly opulent, and smelling of expensive wine and Mediterranean seafood. The maitre d’ immediately ushers the three of you to a private, secluded booth in the back. 

As the waiter pours sparkling water and takes their drink orders, Dean is practically vibrating with tension. 

He knows how this goes. He isn’t stupid. He is the guy with a notorious campus reputation who has suddenly shacked up with the Ambassador’s sheltered, brilliant daughter. He has been waiting for the shovel talk since the day you moved into the hockey house. He is entirely prepared to take it. He is prepared to sit here and let your father threaten him, dissect his character, and warn him of dire consequences if he ever breaks your heart. 

Dean will agree to all of it, because he’d sooner die than hurt you. 

“So, Dean,” your father starts once the waiter retreats, resting his forearms on the white tablecloth. “Political Science. A slight departure from your parents’ corporate law background.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean says, sitting incredibly straight. “I plan to go to law school after graduation, but I wanted a broader undergraduate foundation. And … hockey takes up a significant amount of my time.”

“Ah, yes. The Briar hockey program,” your father nods slowly. “Your mother mentioned you were a standout player. Any plans to pursue it professionally?”

“I have options,” Dean answers honestly, his voice steady despite his nerves. “I’ve had some interest from scouts, but my priority right now is finishing my degree. And making sure Y/N is situated.”

Your father takes a slow sip of his water, his sharp eyes pinning Dean to the plush leather of the booth. 

“Speaking of Y/N,” your father says softly, the diplomatic polish stripping away to reveal the protective father underneath. “She has been staying with you and your teammates at an off-campus residence.”

Dean stiffens. “Yes, sir. When she first arrived, the dorms lacked the necessary security parameters. My housemates and I decided it was safer for her to be with us. We have a spare room.”

It’s a half-truth. You haven’t slept in that spare room in weeks, but Dean isn’t about to volunteer that information over the bread basket. 

“I appreciate your hospitality,” your father says smoothly. He sets his glass down. “I also appreciate that you have taken it upon yourself to act as her personal shadow. My security detail informed me that you walk her to every class, you sit beside her in the library, and you haven’t attended a single social event without her on your arm.”

Dean’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t apologize. He looks your father dead in the eye. “She was threatened, sir. I wasn’t going to let her out of my sight. Not when I had the means to protect her.”

You reach under the table, resting your hand gently on Dean’s rigid thigh, a silent gesture of support. Dean’s hand immediately covers yours, gripping your fingers tightly. 

“Sir,” Dean continues, his voice dropping into a serious, unwavering register. “I know what this looks like. I know you’re probably aware of … certain aspects of my reputation before Y/N transferred here. And I know you probably brought me here to give me the warning I absolutely deserve. I am completely ready to hear it. But you need to know that I love her. I love your daughter more than anything in this world, and my only priority is her happiness and her safety. You can threaten me all you want, but I am not going anywhere.”

You stare at Dean, your heart swelling with so much love you think it might genuinely burst. You look at your father, ready to defend Dean, ready to tell your dad that Dean is the best thing that has ever happened to you. 

But your father doesn’t look angry. 

Instead, a soft, incredibly fond smile touches his lips. He leans back in the booth, looking at Dean with an expression of profound respect. 

“Dean,” your father says gently. “I did not bring you here to threaten you.”

Dean blinks, completely thrown off guard. “You didn’t?”

“No,” your father chuckles quietly. “My entire career is built on assessing character, gathering intelligence, and understanding the truth of a situation before I enter the room. I know exactly what your reputation on this campus was. And I know exactly how drastically it changed the moment my daughter set foot in Massachusetts.”

Your father folds his hands on the table, his expression turning entirely earnest. 

“You think I don’t know the boy sitting across from me?” Your father asks softly. “I have known you since you were in grade school. I have watched you grow up alongside my daughter.”

Your father pauses, his eyes softening as he looks into the past. “Do you remember the summer you were both twelve? Y/N had convinced you to take one of the small sailing dinghies out onto the Long Island Sound, despite the small craft advisory.”

Dean exhales a shaky breath, the memory hitting him instantly. “I remember.”

You look down, blushing slightly. “That was entirely my fault. I wanted to see the lighthouse up close.”

“A sudden squall rolled in,” your father recounts, his voice thick with remembered fear. “The wind picked up, and the boat capsized. The Coast Guard was dispatched, but it took them nearly an hour to locate you in the chop.”

Your father looks directly at Dean. “When they finally pulled you both out of the water, Y/N’s life vest was gone. The clasp had broken when the boom swung around. But she wasn’t under the water. You had given her your life vest, Dean. You spent an hour treading water in freezing temperatures, holding her up above the waves, completely risking your own life to ensure she didn’t drown. You were hospitalized for hypothermia, and you refused to let the doctors treat you until you saw with your own eyes that Y/N was unharmed.”

Dean looks down at the table, his cheeks flushing a dull red. “She couldn’t swim as well as I could. I wasn’t going to let her sink.”

“I know,” your father says quietly. “That is my point, Dean. When the threats against my family escalated in London, my first thought was terrifying panic. My second thought was finding a safe harbor for her. The government suggested several secure locations. But when my wife mentioned that Briar University was an option — that you were at Briar — I signed the transfer papers immediately.”

Dean’s head snaps up, absolute shock written across his features. “You … you sent her to Briar because of me?”

“I sent her to Briar because I knew that if you were there, no one on this earth would be able to touch her,” your father states with absolute, unwavering conviction. “I knew the boy who gave up his life vest in the freezing Sound had grown into a man who would do whatever it took to keep her safe. I don’t need to give you a shovel talk, Dean. You are perhaps the only man on earth I trust implicitly with my daughter’s heart, and her life.”

The silence in the opulent restaurant booth is deafening. 

Dean stares at the Ambassador, his green eyes shining with unshed emotion. The heavy, suffocating weight of guilt he has carried about his past, the fear that he wasn’t good enough for you, is completely decimated by your father’s words. 

Dean swallows hard, his jaw working as he struggles to find his voice. He looks at you, his eyes blazing with a fierce, watery devotion, before turning back to your father. 

“Thank you, sir,” Dean says, his voice thick and rough. “I won’t let you down. I swear to God, I will never let her down.”

“I know you won’t, son,” your father smiles warmly, picking up his menu. “Now, I am told the sea bass here is excellent. And I believe we have a celebration in order. My daughter is safe, she is staying in America, and she is in excellent hands.”

Under the table, you squeeze Dean’s hand, leaning over to rest your head gently against his broad shoulder. Dean presses a kiss to your hair, his entire body radiating a profound, beautiful peace. 

He didn’t just get to keep the love of his life today. 

He finally realized he was worthy of her.

***

Spring break at Briar University usually means packed beaches in Cabo, cheap tequila, and a week of terrible decisions. 

But Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t do anything by the standard playbook anymore. 

When you had offhandedly mentioned over a midnight study session that you missed the rainy, historic charm of England and the specific scones from a little bakery near your old flat, you hadn’t expected anything to come of it. You were simply feeling a bout of homesickness. 

Two days later, Dean had dropped two first-class tickets to Heathrow onto your textbook. 

Now, you are walking hand-in-hand down the ancient, cobblestone streets of Oxford, bundled in a sleek wool coat to ward off the crisp March chill. 

The trip has been nothing short of a fairy tale. Dean had rented a massive suite in London for three days, taking you to the West End, indulging in high tea, and buying you more luxury clothes than you could ever fit in your suitcase. Then, he had whisked you away to the Cotswolds, renting a secluded, romantic stone cottage with a thatched roof and a roaring fireplace. You had spent three days snowed in, wrapped in thick blankets, drinking hot cider, and letting Dean absolutely worship every inch of you in front of the hearth. 

But Oxford is different. Oxford is your past. 

“So, this is it,” Dean says, his head tipped back as he looks up at the towering, magnificent dome of the Radcliffe Camera. “The legendary stomping grounds. I have to admit, sweetheart, it’s pretty spectacular. Makes Briar look like a strip mall.”

You laugh, squeezing his large hand. “Briar has its own charm. But yes, Oxford is … it’s special. I spent hours reading in that library. I used to sit on that wall right over there and debate international policy until the sun went down.”

Dean looks down at you, his green eyes entirely soft, crinkling at the corners. He is wearing a long, tailored black overcoat over a dark turtleneck, looking so impossibly handsome and devastatingly striking that people have been turning their heads to stare at him all morning. 

“Show me,” Dean murmurs, pulling you flush against his side and pressing a warm kiss to your temple. “Show me everything. I want to see where you lived, where you drank, where you bought those scones you wouldn’t stop talking about.”

“You bought me five dozen scones yesterday, Dean. I think I’m set for life,” you tease, leaning your head against his broad shoulder. 

“I’m a provider,” he counters smoothly, flashing that wicked, brilliant grin. “It’s in my nature.”

You lead him through the winding, historic streets, pointing out your favorite pubs and the quiet little courtyards hidden behind massive iron gates. Dean listens to every word you say with absolute attention. He asks questions, he remembers the names of your old professors, and he looks at you with a devotion so fierce it makes your chest ache in the best possible way. 

“And this,” you say, stopping in front of a rustic, wood-paneled pub with hanging flower baskets, “is The Turf Tavern. It’s practically a requirement to get a pint here. Shall we?”

“Lead the way,” Dean says, reaching past you to push the heavy oak door open. 

The pub is crowded, smelling of ale, fried fish, and damp wool. You navigate through the low-ceilinged room, Dean keeping a protective hand resting securely on the small of your back. You manage to find a tiny, secluded booth near the back. 

Dean goes to the bar to order two pints and a plate of chips. You sit at the booth, pulling your scarf off and feeling a profound sense of contentment wash over you. You are back in the city you love, but you are here with the man who holds your entire heart. It is the perfect collision of your two worlds. 

“Y/N? Is that you?”

The crisp, highly polished, and painfully familiar British accent cuts through the low din of the pub. 

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice water in your veins. 

You turn your head slowly. Standing a few feet away, holding a half-empty pint glass and wearing a perfectly tailored tweed blazer, is Edward. 

Edward, the Viscount of Scunthorpe. The aristocratic, impossibly snobby ex-boyfriend you had dated during your time at Oxford. The man who had treated you more like a shiny, diplomatic accessory than a human being. 

“Edward,” you say, your voice tight. You force a polite, entirely fake smile onto your face. “Hello.”

Edward steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an uncomfortable familiarity. “I had heard a rumor you fled back to the States. Something about your father and a political scandal? What a dreadful business. You look well, though. A bit … domestic, perhaps, but well.”

His backhanded compliment grates on your nerves. You immediately shrink back into the booth, your ingrained, polite shyness warring with your immense annoyance. “I didn’t flee, Edward. I transferred. And I’m doing perfectly fine.”

“Of course you are, darling,” Edward smirks, taking another step forward. He reaches out, aiming to lazily tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “Though I must say, Oxford has been terribly dull without-”

A massive, calloused hand suddenly intercepts Edward’s wrist mid-air. 

The grip is visibly bone-crushing. 

Edward gasps, his eyes blowing wide as he looks to his right. 

Dean is standing there. He holds two pints of beer effortlessly in his left hand, while his right hand is locked around Edward’s wrist like a steel vice. Dean’s expression is completely blank, but his green eyes are practically glowing with lethal, frozen rage. 

“Don’t touch her,” Dean says. His voice is dangerously low, a soft, gravelly threat that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. 

Edward tries to yank his arm back, but Dean doesn’t budge an inch. “I beg your pardon?” Edward sputters, his face turning an undignified shade of red. “Who the hell do you think you are?”

Dean slowly, deliberately releases Edward’s wrist, shoving the man’s arm back toward his chest with just enough force to make Edward stumble back a step. 

Dean sets the pints down on the table. He doesn’t sit. He turns, placing himself entirely between you and Edward, shielding you from the Viscount’s sightline. 

“I’m the guy who is going to break your hand if you reach for my girlfriend again,” Dean answers smoothly, his tone conversational, though the threat is violently real. “I’m Dean.”

Edward scoffs, rubbing his wrist, though he wisely takes another step back from the towering, broad-shouldered American athlete. “Your girlfriend. I see. Y/N, really? You traded me for a … what are you, a footballer? A rugby brute?”

“Ice hockey,” you say clearly, finding your voice. You slide out of the booth, stepping up to stand right beside Dean. You wrap your arms around Dean’s bicep, pressing yourself against his side. “And I didn’t trade you for anyone, Edward. We broke up because you were entirely insufferable.”

Dean looks down at you, the lethal ice in his eyes melting instantly into a look of absolute, smug adoration. He wraps a heavy arm around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. 

Edward sneers, looking Dean up and down with blatant aristocratic disdain. “Ice hockey. How terribly colonial. Tell me, Dean, do you actually know how to read, or do you just hit things with a stick for a living? I’m surprised you can even keep up with a conversation here at Oxford.”

Dean doesn’t get angry. He doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he laughs. It’s a dark, rich, incredibly condescending laugh that completely catches Edward off guard. 

“You know, Edward,” Dean says, leaning forward slightly, using his height to completely dwarf the other man. “You talk a lot for a guy whose family wealth is currently tied up in the failing agriculture sector because your father completely botched his investments in the post-Brexit trade agreements. From a socioeconomic standpoint, you’re practically a peasant in a nice jacket.”

Edward’s jaw actually drops. The color drains from his face. 

You stare at Dean, absolutely floored. 

Dean continues, his voice dripping with terrifying charm. “I study political science and corporate law, Edward. My parents are two of the most ruthless litigators on the East Coast. So, if you want to debate international trade laws or intellectual property, we can. But right now, I’m on vacation with the woman I love, and you are boring me to death.”

Edward opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly defeated, stripped of his aristocratic armor by a guy who he assumed was nothing but muscle. 

Dean doesn’t give him a chance to recover. 

He turns to you, completely ignoring Edward’s existence. “You ready to get out of here, sweetheart? The air in here suddenly feels incredibly cheap.”

“Yes,” you whisper, your heart doing frantic, somersaulting leaps in your chest. “Take me back to the hotel.”

Dean smirks. Right there, in the middle of the crowded pub, with your ex-boyfriend standing three feet away, Dean reaches up and cups your face. He tilts your head back and crushes his lips to yours. 

It is a claiming, devastating, incredibly filthy kiss. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting you, devouring you, staking a completely undeniable claim. He kisses you until you are breathless, until your knees go weak and you have to grip his coat lapels to stay standing. 

When he finally pulls back, you are thoroughly flushed, your lips swollen and wet. 

Dean turns his head slightly, shooting Edward a look of pure, dominant victory. 

“Have a nice life, Eddie,” Dean deadpans. 

He grabs your hand, lacing your fingers together, and leads you out of the pub, leaving the Viscount standing completely humiliated in the dust. 

The walk back to the Randolph Hotel is a blur. 

You are practically vibrating with adrenaline. You had never seen Dean like that. You had seen him protective, yes, but the way he had verbally dismantled Edward without even raising his voice, the way he had claimed you so thoroughly in public — it sent a rush of intense, liquid heat straight to your core. 

The moment the heavy, oak door of your luxurious hotel suite clicks shut behind you, the calm, collected facade Dean had maintained completely shatters. 

Dean spins around, grabbing you by the hips and backing you forcefully against the heavy door. 

You let out a soft gasp as your back hits the wood. 

“Darling?” Dean snarls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural growl that sends a violent shiver down your spine. “He called you darling?”

“Dean-” you start, but he cuts you off, his mouth crashing down onto yours. 

There is no slow, patient worship this time. This is feral. This is possessive. He kisses you with a desperate, consuming hunger, his tongue pushing past your lips to conquer your mouth. He tastes like ale and dark desire. 

You moan softly into his mouth, your arms instantly coming up to wrap around his neck. You kiss him back with matching ferocity, your fingers tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. 

Dean’s large hands tear at your wool coat, practically ripping it off your shoulders and tossing it to the floor. His hands roam over the thin silk of your blouse, his palms hot and heavy. 

“Tell me whose you are,” Dean demands, pulling back just a fraction of an inch, his chest heaving against yours. His green eyes are black with lust, wild and completely untamed. “Tell me, Y/N.”

“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes fluttering shut as he trails open-mouthed, biting kisses down the column of your neck. “I’m only yours, Dean. Nobody else’s.”

“Fucking right you’re mine,” he groans against your skin. He sucks a hard, bruising mark into the sensitive spot right above your collarbone, making sure to leave a physical reminder of exactly who you belong to. 

You cry out, arching your back off the door to press your chest flush against his. 

Dean grabs the back of your thighs and lifts you effortlessly. You instinctively wrap your legs around his waist, crossing your ankles behind his back. He carries you across the luxurious suite, your back never leaving his chest, and drops you onto the center of the massive, king-sized bed. 

You bounce slightly on the plush mattress, looking up at him through heavy, hooded eyes. 

Dean strips off his overcoat and his turtleneck in one fluid, aggressive motion. He stands beside the bed, his golden, impossibly muscular chest heaving. He reaches for the buckle of his belt, his eyes fixed on you like a predator watching its prey. 

“Did he ever touch you like this?” Dean asks, his voice tight with lingering jealousy. He reaches down, grabbing your ankles and dragging you down the mattress until your hips are right at the edge of the bed. 

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head frantically. “God, no, Dean. Never. It was never like this. It’s only you.”

Dean lets out a harsh, satisfied breath. He kneels between your parted thighs. His hands make quick work of your blouse, popping the buttons and tossing it aside, followed quickly by your bra and skirt. 

In seconds, you are completely bare to him, flushed a deep, beautiful pink from your chest down to your thighs, completely exposed to his heated gaze. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean murmurs, the feral edge softening into pure, intense worship. “You make me absolutely crazy, sweetheart.”

He leans forward, pressing his mouth to the valley between your breasts, before trailing wet, hot kisses down your stomach. You writhe beneath him, your hands gripping the high thread-count sheets on either side of your head. 

Dean’s hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them wider apart. He settles himself fully between your legs, his hot breath fanning over your sensitive core. 

“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a high, sweet whimper. You are already aching, already so incredibly slick and ready for him. 

“I’ve got you, baby,” Dean hums. 

He lowers his head and takes you into his mouth. 

You scream his name, your back arching violently off the mattress. His tongue is relentless, swirling and flicking exactly where you need it, while his large fingers slide effortlessly inside your slick, wet heat. He mimics the rhythm of sex, pumping his fingers deep inside you while his mouth devours you, driving you completely out of your mind. 

“That’s it,” Dean praises darkly between wet, sloppy kisses against your core. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want it.”

You can’t hold back. The intense, overwhelming pleasure builds too fast, shattering through your body in a blinding wave. You climax hard against his mouth, your internal muscles clenching tight around his fingers, a sobbing moan tearing from your throat. 

Dean doesn’t give you a moment to recover. 

He rises up, his own need completely overriding his patience. He shoves his jeans and boxers down his hips, freeing his aching, heavy arousal. 

He grips your hips, his thumbs pressing into your hip bones, and aligns himself with your entrance. He looks down at you, his eyes blazing, a muscle ticking in his strong jaw. 

“Look at me,” Dean commands softly. 

You open your eyes, tears of pure pleasure pricking the corners, and meet his intense gaze. 

“I love you,” Dean says, the words a fierce, unbreakable vow. 

He drives his hips forward, burying himself completely inside you in one long, deep thrust. 

You cry out, the feeling of him stretching you, filling you so completely, sending a fresh wave of electricity straight to your brain. You wrap your legs tighter around his waist, locking him flush against you. 

Dean begins to move. He sets a punishing, desperate pace, pulling almost completely out before slamming his hips forward, driving deep into your tight, wet heat. The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoes loudly in the quiet hotel room. 

“Dean!” You cry, your fingernails digging into his broad shoulders, leaving half-moon indentations in his golden skin. 

“You feel so fucking good,” Dean groans, his teeth gritted. “So tight. You’re mine, Y/N. Tell me you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you sob out, completely lost in the overwhelming sensation of him. “Always yours. Oh god, please, harder.”

Dean complies instantly. He adjusts his grip, hooking his arms under your knees and pulling your legs all the way back against his chest, opening you up completely. He thrusts deeper, hitting a spot that makes you see stars. 

You are a chaotic mess of flushed skin, tangled hair, and breathless moans. Every time he hits that spot, you shatter a little more. You are entirely consumed by him, by his heat, his scent, his overwhelming, possessive love. 

“I’m close,” Dean grits out, his pace turning frantic, his thrusts losing all coordination as the pleasure takes over. “Baby, I’m right there.”

“Come for me,” you beg, your own body tightening, ready to fall over the edge again. “Dean, please.”

Dean lets out a deep, guttural roar. He drives into you three more times, as deep as he possibly can, before his body goes entirely rigid. He clenches his jaw, his eyes squeezing shut as he pours his release into you, his hips locked flush against yours. 

The feeling of him finishing deep inside you pushes you over the edge, your own body convulsing around him as you climax for a second time, calling out his name like a prayer. 

For a long time, the only sound in the luxurious hotel suite is the harsh, ragged breathing of two entirely exhausted people. 

Dean eventually collapses forward, his heavy chest resting fully against yours, his face buried in the crook of your neck. He is covered in a light sheen of sweat, his heart hammering a violent rhythm against your own. 

You wrap your arms around his broad back, holding him tightly, your fingers lazily tracing the deep ridges of his spine. You feel entirely boneless, floating in a euphoric, hazy afterglow. 

Slowly, gently, Dean rolls to the side, taking his heavy weight off you but immediately pulling you flush against his side. He reaches down and pulls the thick, white hotel duvet up over your bare bodies, cocooning you in warmth. 

He presses a soft, lingering kiss to your bare shoulder, his thumb gently stroking the curve of your waist. 

“I’m sorry I lost my temper,” Dean murmurs into the quiet room, his voice raspy. “I just … seeing him look at you like that. Thinking about him touching you. I saw red, Y/N.”

“You didn’t lose your temper,” you reply softly, turning your head to press a kiss to his chest. “You were completely calm. Terrifyingly calm, actually. I think you might have broken his spirit.”

Dean chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Good. He was a prick. And he didn’t deserve you.”

“No,” you agree, looking up into his warm, green eyes. “He didn’t. But you do.”

Dean’s breath catches. He reaches up, gently brushing a tangled lock of hair out of your face, his fingers lingering on your cheek. 

“I meant what I said,” Dean whispers, all the playful arrogance stripped away, leaving only the raw, honest truth of the man who has loved you since you were children. “I’m your future, sweetheart. I know we’re young, and I know we have our whole lives ahead of us. But I am not doing any of it without you.”

Tears prick your eyes again, but this time they are tears of absolute, profound joy. 

“I’m not going anywhere, Dean,” you promise him, sliding your hand up to cup his handsome face. “I love you. I love you more than anything.”

Dean leans down, capturing your lips in a slow, impossibly tender kiss. It is a promise, a vow, a sealing of a fate that had been written in the stars the moment you built your first terribly constructed fort in his backyard in Greenwich. 

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours, a stunning, radiant smile breaking across his face. 

“So,” Dean murmurs, a hint of his signature, charming arrogance slipping back into his tone. “Since I successfully defended your honor against a British Lord, do I get to be a knight now? Is that how it works here?”

You laugh, the sound bright and clear, echoing perfectly in the quiet room. 

“You’re already my knight in shining armor, Dean Di Laurentis,” you tease, pressing a final kiss to his jaw. “Now, shut up and hold me.”

“As you wish, sweetheart,” Dean replies smoothly, wrapping his arms around you and pulling you impossibly closer. 

As you lie there in his arms, thousands of miles from the Briar hockey house, looking out the window at the ancient spires of Oxford, you realize you have never felt more at home. 

you are sitting completely alone in the bathroom of your small rented apartment.

still in pajamas.

the sun barely peeking through the curtains of the window next to the bathtub.

you look at the test in disbelief. it can't be real.

but the other one resting in the washbasin says exactly the same thing.

you're pregnant and you don't even have a partner.

two weeks later, with the secret hanging by a thread and your two best friends inviting you to live with them, you feel less alone.

"okay, let's recalculate. you said you had a summer fling with a guy, you did what anyone would have done, and now here we are". allie said, taking a sip of her freshly brewed, hot coffee.

"allie! don't say it like that!" hannah scolded her.

"that's okay, hann, after all, that's what happened". you said.

"do you know his name?" hannah asked. "you know it's not just your responsibility."

"that's the thing. we never told each other our names."

"what university did he go to? his hobbies? anything?" allie inquired, trying to help.

"i don't know. i remeber he's blond and tall, he's in shape, and that's all I know."

"aww, imagine a baby with your curls and his blonde hair, they'd be like little golden curls!" hannah exclaimed excitedly.

"weren't we supposed to take it easy?" allie inquired sarcastically, looking at your friend with a raised eyebrow.

"i never said that, i'm just suggesting the baby could be extremely adorable."

"can we talk about something else?"

you suggested, trying not to laugh at your friends' antics.

"yes! let's talk about you studying at briar now!" allie shouted.

"we'll be able to see you every day!" your other friend pointed it out.

"i'm a little nervous, i can't stop thinking about how people will look at me in the months to come."

"you said you didn't want to talk about it anymore," allie pointed out.

"i know, but it's impossible not to think about it, i won't be able to handle this, especially not alone." your eyes filled with tears and you tried to wipe them away with the sleeve of your sweatshirt, but they came back and you could only smile.

"the thing is, you won't be alone, you have us," hannah promised, and allie nodded. "besides, when you meet the boys, they won't judge you."

"the boys?"

"our group of friends," sllie explained, "they can be annoying, but they're not bad."

you didn't quite know what to say. but what they could tell from the warmth in your eyes was that you valued them more than anything.

the first day of college after the holidays came faster than you were ready for. with the schedule as your phone's lock screen background and feeling incredibly nervous, you and the girls got ready to go out.

you spend the day half lost, half guided by the directions of some students you ask for help to get to the auditoriums. you find it extremely tiring to have to walk so much, and even more tiring to think that in a few months you'll be doing the same thing but with a huge watermelon as your belly.

after one of your classes, you went outside for some fresh air. the campus was chaotic. people were milling about, not even looking at each other, completely absorbed in their own world.

you were trying to read something on the document you had on your phone while you were walking through the crowd. until you bumped into someone.

"shit, sorry"

you said.

your notes fell to the floor.

a hand took them before you bent down.

"no problem"

a deep voice.

masculine.

you barely looked up.

"thank you," you murmured before snatching the papers from him and continuing on your way.

he stared at you as you left. something extremely familiar had caught his attention.

finally, he shrugged and continued on his way.

"i already told you i'm not going to the party"

"pretty pleaseee, my boyfriend doesn't want to go with me and the theme is matching costumes, i already bought them!" allie begged, holding up what you thought were very colorful clothes.

"besides, you need to clear your mind for a while, and what better way than a party?"

"i'm going to kill you"

"yes! i promise you won't regret it!"

she left the clothes in your hand and directed you to your room, closing the door once you were inside.

"it's going to look great on you!" she shouted from the other side of the door.

you let out a laugh and threw your clothes on the bed to start changing. you didn't think you were anything special, especially since the costume was green. but when you put it on and saw you were poison ivy, you were truly dazzled.

the costume fit in all the right places and your curls gave it the perfect touch.

maybe you did deserve to have a good time tonight.

as soon as you crossed the threshold of the house, the music and the warmth of the people enveloped you. allie, dressed as aarley quinn, gave you a squeeze in the hand and murmured a few comforting words before dragging you off to get drinks.

"i need something to drink before i regret coming here."

she said.

what you liked most about parties was how everyone seemed to be in their own world and didn't bother anyone, apart from the fights that usually broke out when people were already very drunk.

"cheers," she said before almost finishing the glass.

the sound of your boots echoed all the way to the kitchen where allie handed you a glass water.

"i hate being pregnant" you said watching the water.

you let out a sigh before following her lead and drinking from your glass.

you were putting the glass down on the counter when you heard laughter behind you.

an extremely familiar laugh.

you froze.

no.

you turned around slowly.

a group of boys who had just arrived in the kitchen were laughing about something, and there, leaning against the door, was him.

the world seemed to stop.

it was him. the summer boy. the father of your baby.

just a few steps away.

"are you okay?" allie asked.

you didn't answer.

"move, dean, you're blocking the entrance," someone said.

dean.

that was his name.

and he studied at the same university, the one you had transferred to.

the universe had an incredible sense of humor.

"oh! come, i want to introduce you to my friends." allie dragged you by the wrist again towards the group of boys.

oh no.

nonononononononono!

"hey guys, this is my roommate, lifelong friend, and new transfer to Briar."

everyone introduced themselves. you heard many names, greetings, and wishes of luck. but you stopped paying attention when he looked at you.

he looked at you strangely, as if he recognized you but not quite. he inspected your face, and you froze.

not in here.

please.

please, not here

but he shook his head and with a bright smile. he introduced himself and you finally learned his full name.

dean di laurentis.

"well, welcome to briar."

⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⸝⸝⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⸝⸝⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⸝⸝⋆｡𖦹°⭒˚｡⋆⸝⸝⋆｡𖦹

i'm definitely going to do a part two of this, only i might publish it a century from now...

i hope you liked it, read you soon! <3

The lecture theatre had noticed it immediately. There was a weird, restless buzz moving through the rows, people shifting in their seats and leaning toward each other, whispering guesses with the kind of energy usually reserved for fire alarms or free pizza. 

Beside her, a girl in a Briar hoodie muttered, “I swear to God, if this is an icebreaker, I’m dropping out,” and someone two rows back laughed too loudly.

Dr. Miller looked delighted, which was always a terrible sign.

“Alright,” she said, clapping her hands together once. “Settle down. I promise this will be painless.”

That was, historically, the kind of sentence said before something deeply annoying happened. She reached for her coffee and took a careful sip as Dr. Miller started explaining the assignment. 

Community participation. Immersion. Observational research. Four weeks of attendance. A reflective essay at the end on the role of student clubs in shaping identity, support networks, and campus culture. Partners randomly assigned. Club randomly selected.

A few people groaned. Someone near the front said, “Randomly?” with real fear in his voice.

“Yes, randomly,” Dr. Miller said, still smiling. “Which means no, Mr. Collins, you cannot choose the Gaming Society again because you already go every Friday.”

There was a ripple of laughter. The guy in question sank a little lower in his seat. She was still trying to decide whether this was annoying in a normal way or annoying in a potentially disastrous way when Dr. Miller started reading names off a printed list.

“Jenna Clark and Olivia Redding. Mateo Alvarez and Priya Shah. Daniel West and Claire Thompson.”

Her pen rolled off her notebook and hit the floor near her boot. She bent down to grab it, already only half listening, until Dr. Miller said her name.

Then, after one awful little beat, “Garrett Graham.”

The lecture theatre did that thing people did when they were trying not to react and reacting anyway. A soft swell of noise, a few heads turning, a couple of muffled laughs. 

Someone behind her said, “Lucky,” under their breath, and she felt heat crawl up the back of her neck in a way that made her want to turn around and throw her coffee at them.

Garrett, two rows behind and three seats over, lifted his head like he’d been called in a locker room instead of a classroom. He had one arm slung over the back of the chair beside him, a black Briar Hockey hoodie stretched across his shoulders, and dark curls still slightly damp at the ends, like he’d showered after morning practice and then barely made it here on time. 

He looked too comfortable for someone who had just been handed a four-week group assignment with a stranger, mouth curving faintly as his eyes cut over to hers.

Obviously he was cute. It was Garrett Graham. You would have to be blind to miss it, and even then, she was pretty sure blind people probably sensed it in the air around him. Some kind of deeply irritating atmospheric pressure. A shift in the room. Girls fixing their hair for no reason. Boys pretending not to be impressed by him. Professors learning his name faster than everyone else’s.

He raised his brows at her, all easy recognition and lazy amusement, like they were already in on a joke together. She looked back down at her notebook because she refused to be taken out by a man with wet hockey hair before ten in the morning.

Once all the partners had been assigned, Dr. Miller waved them down by pair to draw their clubs. There were normal options at first. Environmental Action. Debate Society. Campus Radio. The French Film Club, which got a pained little silence from the two guys who pulled it. Someone got Knitting for Beginners and looked weirdly pleased about it. Someone else got Ballroom Dance and immediately started bargaining with God.

When Dr. Miller called their names, Garrett stood first. He was taller up close than he looked from a distance, which was rude because he already looked tall from a distance. He came down the lecture steps with his hands in the front pocket of his hoodie, moving with that loose, athletic ease that made everything seem like less effort than it probably was. 

She met him at the aisle and tried very hard not to notice the faint clean smell of soap and cold air coming off him.

“Partner,” he said, like they’d planned this.

“Graham,” she said, because her brain had decided the best defence against hot men was sounding unimpressed.

His grin twitched. “Already using my last name. Feels serious.”

“Don’t get attached. I’m mostly trying to remember which one you are.”

“Ouch.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I dunno.” He pressed a hand to his chest as they reached the front. “That one hit pretty hard.”

Dr. Miller held the hat out toward them with theatrical importance. “Moment of truth.”

Garrett glanced sideways at her and made a small sweeping gesture with one hand. “Ladies first.”

“Wow,” she said, reaching into the hat. “Chivalry’s alive.”

Her fingers closed around one folded slip of paper. Garrett leaned over her shoulder before she could open it, close enough that she caught another brief hit of soap and wintergreen gum. “Don’t get us something weird.”

“I’m not controlling the hat, Graham.”

“Manifest better.”

She unfolded the paper. For a second, the words didn’t make sense. They were just black ink on white paper, the letters sitting there with obscene calm while her stomach did a slow, cold drop toward the floor.

CELIBACY CLUB.

She blinked.

Garrett’s breath left him in a low, disbelieving groan beside her ear. “Oh, fuck me.”

Which was, considering the club, maybe not ideal phrasing.

Dr. Miller tilted her head. “What did you get?”

There was a horrible little pause. She looked at Garrett. Garrett looked at the paper. Then he lifted his head and called out, voice carrying easily across the theatre, “Celibacy Club.”

The room exploded. Actual, full-body laughter rolled up the rows. Someone whooped. Someone clapped. A guy near the back yelled, “Damn, sorry, G!” and another voice immediately followed with, “Season-ending injury!”

Garrett turned just enough to shoot the back rows a look, but it was impossible to tell whether he was annoyed or fighting a laugh. His jaw flexed once. The corner of his mouth gave him away. She wanted to crawl directly into the hat and live there.

Dr. Miller, traitor that she was, looked amused. “Wonderful. A valuable perspective on campus values and social norms.”

“Valuable,” Garrett repeated, so dryly that the front row snickered.

She folded the paper back up with very deliberate fingers and handed it over. “This is going to be a nightmare.”

Garrett glanced at her as they started back up the stairs. “You think?”

“I think the universe is either hilarious or evil.”

“Both, probably.”

They got back to their row under the soft, gleeful attention of what felt like every person in the room. Garrett dropped into the seat beside her this time, deciding partnership meant proximity now, and leaned back with his knees spread wide enough that one of them nearly brushed hers.

“Oh, fuckin’ hell,” he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

She looked at him. “Already struggling?”

His eyes cut to hers. Dark, amused, offended. “Careful.”

“What?”

“You sound like you’re doubting me.”

“I don’t sound like anything.”

“You sounded very doubt-y.”

She pressed her lips together and looked toward the front where Dr. Miller was explaining attendance logs. “Maybe I’m just worried about the quality of our research.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Immersion matters, Graham.”

He huffed a laugh, low in his chest. “Yeah? You gonna immerse yourself in celibacy?”

The way he said it made her want to laugh, which was annoying. “For the grade? Sure.”

“For the grade,” he echoed, nodding slowly, like he was considering a play on the ice. “Right.”

She should have known, probably, that this was the beginning of the problem. Garrett Graham sitting beside her with his knee almost touching hers, acting like four weeks was nothing, while the entire lecture theatre continued to make jokes under their breath because Briar University had the emotional maturity of a middle school cafeteria.

The problem was that she found him funny. That was where things started going downhill.

Their first actual meeting outside class was in the library two days later, and Garrett arrived only twelve minutes late, which, based on what she knew about hockey players as a species, was basically early.

He came in carrying a laptop under one arm and two coffees in the other hand, wearing a backwards cap and a grey Henley that looked unfairly good on him for something that was technically just a shirt. 

There was a fading bruise along one side of his jaw, yellow-green at the edges, and she caught herself looking at it before she could stop.

“Peace offering,” he said, setting one of the coffees in front of her.

She looked at the cup, then at him. “For being late?”

“For being… a bit delayed.”

“You mean late.”

“Yeah, but your version makes me sound bad.”

“You are bad.”

His grin flashed. “That’s what I hear.”

She stared at him for half a second, then down at her laptop, mostly because smiling felt too much like encouragement. “I’m not rewarding that.”

“You don’t have to. Your face did.”

“My face did nothing.”

“Your face said Garrett, wow, thank you for this coffee, you’re so thoughtful and punctual.”

“My face has never sounded like that.”

“Agree to disagree.”

He pulled out the chair across from her and sat down, sprawling almost immediately, one foot nudging the leg of the table as he opened his laptop. 

For someone with a reputation that moved around campus ahead of him like weather, he was weirdly focused once they started. He asked about the rubric. He made a shared document. He typed notes in short, messy fragments and frowned at the assignment sheet. 

When she made a joke about him outsourcing all his academic labour to her, he looked genuinely offended.

“I need a good grade in this class.”

She glanced up. “For hockey?”

“Yeah.”

“Right.” She leaned back in her chair and wrapped both hands around her coffee. “So you’re actually taking this seriously.”

His eyes flicked up. “Why’d you say it like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you expected me to just sit back and do nothing.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“No, but you implied it.”

She shrugged and shook her head. “Your GPA is not my business.”

“Damn right it isn’t.”

“But,” she added, because she had a death wish, “I still don’t think you’re going to take the club part that seriously.”

Garrett stopped typing. His fingers rested on the keyboard. Slowly, he looked at her. “What’s that mean?”

“It means…” She dragged the word out, already regretting it and enjoying herself too much to stop. “It means you’re Garrett Graham.”

His brows lifted. “And?”

“And your sex life is kind of… well known.”

“My sex life?”

“Girls talk, Garrett.”

He stared at her for a second, then barked out a laugh and leaned back in his chair, hand rubbing along his jaw. “Jesus. What’re they saying?”

“I’m not giving you a performance review.”

“Oh, come on.”

“No.”

“Is it good?”

She gave him a look.

His grin widened. “Okay, so it’s good.”

“You’re proving my point.”

“Your point being?”

“That you are absolutely not abstaining from sex for four weeks.”

Something shifted in his face so quickly she almost missed it. The amusement stayed, but sharpened a little at the edges, catching on pride. His knee stopped bouncing under the table. 

He leaned forward, forearms braced near his laptop, and looked at her like she’d just challenged him to a shootout. “You think I can’t?”

She took a sip of coffee. “I think you won’t.”

“That wasn’t the question.”

“No,” she said, and smiled a little despite herself. “I don’t think you can.”

Garrett went very still. Then he huffed once, almost to himself, and nodded. “Okay.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Okay?”

“You’re on.”

“I didn’t bet anything.”

“You bet my pride.”

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“It’s now a shared academic problem.” He pointed at the document. “Four weeks. Full immersion. No sex.”

She should have backed out. A normal person would have backed out. A normal person would have said, Garrett, I was making fun of you, please stop turning sociology into a masculinity crisis. 

Instead, she looked at his smug, stupid, determined face and felt something bright and reckless kick at the inside of her ribs. “Fine,” she said. “No sex.”

His eyes held hers for a beat too long. “For either of us.”

Her stomach gave an inconvenient little twist. “Excuse me?”

“If I’m doing it, you’re doing it.”

“You think I can’t?”

“I think,” he said, leaning back again, all lazy confidence now that he’d successfully dragged her into the mud with him, “you suddenly look less smug.”

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I can go four weeks without sex.”

“Great. Then you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

She hated him a little for that.

By the time they walked into their first Celibacy Club meeting, she’d already decided the essay was going to be either a masterpiece or evidence in a future trial. The club met in a small multipurpose room on the second floor of the student union, the kind with beige walls, fluorescent lights, and a whiteboard that still had faint ghost words from someone’s failed attempt at erasing a finance club agenda. 

There were folding chairs arranged in a circle. Someone had set out a tray of grocery store cookies and a stack of napkins with tiny pink hearts on them, which felt either deeply sincere or deeply hostile.

Garrett paused in the doorway beside her. She looked at him. “You okay?”

He looked at the circle. Then the cookies. Then the hand-lettered poster taped to the wall that said SELF-CONTROL IS SELF-RESPECT.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m just trying to decide if this is too late to switch to French Film Club.”

“You wanted the bet.”

“I wanted to defend my honour.”

“Your honour is sitting in a folding chair for fifty minutes.”

He sighed. “My honour’s been through worse.”

They took two seats near the back of the circle, which was a ridiculous concept because circles didn’t have backs, but somehow Garrett found one anyway. He sat the way he did everywhere, one arm draped over the back of his chair, legs spread, knee bouncing occasionally while people introduced themselves and talked about why they’d joined.

Some of them were sweet. One girl spoke shyly about wanting a space where dating didn’t feel like pressure. A guy with glasses talked about religion in a way that was earnest without being preachy. Another girl said she was tired of people acting like you had to hook up to be interesting. Then a girl named Bethany started talking about hookup culture like it had personally murdered her family.

“Sex,” Bethany said, with both hands folded in her lap and the expression of someone delivering a eulogy, “has become a distraction from true emotional purity.”

Garrett’s knee stopped bouncing. She looked down at her phone and typed, emotional purity??? in her notes.

Garrett leaned subtly closer, his voice barely above breath. “Don’t write ‘bullshit’ in the notes.”

“I wrote emotional purity.”

“Same shit.”

She had to bite the inside of her cheek.

Bethany kept going. “When we deny the body, we free the soul.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. She typed, denies body, frees soul, makes everyone uncomfortable.

He glanced at her phone and made a soft sound that could have been a cough if he had any discipline at all. 

After the meeting, they spilled out into the hallway with everyone else, blinking under the brighter lights of the student union. For a moment neither of them said anything. 

They just walked side by side past the bulletin boards, past a girl putting up flyers for an a cappella audition, past two guys arguing over whether the vending machine had eaten their money or whether they were simply idiots.

Garrett pushed open the glass doors and held one for her with his shoulder. Cold air slid under her jacket and made her shiver.

“I mean,” he said, once they were outside, “it’s bullshit, right?”

She laughed immediately, the sound puffing white in the cold. “Complete bullshit.”

“Thank God.”

“I was worried you were about to tell me your soul felt free.”

He scoffed. “My soul sat through Bethany calling sex a distraction from purity.”

They started down the path cutting across campus, the lamps turning the wet pavement gold in patches. It had rained earlier, one of those thin, miserable showers that made everything smell like damp leaves and concrete, and the air still had that cleaned-out bite to it. Garrett walked close enough that his shoulder almost brushed hers every few steps. 

“That girl,” she said, tucking her hands deeper into her coat pockets, “has definitely never had good sex.”

Garrett nodded instantly. “Clearly.”

“Like, I’m not even being mean.”

“No, that’s just facts.”

They talked about the essay at first because that was what they were supposed to be doing. Themes. Contradictions. The useful parts of the club versus the more cult-adjacent energy of the poster. 

Garrett wanted to write about pressure in athletics, which surprised her for half a second before it made perfect sense. He talked about locker rooms and expectations and the way guys turned sex into a scoreboard because nobody had ever taught them how to shut up and be normal. He said it lightly, but not flippantly. Like he’d thought about it before and didn’t love that he had.

Then they talked about other things. Her roommate who stole oat milk and pretended she thought it was communal. His housemates, who sounded exactly as exhausting as their reputations suggested. A class he hated. A professor she loved. The weirdly aggressive squirrel outside the science building. The way Briar acted like hockey games were civic holidays and how, according to Garrett, that was because they were.

“School spirit matters,” he’d explained.

“You mean people screaming your name matters.”

“That also matters.”

She rolled her eyes, smiling, and then realised with a little start that they were outside her dorm.

The building rose in front of them, warm rectangles of light in the windows, music faintly thumping from somewhere on the second floor. She stopped at the foot of the steps and looked up, then back at him. “This is me.”

Garrett glanced at the building like he was only now noticing where they’d ended up. His hands were in his jacket pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, hair curling messily over his forehead.

“Okay,” he said. “Well. I’ll see you next week?”

“Yeah.” She shifted her weight, suddenly conscious of the space between them. “For round two of soul freedom.”

His mouth curved. “Can’t wait.”

“Liar.”

“Yeah.” He smiled properly then. “You coming to the game Saturday?”

She blinked. “What?”

“The game.” He nodded toward the direction of the rink, like she might have forgotten where hockey lived. “You coming?”

“Probably. I think my friends are going.”

“Cool.” He looked pleased in a way that was small but annoyingly visible. “I’ll see you there, then.”

She nodded, gripping the strap of her tote. “Thanks for walking me.”

“Yeah,” he said, softer. “Anytime.”

She went up the steps before she could make the moment weird. At the door, she glanced back once, because she was very committed to embarrassing herself in private. Garrett was still there, standing at the bottom of the stairs with his hands in his pockets, watching long enough to make sure she got inside.

By Saturday, she had officially gone one week without sex, which wasn’t impressive, it was barely even interesting. She was not, despite what her roommate implied after finding her glaring at a banana in the dining hall, some kind of feral creature who needed to be locked in a basement every time she went seven days without getting laid.

The annoying part was the rule. The annoying part was knowing she couldn’t.

It made everything louder. Every couple making out near the mailroom, every girl walking down the hallway in a borrowed hoodie, every low laugh from some guy on the other side of the library shelves. Even her own bed had started feeling rude. Too soft. Too big. Too aware of her.

And then there was Garrett. Briar’s rink was packed by the time she and her friends found seats, the air already hot with bodies and sharp with the scrape of skates from warmups. The student section was a mess of jerseys, painted cheeks, noise bouncing hard off the glass. 

She’d been to games before. Plenty of them. Briar hockey was one of those things people attended even when they didn’t care about hockey because the atmosphere made caring feel mandatory.

But Garrett on the ice after a week of thinking about not having sex was a whole new category of problem. He was fast in a way that made her stomach drop. Controlled, like every turn and burst and stop came from somewhere deep in his body that understood force better than gravity did. His shoulders looked broader in pads. His jaw was set under the helmet, mouthguard tucked against his teeth, eyes locked hard on the play. 

There was nothing lazy about him out there. Only focus, aggression, a kind of clean, ruthless confidence that made the crowd lean forward whenever he touched the puck.

“Oh my God,” her roommate said beside her, laughing. “Are you okay?”

She realised her legs were crossed so tightly her knee had started bouncing. “I’m fine.”

“You look stressed.”

“I’m appreciating athleticism.”

“You’re appreciating something.”

Garrett slammed an opposing player into the boards directly in front of their section with a hard, satisfying crash that made everyone scream. He peeled away like it was nothing, barely glancing up, and she felt the sound of it somewhere low in her stomach. This was actually so stupid.

He scored in the third period because the universe wanted her dead.

The place erupted, people jumping up around her, drinks sloshing, arms hitting arms. Garrett’s teammates slammed into him near the net, helmets knocking, gloves grabbing at his jersey. 

He grinned then, bright and vicious, and when he looked toward the student section for half a second, she had the horrible, impossible thought that he might have found her in the crowd.

He probably hadn’t. He was Garrett Graham. He probably did that to every section. Probably glanced into the stands and made twenty girls feel selected by accident.

Still, when his eyes seemed to catch hers through the glass and the noise and all the bodies, her breath snagged in a way that made her hate him on principle.

By the end of the second week, Garrett was starting to think he’d made a massive error. Not because he couldn’t go without sex, he could, obviously. He was a grown man with discipline. 

He woke up at five for practice, lifted until his muscles shook, skated through drills that made freshmen look like they were about to meet God, and had spent most of his life being told his body was a machine that existed to obey him. Four weeks without sex should have been nothing.

Except she was sitting on his bedroom floor in a tank top and jeans, chewing the end of her pen while she read over their introduction, and Garrett was having a hard time remembering any word in the English language that wasn’t related to her mouth.

It wasn’t even a fancy tank top – that was the part that felt insulting. Plain black, thin straps, tucked just slightly into the waist of her jeans because she’d been warm when she came in and shrugged off her sweater twenty minutes ago. Her hair was pulled back messily, she had one socked foot tucked under her thigh and the other stretched out toward his bed, toes flexing occasionally while she concentrated.

He’d seen her around before this. She came to games sometimes. She went to parties sometimes. She was in his class, and Briar wasn’t that big, not really, not when you lived in the gravitational pull of the same few houses and bars and lecture halls. 

He’d always thought she was pretty. Pretty enough to notice. Pretty enough to look at twice. But she’d never looked especially interested in him, which was weird only because most people were at least a little interested in him. She’d been polite. Funny sometimes. A little unimpressed, like she knew exactly what he was and had decided it wasn’t urgent.

And because Garrett was not in the habit of begging girls to want him when there was usually someone already leaning into his side at a party, he’d left it alone. That was before the hat. That was before she started sending him texts about Bethany’s latest club email with the subject line PLEASE READ: TEMPTATION TRIGGERS.

That was before he knew she drank coffee too late and then complained about being awake. Before he knew she made little notes in the margins of articles that were half useful and half insults. Before he knew she got mean when she was hungry and weirdly soft about people who were earnestly trying, even when they were annoying. Before she sat in his room and made his sheets smell faintly like her shampoo just by leaning against his bed.

She snapped her fingers in front of him. “Garrett.”

His eyes jerked up. She was staring at him over the top of her laptop, brows raised. “Focus.”

“I am focused.”

She gave him a flat look. “We should have written way more of this by now.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Sorry. Distracted.”

“Clearly.”

He looked at her mouth again before he could stop himself. Her lips parted slightly, just enough for the air between them to change.

Garrett looked back at his laptop so fast he almost gave himself whiplash. This was fine. Everything was fine. He was the captain of a Division I hockey team. He could survive one girl in a tank top on his bedroom floor.

Then she leaned forward to grab her coffee from his desk, her shoulder brushed his knee and he got a view of right down the front of her top. Garrett closed his eyes for one second and asked whatever god was available to stop laughing.

Halfway through the third week, she was in bed with the lights off, her laptop abandoned on the floor and her phone held above her face while she scrolled without absorbing anything. Her roommate was out. The hallway was noisy in patches, doors opening and closing, someone laughing too loudly near the bathrooms, the distant thud of music from a room where apparently nobody had a morning class.

Her whole body felt restless in a way that had stopped being funny days ago. It wasn’t only sex. Sex would have been simpler. Sex was a clean, obvious want. 

This had edges. This had Garrett sending her a photo of the Celibacy Club’s latest inspirational quote with the message this feels targeted. This had Garrett bringing her coffee again without asking how she took it because he knew now. This had Garrett walking her back to her dorm after meetings and lingering at the bottom of the steps like he was always deciding whether to say one more thing.

Her phone buzzed in her hand.

Garrett: Is this as shit for you as it is for me?

She stared at it, then let out a laugh that felt too loud in the dark room. Her thumbs moved before she could overthink it.

Yeah. It’s fucking awful. Why the fuck do people do this willingly?

The response came almost instantly.

Garrett: Torture I guess.

She smiled up at the screen, helplessly stupid about it.

Very academic take.

Garrett: Put it in the paper.

“After three weeks of immersive observation, we conclude: torture, I guess.”

Garrett: A+

Dr. Miller cries. Harvard calls.

Garrett: I transfer. Become a monk.

You’d last nine minutes as a monk.

Garrett: Generous.

She rolled onto her side, tucking one hand under her cheek while the phone lit her pillow blue-white. For a minute, neither of them sent anything. She watched the typing bubble appear, disappear, appear again.

Garrett: You awake because of the assignment?

Her chest tightened in a small, irritating way.

Sure.

Garrett: Liar.

She bit her lip, smiling despite herself.

Go to sleep, Graham.

Garrett: Trying.

Try harder.

Garrett: Bossy.

Garrett: Night.

She stared at the word for a long moment. Then she typed back.

Night.

At the end of the third week, the hockey house was so loud the walls were shaking. The boys had won again, which meant the place was packed and sticky-floored and pulsing with the kind of victorious male energy that probably needed to be studied under supervision. Someone had knocked over a lamp in the living room and simply moved it into a corner like that solved the problem. 

The kitchen smelled like beer, pizza, and whatever cheap cologne the freshman boys had decided to bathe in. Music shook through the floorboards. There were people on the stairs, people leaning against doorframes, people making out badly near the back hall like they’d been assigned it for extra credit.

She stood near the kitchen island with her friends, nursing a drink she didn’t really want, her eyes tracking toward the living room every few seconds without permission. 

Garrett was somewhere in the house. She knew that because the whole house felt different when he was in it. Which was a stupid thought. Horrible. Embarrassing. She wished she could reach into her own brain and remove it with salad tongs.

“You’re seriously still doing the no-sex thing?” one of her friends asked, staring at her like she’d announced a minor cult membership.

“Yes.”

“For this stupid assignment?”

“Yes.”

Her roommate leaned against the counter, eyes glittering with the mean little joy of someone who had been living with her through all three weeks. “She’s committed.”

“I’m principled,” she said.

“You snapped at me yesterday because I breathed too loud while eating cereal.”

“You were chewing aggressively.”

“I was eating Cheerios.”

Her friend laughed and took a sip from her cup. “Okay, but Garrett would never know if you hooked up with someone.”

She looked at her sharply. “That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

She gestured with her drink. “The deal was he wouldn’t have sex, and I wouldn’t either.”

Her friend rolled her eyes. “You get that he’s Garrett Graham, right?”

“Yes, thank you, I was present for the lecture theatre’s public mourning.”

“So he’s probably suffering way more than you are.”

“Rude.”

“I’m just saying.”

Her roommate pointed at her with her drink. “You’ve been antsy.”

“I have not.”

“You reorganised the spice shelf at midnight.”

“It needed reorganising.”

“You don’t cook.”

Before she could defend herself, which would have been difficult because that last part was unfortunately true, the laughter from the living room shifted. She looked over automatically.

Garrett was near the doorway with Logan and Tucker, one shoulder against the wall, beer loose in his hand. He’d changed after the game into dark jeans and a black t-shirt that sat too well across his chest, his hair still damp from a shower, a thin gold chain visible at his throat whenever the collar shifted. He was listening to Logan with an expression that suggested he was physically present but mentally elsewhere.

Then his eyes found her across the room. Everything in her body tightened at once. She looked away so quickly her neck almost cracked.

Garrett, meanwhile, was beginning to understand that pride was a disease.

“The fuck is up with you, man?” Logan asked, following his gaze with shameless interest. “If you like that girl, just go talk to her.”

Garrett looked back at him. “I do talk to her.”

“Cool. Great. Inspiring. Maybe try doing it without looking like you’re about to skate through a wall.”

“I don’t look like that.”

Tucker, sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer balanced on one knee, looked over. “You kinda do.”

Garrett shot him a look.

Tucker lifted his free hand. “Just reporting what I’m seeing.”

“We’re partners on this assignment,” Garrett said, which sounded stupid even before Logan’s face lit up.

“Oh shit,” Tucker said. “The no-sex one?”

Logan’s head snapped around. “You’re actually doing that shit?”

Garrett took a drink of beer. “Yeah.”

“Why?”

“She bet me I couldn’t.”

There was a silence. Then Logan started laughing.

Garrett scowled. “Fuck off.”

“No, no, sorry.” Logan pressed a hand over his mouth, failing badly. “That’s beautiful. You’re celibate because a pretty girl hurt your feelings.”

“She didn’t hurt my feelings.”

“She looked at you with those big judgmental eyes and said bet you can’t keep it in your pants, and now you’re three weeks into monkhood.”

Tucker winced through a grin. “Man.”

“I’m not gonna lose,” Garrett said.

“Jesus Christ,” Logan said, still delighted. “You realise there’s no trophy, right?”

“There’s dignity.”

“There’s absolutely no dignity in what’s happening to you right now.”

Garrett looked across the room again. She was laughing at something her roommate said, head tipped down, hair sliding over one shoulder. She had this little crease at the corner of her mouth when she tried not to smile too hard. He knew that now. He knew too many things now.

Tucker followed his gaze and his expression softened, just a little. “You actually like her.”

Garrett didn’t answer fast enough.

Logan’s grin changed. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

“Currently, no,” Garrett said.

Logan choked on his beer.

By the start of the fourth week, the tension had stopped being a background problem and started becoming something that sat in the room with them like a third person.

They talked every day now. Sometimes about the assignment. Sometimes about Celibacy Club, which had somehow become less bizarre and more interesting the longer they spent around it. Sometimes about nothing at all. Garrett sent her dumb pictures from the hockey house. A broken toaster with the caption Dean says this is still usable. A sock frozen into the back porch ice. His laptop open beside a plate of eggs, morning light catching the edge of his kitchen table, captioned if I fail this class I’m blaming emotional purity.

She sent him things too. The club poster she’d seen peeling off the student union wall. Her roommate’s aggressively labelled oat milk. A picture of her laptop screen at one in the morning with the cursor blinking after the words The function of abstinence-based student communities and the caption kill me.

The sex part had become unbearable somewhere along the way, but worse than that was the fact that she liked him. Really liked him.

Which felt like the bigger betrayal. Wanting Garrett Graham was basic biology. Liking him was inconvenient. Liking the way he listened, the way he made fun of himself before anyone else could, the way he remembered little things and pretended he hadn’t. Liking how serious he got about hockey without making it everyone else’s problem. Liking that he walked her home and never made a big thing out of it. Liking that when she said something sharper than she meant to, he didn’t flinch or get mean back; he just tilted his head and looked at her until she rolled her eyes and softened.

They were in his room again, supposedly polishing the essay, which was a generous way of describing two people staring at the same paragraph while actively losing their minds.

His room was cleaner than she’d expected the first time she’d seen it. Hockey gear shoved into one corner. A pile of textbooks on the desk. Laundry in a basket. The bed was made badly, one side of the comforter dragging lower than the other, pillows dented from where they’d been leaning against them for the last hour. Outside the window, late afternoon light had gone grey-blue, turning the glass reflective enough that she could see the vague shape of them sitting side by side on the bed.

Garrett had the laptop balanced between them, one hand on the trackpad, the other braced behind him. He’d been explaining how he wanted to word the section about athletics and social pressure, his voice lower than usual because they were close and because, apparently, volume control became impossible when every inch of air felt charged.

“I don’t think it should sound like we’re saying the club fixed anything,” he said. “Because it didn’t. But it gives people a place to talk about stuff without–”

He stopped when she turned her head. He was right there.

So close she could see the faint stubble along his jaw, the little healing split at the corner of his mouth from the last game, the way his eyes dropped to her lips before lifting again. His hand, resting on the bed between them, flexed once against the comforter.

Her pulse moved everywhere at once. Throat, wrists, stomach, the warm hollow behind her knees. She forgot the laptop. Forgot the essay. Forgot Dr. Miller and Bethany and the stupid hat. The room seemed to pull tight around them, all the noise of the house going muffled and far away until there was only Garrett’s breathing and her own.

He shifted forward, barely. A small, helpless tilt, his nose brushing hers so softly she felt it more in the anticipation than the touch itself.

Her eyes fluttered shut. His lips hovered over hers.

A ghost of warmth. The almost-shape of his mouth. So close her body answered like they’d already kissed, like some wire had been cut and sparked anyway. Her fingers curled into the comforter. His breath shuddered out against her cheek, and the sound went through her with such clean, stupid force that she nearly made one of her own.

“Garrett,” she whispered. “Please.”

He went still. For one second, she thought he was going to do it. She felt the decision move through him, felt the way his hand came up like he was going to touch her face, felt his mouth brush so faintly against hers it might have been imagined if her whole body hadn’t clenched around it.

Then he exhaled, rough and furious. “Fuck.” He pulled back like it hurt. “Nope. No.”

Her eyes opened. He was staring at the wall over her shoulder, jaw tight, one hand dragging down his face.

She blinked at him. “No?”

“No.”

“No?” she repeated, because the only word her brain had retained was the worst one.

He looked back at her and laughed once, breathless and pained. “We can’t.”

“We absolutely can.”

“No, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because if I kiss you,” he said, and his voice had gone lower, scraped raw at the edges, “I’m not gonna stop.”

The words landed low in her stomach. She pressed her lips together, partly because they were still tingling from nothing. “You suck.”

His grin broke through then, slow and crooked and dangerous enough that she almost threw the laptop at him. “Unless you wanna lose.”

That snapped her back into herself. Barely. “Nope.”

“No?”

“I don’t lose. Ever.”

“Good.” He stood abruptly, like putting vertical distance between them might save his life. “Great. Perfect.”

She sat there on his bed, pulse still stupid, mouth still warm, and watched him pace once toward the desk. He shoved both hands through his hair, turning away from her. His shirt rode up slightly at the back, showing a strip of skin above his jeans.

The room was silent except for the hum of his laptop. Something petty and reckless unfurled in her chest. Garrett turned back around and she was still looking at him.

“What?” he asked.

She shrugged. “Nothing.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s a lie.”

“You started it.”

“I stopped it.”

“That’s the problem.”

His mouth twitched. “You mad?”

“I’m inspired.”

“That sounds worse.”

“It is.”

He held her gaze for a beat. Then, with the kind of awful calm that should have been illegal, he reached back and pulled his t-shirt over his head.

Her entire brain went white. It wasn’t like she hadn’t known he was built. Everyone knew Garrett was built. There were posters. Games. Photos online. An entire campus of people capable of reporting, with varying degrees of thirst, that Garrett Graham had abs. 

But knowing something in theory and having it standing shirtless in front of you in a bedroom were very different academic experiences.

His shoulders. His chest. The hard line of his stomach. The faint dusting of hair low on his abdomen disappearing under the waistband of his jeans. His arms flexing as he tossed the shirt onto his desk chair. The chain at his neck catching the dim light when he breathed.

Garrett’s grin was pure trouble. “You good?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“That feels like losing.”

“You wish.”

“Do I?”

She stood before she could talk herself out of it. His grin faded slightly. Good. She held his gaze, reached for the hem of her top, and pulled it over her head. The air hit her skin cool enough to make her stomach tighten. She dropped the shirt on his floor and stood there in jeans and a lacy bra she had absolutely not worn for him, except maybe some horrible secret part of her had known she was coming here and chosen it anyway. 

Garrett’s eyes dropped instantly. Straight to her chest, then lower, then back up like he had to physically drag himself by the collar. His jaw flexed.

“Jesus Christ,” he said.

Her skin felt too small for her body. “You gonna break?”

His eyes were dark when they met hers. “Nope.”

“No?”

“No.”

She shrugged, even though her heart was punching at the inside of her ribs. “Me neither.”

For a moment neither of them moved. Then Garrett nodded toward the laptop on the bed, voice rough with effort. “Guess we’re writing our paper like this, then.”

She sat back down, chin lifted. “Guess we are.”

They lasted nine minutes. Nine full, academically useless minutes of sitting on opposite sides of his bed, half-dressed, pretending to care about sentence structure while Garrett’s bare shoulder nearly brushed hers and her own bra seemed to become more noticeable with every breath. 

At one point he corrected a comma splice with the grave concentration of a man defusing a bomb. At another, she leaned forward to type and heard his breath catch so quietly she almost missed it. She didn’t miss it.

That night, alone in her bed, she thought about his mouth hovering over hers, his chain against his chest, the way he’d said if I kiss you I’m not gonna stop like a warning and a promise and a problem he was barely surviving.

She lasted about three minutes before her hand slid under the waistband of her sleep shorts. She was not proud. She was also not sorry.

The essay was due Friday at four. They handed it in at three-forty-two. Dr. Miller’s TA accepted it with the dead-eyed calm of someone who had received too many PDFs named final_FINAL_real_final.docx and no longer believed in students as people.

The second the submission confirmation appeared on Garrett’s laptop screen, she felt something unclench in her chest. Done.

Four weeks of meetings, notes, longing glances, stupid texts, Garrett’s room, Garrett’s mouth almost on hers, Garrett shirtless like a criminal, all wrapped up in twelve pages of sociological analysis and one works cited list.

“Thank fuck,” she said.

Garrett laughed beside her. “That heartfelt, huh?”

“I never want to see the words campus values again.”

“Or emotional purity.”

“Especially emotional purity.”

He closed the laptop slowly. “So.”

She could feel him looking at her, and suddenly, horribly, everything that had been funny and electric for the last four weeks felt fragile in a way she didn’t know what to do with. 

Because maybe this had only been fun because they were trapped in it. Maybe Garrett liked the chase. Maybe he’d wanted her because he couldn’t have anyone else, because deprivation did strange things to ego and attention. Maybe now that the assignment was done and the bet was over, he would go back to being Garrett Graham, campus golden boy, and she would go back to being a girl from his sociology class who had almost kissed him once in his room.

She couldn’t stand there and watch that happen in real time. So she shoved her laptop into her bag and stood too quickly. “I have to go.”

Garrett blinked. “You do?”

“Yeah. I told my roommate I’d meet her.”

“You didn’t mention that.”

“I forgot.”

His brows drew together slightly. “Okay.”

“Thanks for doing the paper.” God, why did she sound like a colleague in a group project from hell? “I mean, obviously we both did it, but– yeah. Good work.”

“Good work?” he repeated.

“Shut up.”

His mouth curved, but his eyes stayed on her face, searching. “You okay?”

That was worse. Him noticing was worse. “Yeah.” She forced a smile. “I’m just glad it’s over.”

Something moved across his face. Too quick to catch. “Right.”

She hated herself a little as she turned away.

The party that night was not technically a celibacy-is-over party, because nobody else in the universe was insane enough to care, but it felt like one to her.

The hockey house was crowded again. They had a game tomorrow, so the team was pretending to behave, which mostly meant the beer was slightly less visible and the music was low enough that people could hear their bad decisions forming. 

She arrived with her friends and immediately regretted the top she’d worn because it was cute and a little too deliberate, and if Garrett didn’t care, she was going to have to live with having dressed like she hoped he would.

She stayed near her friends. That was the plan. Drink something. Laugh. Be normal. Prove she could exist in the same house as him.

For twenty-three minutes, the plan worked. Then an arm slid over her shoulders. Warm. Heavy. Familiar now, somehow, even though he’d never done it like this before.

Garrett leaned in from behind, his mouth near her ear, smelling like clean laundry and mint and the faint cold air from outside. “What’re we talking about?”

Her whole body lit up so fast it was embarrassing. Her friends went quiet in the exact way people went quiet when they were about to be incredibly annoying later.

She turned her head. Garrett was right there, grin easy, eyes not easy at all. He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, curls messier than usual, one hand hanging loose over her shoulder like he’d been doing this for years.

“Hi?” she said. “Can I help you?”

His grin widened. “Yeah. Hopin’ so.”

Her stomach dropped. His eyes flicked briefly toward the stairs.

Oh, fuck.

She bit the inside of her cheek hard enough to keep from smiling too big. “You have a game tomorrow.”

“I know.”

“Shouldn’t you be hydrating and doing captain things?”

“I had water.”

“One water?”

“Don’t worry about my performance.”

Her friend made a strangled little sound into her cup. Garrett ignored her completely, still looking at her. After four weeks of proving he could stop himself, he needed her to be the one to move now.

Her fingers found his where they rested near her collarbone. She squeezed once. His hand turned immediately, catching hers.

They made it upstairs faster than was dignified. The hallway was dimmer up there, the noise from downstairs turning thick and muffled through the floor. Someone had left a laundry basket outside one door. A sock sat abandoned near the bathroom. Garrett’s hand stayed wrapped around hers, warm and firm, tugging her behind him with just enough urgency that she had to bite back a laugh.

“This feels very scholarly,” she whispered.

He glanced back, eyes bright. “I’m about to conduct research.”

“Wow.”

“Peer reviewed.”

“You’re so embarrassing.”

He opened his bedroom door, pulled her inside, and shut it behind them, and for one tiny second, there was quiet. Then he was on her.

His hands came up to her face, decisive, like he had spent four weeks thinking about the exact angle of her jaw and was done being patient about it. He pulled her in and kissed her hard enough that her back hit the door, the sound of it dull behind her. 

She gasped into his mouth, and he took it, his lips warm and firm and so much better than the almost-kiss that had been haunting her all week. This wasn’t careful. This was Garrett’s restraint snapping clean down the middle. His mouth moved over hers like he had a point to prove, like every second he’d spent not kissing her had been stored somewhere in his body and now wanted out.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and kissed him back with the same helpless lack of dignity. Her fingers pushed into his hair, and he made a low sound against her mouth when she tugged, one hand sliding from her cheek to the side of her neck, thumb brushing under her jaw. His other hand found her waist, pulling her closer until there was no polite space left between them.

He tasted like mint and beer and Garrett, which was an insane thought but the only one her brain had. Warm. Familiar. New enough to make her dizzy. His hoodie was soft under her hands, his body hard beneath it, and when he pressed his hips into hers, she broke the kiss on a shaky little inhale.

Garrett’s mouth moved to her jaw immediately. “Fuck,” he breathed, the word hot against her skin.

She tilted her head back against the door. He kissed down the side of her neck, open-mouthed and unhurried now, like urgency had gotten him here but hunger was deciding what happened next. His teeth grazed under her ear and her knees actually softened, one hand tightening in his hair.

“I,” he said against her throat, then kissed her again, lower. “Really.” Another kiss, slower, meaner. “Like you.”

The words hit harder than she expected. He sounded wrecked and a little annoyed by it, like the confession had been dragged out of him by proximity and her pulse under his mouth. It was so Garrett, that warmth cracked open under all the want, soft and bright and horribly sweet.

She tugged him back up by his hair. His eyes met hers, dark and slightly unfocused.

“I really like you,” she said.

His expression shifted, just a little. The smugness flickered, and something younger, more pleased, came through before he buried it under a grin. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it again.”

“I kind of want you to.”

“Garrett.”

“Fine.” He kissed her again, smiling into it this time. “I’ll earn it.”

His hands slid down to her ass, and then he lifted her like she weighed nothing. She made a startled sound against his mouth, legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and he laughed low in his throat as he carried her toward the desk.

“Show-off,” she muttered.

“You into it?”

“Shut up.”

He sat her on the edge of the desk, stepping between her knees, and she shoved at his hoodie before he’d even settled. He pulled it off in one clean motion, shirt rucking up underneath for a flash of stomach before he tossed the hoodie aside. She caught the front of his t-shirt and dragged him back down to her mouth.

This kiss was messier. His hands were everywhere in a way that still managed to feel like he was paying attention: her waist, her thighs, the curve of her back, his thumbs slipping under the hem of her top just enough to make her skin jump. She hooked one foot behind his thigh and pulled him closer, smiling when his breath punched out.

“You gonna fuck me, Graham?” she asked against his mouth.

His hand slid up her thigh. “Got four weeks to make up for.”

He lifted her again before she could answer, and this time she did squeal when he tossed her onto the bed, the sound breaking into a laugh as she bounced against the comforter. Garrett stood at the foot of the bed for a second, looking down at her with his hair a mess from her fingers, mouth swollen from kissing, chest rising harder than it should have been.

He wiped a hand down over his mouth like he couldn’t quite believe she was there. “Fuck Celibacy Club,” he said.

She laughed, breathless and warm and still reaching for him. “Fuck Celibacy Club.”

His grin came slow. Then he crawled over her, one knee sinking into the mattress between her legs, chain swinging loose at his throat, and kissed her like he'd been waiting all month to do it properly.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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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.

"Your left shoulder drops," he said.

You had looked at the penalty box. At the boy in it. At the hockey gear he was still wearing.

"Did I ask?" you said.

"No," he said. "But it does."

You had glared at him for a long moment. Then you had tried the sequence again with your left shoulder deliberately up and it had been better. Significantly better.

You had not told him that.

You had skated to the boards and looked at him.

"Why are you in the penalty box?" you said.

"Coach," he said, simply.

"What did you do."

"Argued a call."

"Was the call wrong?"

"Obviously," he said.

You had looked at him for another long moment.

"I'm (Y/N)," you said.

"Logan," he said.

Ten years later you were still talking.

one — the competition february, sophomore year

The thing about watching you skate was that it was completely impossible to be indifferent to.

Logan had been to enough of your competitions by now that he had developed what he privately considered a professional appreciation for figure skating, he understood the technical elements, the edge work, the difference between a clean landing and one that cost points. He had opinions about judging. He had once gotten into a fifteen-minute argument with Tucker about the scoring system.

He was, in other words, not watching you the way a normal person watched figure skating.

He was watching you the way he had been watching you for approximately five years without doing anything about it, which was with focused attention of someone who had accidentally learned the exact shape of their own feelings by observing them in a controlled environment and then never done anything with the information.

You were in the middle of your free skate program.

The arena was quiet, something that happen only when a competition in progress, a few hundred people all holding the same breath and you were in the center of the ice in a deep red costume that caught the light when you moved, and you were moving the way you always moved when you were doing this properly, like you were constantly sure of all the decisions and it was up to everyone else to accept it.

The triple axel was coming. Logan knew your program better than his own game tape.

He watched your set up for it and then you were in the air and rotating and landing clean, one blade, no stumble, the crowd exhaling around him in something close to relief.

Logan exhaled too.

You finished the program and stood in the center of the ice with your arms out and your chest heaving and your face doing something close to relief and the thin line with triumph.

He knew that face. He had photographs of that face going back five years.

Logan was completely gone.

After the scores were posted — first place, which was not a surprise to anyone who had been paying attention — Logan found you in the corridor outside the changing rooms, still in the costume, skates exchanged for boots, medal around your neck that you kept touching like making sure it was real.

You saw him and couldn't help but to smile.

"You came," you said.

"I always come," he said.

"I know." You were smiling the real one, not the competition smile, not the public smile. "How was the axel?"

"Perfect," he said. "Clean landing, good height, the rotation was exactly right."

"You sound like my coach."

"Your coach is correct."

You laughed and walked toward him and he opened his arms because that was what happened after competitions you walked into them and he held on and you smelled like the rink and some body lotion that he has been trying to steal for a long time, he had his chin on top of your head and everything was exactly the same as it always was.

Except that his heart was doing something extremely inconvenient.

"I have something to tell you," he said, into your hair.

"Mm?" You didn't move.

He had the words right there. Had been carrying them for approximately two years, which was when he had stopped being able to pretend to himself that what he felt was just friendship, had been practiced and ready and —

"You dropped your left shoulder in the step sequence," he said. "Third section. It cost you."

You pulled back and looked at him. "You can not be serious right now, Johnny."

"It's a small thing, but —"

"I just won," she said.

"I know. You also dropped your shoulder."

You stared at him for a long moment with a watchful expression.

"I hate you," you said.

"No you don't," he said.

"Maybe I do" you looked at him "No I don't," you confirmed.

You took his hand and pulled him toward the exit to find the others, and Logan walked behind you and thought about what he had almost said and hadn't. Logan had decided for once, to store away this information, maybe soon would come in handy.

two — the lazy day april, sophomore year

It was a Sunday in April, a Sunday that had decided to be warm for the first time all year, and you were lying on the floor of Logan's room with your legs up on his bed because the floor was cooler than the bed and you had been at the rink since six in the morning and every single part of you ached.

Logan was on the bed, technically reading something for class, practically staring at the ceiling.

You had been in this exact configuration approximately four hundred times over ten years. The comfortable silence of two people who had run out of things to say and were fine with that.

"My coach wants me to change the music for nationals," you said, to the ceiling.

"What's wrong with the current music?"

"She says it doesn't show enough range."

"What does she want instead?"

"Something more emotional apparently." You paused. "She used the word vulnerable which made me want to scream."

Logan made a sound that meant he was listening.

"I'm not un-vulnerable," you said. "I'm just — I show it differently."

"You show it on the ice," Logan said. "Anyone paying attention can see it."

You turned your head to look at him. He was still looking at the ceiling.

"That's a nice thing to say," you said.

"It's a true thing to say." He turned his head and looked at you. From this angle, floor to bed, you were looking at each other sideways, and there was something about the afternoon light coming through the window that was doing something to his expression, making it more open than usual, less managed.

"I've been thinking," he said.

"About what."

He looked at you for a moment. The open expression doing something more complicated.

"About —" he started.

Your phone went off.

The ringtone you had assigned to your coach, which you had made deliberately annoying so you couldn't ignore it. You grabbed it off the floor and sat up and mouthed sorry at Logan and answered.

Your coach talked for eleven minutes about the music change.

When you hung up Logan was reading again, or pretending to, and the afternoon light had shifted, and whatever the moment had been it had passed.

"What were you thinking about?" you said.

"Nothing," he said. "Doesn't matter."

You looked at him for a second longer than necessary.

Then you put your legs back up on his bed and went back to staring at the ceiling.

three — the boys september, junior year

The thing about you was that you were, objectively, extremely easy to be around.

Dean had arrived at this conclusion independently and over time, through the accumulated evidence of approximately a year of you being at various team events and group hangs and spontaneous Malone's trips, and it was not a controversial conclusion, Tucker had said the same thing, Garrett had nodded in agreement.

You were funny and direct and had opinions and didn't perform interest you didn't have, which was rarer than it should have been. You also had the unselfconscious ease of someone who had been comfortable on a competitive stage since you were fourteen, which meant you walked into rooms the same way you walked onto ice like you had already decided you belonged there.

Dean had been thinking about this for approximately three weeks when he cornered Logan after practice.

"Your figure skater friend," he said.

Logan looked at him over his equipment bag. "Her name is (Y/N)."

"Is she single?"

The locker room continued around them. Tucker was unwrapping tape. Garrett was checking his phone. Nobody appeared to be paying particular attention.

Logan's jaw did something.

"Yeah," he said. "She's single."

"Nice." Dean leaned against the locker with the easy confidence of someone who had made a decision. "Do you think she'd be open to —"

"She's focused on skating," Logan said. "Nationals are in February. She doesn't have time for —"

"I'm not talking about anything serious," Dean said. "Just —"

"She's busy," Logan said.

Dean looked at him.

Logan looked at his equipment bag.

"Sure," Dean said, slowly. "Right. Busy." A pause. "You sure you don't have a —"

"She's my best friend," Logan said. "Can you just — not."

Dean looked at him for a long moment with the expression of someone doing math.

"Okay," he said. "Sure."

He went back to his own locker.

Tucker caught his eye across the room and raised his eyebrows. Dean gave the smallest possible shrug, which in their particular shorthand meant: you are seeing what you think you're seeing.

Tucker looked at the ceiling briefly and then went back to his tape.

Logan texted you that night.

logan: what are you doing

yn: stretching. my hip flexors are staging a revolt. what's up

logan: nothing. just checking in

yn: at 10pm on a tuesday

logan: is that suspicious

yn: a little

logan: go stretch your hip flexors

yn: i am. you could come over and suffer with me

A pause. Longer than usual.

logan: be there in twenty

He showed up with food and sat on your floor and watched you stretch with the expression he sometimes had when he was thinking about something he wasn't saying. You didn't push. You had learned, over ten years, the difference between Logan processing something and Logan ready to talk about it.

You stretched your hip flexors.

He was quiet beside you.

It was, somehow, exactly enough.

four — the party november, junior year

Hannah had a very simple theory about Logan and you that she had shared with Allie approximately four months ago and had been collecting evidence for ever since.

The theory was: you were both completely in love with each other and were going to keep not doing anything about it until one of them finally cracked or they both graduated and went their separate ways, which would be a tragedy.

Allie's theory was identical, arrived at independently, and they had spent four months running what amounted to a covert observation project with no intervention component because, as Allie had said, correctly , very time anyone said anything to Logan he went quiet and every time anyone said anything to you, you laughed and changed the subject, and the only thing that was going to fix this was one of them actually doing something.

The party was in November, someone's house, the kind that happened naturally when enough people were in the same place with nothing specific to do. Allie and Hannah had come together. Logan and you had come separately and found each other within four minutes, which was, Hannah noted, always how it went.

You were in the corner of the living room now, in the configuration you always occupied at parties, close enough that yourshoulders touched, talking in the way you talked when you were somewhere loud, which was slightly lower and slightly more direct, leaning in.

"He's doing it again," Hannah said.

Allie, beside her, followed her eyeline. "The shoulder thing."

"He always does the shoulder thing when he's about to say something."

They watched. Across the room, Logan's shoulder had indeed done the thing, a slight forward tilt, the specific posture of someone turning toward something rather than standing beside it.

You were looking up at him with the expression you had when you were actually listening to someone, which was different from your polite listening expression and your processing expression and was reserved for maybe three people in your life.

"He's going to do it," Hannah said.

"He's not going to do it," Allie said.

"He's leaning in —"

"He never does it."

"There's always a first time —"

Someone across the room called Logan's name. Loudly. Urgently. Something about a game in the kitchen that required his participation immediately.

Logan closed his eyes very briefly.

Then he straightened up and said something to you — one second probably, or back in a minute — and went toward the kitchen.

You watched him go with an expression that lasted approximately two seconds before you reorganized it into something neutral.

Allie looked at Hannah.

Hannah looked at Allie.

"I'm going to lose my mind," Hannah said.

"Same," said Allie.

They looked at each other.

"We're not intervening," Allie said.

"We're absolutely not intervening," Hannah agreed.

They watched you drift toward the snack table looking slightly like someone who had been about to hear something and hadn't.

"We're not intervening," Allie said again, more firmly.

"Right," said Hannah. "Definitely not."

allie: okay so

hannah: i KNOW

allie: the shoulder thing

hannah: and her FACE when he left

allie: someone needs to do something

hannah: we said we weren't intervening

allie: i know what we said

hannah: allie

allie: i'm just saying

hannah: we are not telling them

allie: fine

hannah: fine

allie: ...fine

hannah: goodnight allie

allie: if they're still doing this at graduation i'm saying something

hannah: GOODNIGHT ALLIE

five — the almost january, senior year

You found out about the Dean thing entirely by accident.

You had been in the kitchen at the off campus house, making tea because it was January and you were cold and your coach had banned coffee during competition prep, and Tucker had come in and started making a sandwich and you had been coexisting peacefully until Tucker said, entirely unprompted and clearly without thinking:

"By the way, for what it's worth, I told Dean not to."

You looked at him. "Told Dean not to what."

Tucker looked at his sandwich. Then at you. Then at his sandwich again with the expression of someone who had realized, too late, that they had said something.

"Ask about you," he said finally. "Like — ask Logan if he could pursue you. I told him it was a bad idea."

You put down your tea.

"Dean asked Logan if he could pursue me," you said.

"Back in September. Logan said you were busy with skating." Tucker picked up his sandwich. "Which was — I mean, you are busy. But also —" he stopped. "I probably shouldn't have said anything."

"Probably," you said.

Tucker took a bite of his sandwich and left the kitchen with the energy of someone removing themselves from a situation.

You stood at the counter with your tea and thought about September and Logan showing up at your apartment at ten on a Tuesday for no reason, sitting on your floor, being quiet beside you in a way that had felt like something without ever becoming something.

She's busy, he had apparently said.

You looked at the doorway Tucker had disappeared through.

You looked at your tea.

Hm, you thought.

Logan found you twenty minutes later in the living room, already in his jacket, apparently on his way out.

"Hey," he said. "You good?"

"Fine," you said. "Where are you going?"

"Skate rental shop. I need new laces." He paused. "Do you want to come? We can get food after."

You looked at him.

"Sure," you said.

You got your coat.

one — the one time he did january, senior year.

The skate rental shop was quiet on a January afternoon, the mundane warmth of a place that smelled like rubber and old equipment, and Logan found his laces in approximately four minutes and then stood in the aisle for another ten not moving, which you had learned to recognize as Logan making up his mind about something.

You looked at a display of blade covers that you did not need.

"Tucker told me," you said, to the blade covers.

A pause.

"Told you what," Logan said.

"About Dean. In September."

The aisle was very quiet.

"She's busy," you said. "That's what you said, apparently."

Another pause. Longer.

"You were," Logan said. "You were in nationals prep."

"Logan."

"What."

You turned to look at him. He was looking at the laces in his hands with the expression he got when he was trying to decide something and hating that he had to decide it.

"Why did you say she's busy," you said. "Instead of — anything else."

He looked up. His jaw did the thing.

"Because," he started.

"Because why."

He looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he sometimes did when he thought you weren't paying attention, except you were paying attention and he knew it and he still wasn't looking away.

"Because it's you," he said. "And I couldn't just — I didn't want Dean to —" he stopped. Started again. "I didn't want anyone to."

The skate rental shop was very quiet.

"Okay," you said.

"Okay?" he said.

"That's — I needed to know that." You looked at the blade covers. You looked at him. "I also needed you to know that I'm not busy. I mean — I am. But I'm not. Not for — not for this."

Logan looked at you for a long moment.

"Not for this," he repeated.

"Not for you," you said, which was the more honest version, which you had decided to say because you were twenty-two and you had been doing this for five years and Tucker had accidentally said something in a kitchen and it was January and you were tired of not saying things.

The laces in Logan's hands had been thoroughly analyzed.

He put them back on the shelf.

"I was going to tell you after your competition," he said. "In February. Your sophomore year."

"You talked about my shoulder."

"I know," he said. "I know I did."

"And on the Sunday in April —"

"Your coach called."

"And at the party in November —"

"Dean," he said, simply, and you almost laughed.

"Five times," you said.

"Probably more," he said. "I stopped counting."

You looked at him. This person who had been in the penalty box when you were eleven and had told you your shoulder dropped and had come to every competition and had stood in a locker room in September and said she's busy when what he meant was something else entirely.

"So say it now," you said. "We're in a skate rental shop in January. There's nobody here. Say it now."

Logan looked at you.

"I love you," he said. Not dramatically just simply, the way he said true things, like it was information that had been waiting a long time to be delivered and was relieved to finally arrive. "I've loved you since you told me I didn't ask and then tried the spin again anyway. I love you and I'm sorry it took me this long."

The blade covers blurred slightly.

You reached up and took the lapel of his jacket in your hand.

"You talked about my shoulder," you said.

"I know," he said. "I'm sorry."

"I'm going to bring that up for years."

"I know," he said. "I deserve that."

You pulled him down by the jacket.

He kissed you in the skate rental shop in January, between the blade covers and the laces display, with nobody watching and nothing to interrupt, and it was warm and unhurried and tasted like something that had been a long time coming and had finally, simply, arrived.

When you pulled back he had the expression you had been trying not to notice for five years — open and certain and entirely unmanaged.

"For the record," you said, "my shoulder doesn't drop anymore."

"It really doesn't," he said. "You've completely fixed it."

"I know," you said. "I'm very good."

He laughed and pulled you back in, and the skate rental shop continued to be entirely quiet around you, indifferent and perfect.

You told Allie and Hannah together, which was the only way to do it.

You had barely gotten the words out before Hannah made a sound that could only be described as vindicated, and Allie said I told you to Hannah at the same moment Hannah said I told you to Allie, and then they looked at each other and then at you and both started talking at the same time.

"The shoulder thing at the party —"

"In sophomore year when you called after the competition —"

"The thing in September with Dean —"

"We knew," Hannah said. "We have known for so long."

"How long," you said.

They looked at each other.

"Since the first time we saw you two in the same room," Allie said.

You looked at them. "And you didn't say anything?"

"We said we weren't going to intervene," Hannah said, with the dignity of someone honoring a commitment.

"You could have said something to me," you said.

"We said we weren't going to intervene," Allie said, equally dignified.

You looked at them both.

"I cannot believe," you said.

"You're welcome," they said, simultaneously.

Logan told the team at dinner.

Or rather, Dean asked where you were and Logan said she's coming later and Tucker said she's coming? is she — and Logan said yeah in the even tone that contained a lot of information, and Dean looked at Tucker and Tucker looked at Dean and Garrett looked at his food and the table continued exactly as it always had except that something had shifted in the specific, settled way of something that had always been heading here finally arriving.

When you got there Logan moved over without being asked and you sat beside him and his shoulder was warm against yours and everything was exactly the same as it had always been.

Except that his hand found yours under the table.

And this time he didn't let go.

allie: so

hannah: SO

allie: we called it

hannah: from the beginning

allie: the penalty box story is the most romantic thing i have ever heard

hannah: RIGHT

allie: eleven years old

hannah: her shoulder dropped

allie: her SHOULDER DROPPED

hannah: i'm going to think about this forever

allie: same

allie: we did good

hannah: we didn't do anything

allie: we observed supportively

hannah: that's true

allie: that counts

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.