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Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
three times beau maxwell proves to you that he is boyfriend material, and the one time you decide to let yourself fall for his charms
PAIRINGS: beau maxwell x fem!reader, beau maxwell x curvy!reader
WARNINGS: reader is described as curvy, slightly shorter than beau with a naturally wavy/curly hair pattern, angsty as hell, fluffy as hell, deeply insecure self-talk, hardly any self-confidence, yearning, golden retriever energy (ala beau maxwell), dramatic confession
WORD COUNT: 4.3k
🎶 : boyfriend - justin bieber
AN: 🩵♥️💗 - i love this fic with my whole soul. i thought of this after seeing an edit on tiktok of beau to this song and i just ran with it. please enjoy and feel free to leave a comment!
one: the Sig Tau darty
You don’t like partying.
If you got into the gory details of it all, you’d find that wasn’t true.
You loved partying in its truest and purest form. You loved talking with your friends, dancing for hours and hours, and looking at the stars on the walk home. The dark was where you thrived: no one could see the sweat that built up on your brow, or your slightly disheveled appearance. Night served as a cloak, and it only built up your confidence. (Which, if you were being honest with yourself, wasn’t exactly very good to begin with.)
You loved partying, not dartying.
It was always too bright. Everyone could see your hair transform from perfectly blown out to your natural texture. In fact, if you were to take a photo of your hair every couple minutes and put it into stop motion, that short film would make it to the Cannes Film Festival. Plus, people got weird when they drank during the day.
Yet here you were.
Because Beau Maxwell had convinced you to come.
He’d asked you once, very casually, and you had to sit him down and explain why you detested darties. He honestly understood, but that hadn’t stopped his eyes from molding into the same melancholy look of a kicked puppy’s.
Dean tracked you down after and told you that your rejection had killed his spirit.
You hated how easily you caved after that.
So here you were at three in the afternoon on a Saturday.
Your jeans clung to your slightly damp skin, your top (a light green with florals and many fluttery layers) skillfully hid your rolls. Your hair was blown out, your makeup perfectly done (besides the beads of sweat building up on your brow), and your sunglasses were perched neatly on your nose.
In other words, you felt good. Hot, even.
There was one issue though. You’d yet to see Beau. Who, even if you were too scared to say it outloud, was the whole reason you were here.
You nervously fidgeted with your purse while taking a leisurely sip of the Sig Tau bucket. It tasted like a Dirty Shirley, but you couldn’t be sure.
“Come here often?”
“Nope.” You smiled lightly as your eyes scanned the crowd. “Just waiting on a friend.”
“Oh?” The frat brother was not leaving. Great. You tried to come across as friendly, but not friendly enough that it felt flirty. Obviously, you did not succeed. “If she’s half as beautiful as you, we’re in for a treat?”
There were so many things wrong with that statement, that you simply did not have time to unpack it. “He is on the way, so…”
“He?” This statement only seemed to egg on his flirtations. “Is he your boyfriend?”
“Not exactly.” You thanked whatever was above that your glasses hid your deadly glare. “Look it was nice talking to you, but I should really get-”
“He obviously isn’t interested enough to stay by your side. Whereas I-”
“Am making someone extremely uncomfortable?” You raised a brow, officially done with playing nice.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” You took your glasses off, placing them on your head. “This entire conversation you have done nothing but talk over me and treat me as an object. I honestly thought that maybe you’d respect the threat of another man coming over here. But still, you persisted.” You crossed your arms, jutting your hip out ever so slightly. “You are the very worst of what Sig Tau has to offer.”
“You’re a-”
“Is there a problem here?” Beau’s voice broke through the tense air. “What’s going on, Tucker?”
“Maxwell.” Tucker seemingly cowered at the sight of Briar’s beloved quarterback. Good, serves him right.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Beau’s cologne flooded your senses. “Is there a problem here?”
“No.” Tucker shook his head quickly. “No problem.”
“Huh.” Beau’s eyes stayed on the boy as he addressed you. “Is there a problem here, Killer?”
Killer. A nickname you’d earned after tearing Beau to shreds. You were in a bad mood, and once you set your sights on Beau, there was no turning back. You’d apologized profusely, but it was too late. He’d dubbed you Killer, and the nickname had stuck ever since.
“Not anymore.” You responded. “I think Turner here was just leaving.”
“Tucker, but, yea.” Turner nodded. “Bye.”
Beau scoffed, mumbling under his breath. “I am so reporting his ass to standards.”
“That is so kind of you.” You imitated, turning around to face the boy. “How are you?”
“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” He frowned. Your eyes drifted down to his hands, which were grazing yours just barely. You could tell he was itching to reach out and hold you, to make sure you were alright. Deciding to put him out of his misery, you settled on a nice arm squeeze.
“I’m fine. But thank you.” You genuinely smiled at the boy, your hand still lingering on his arm. (It was hard not to notice exactly how muscular he was.) “Seriously. I had no idea where that was going.”
“Don’t worry. If I have it my way, Tucker won’t be a brother for much longer.”
You smirked, stepping just a hair closer, testing the waters. “And we all know the influence you have.”
“Are you having fun?” He laughed. “Besides the whole-”
“I’m having a great time.” Liar.
“And to think,” His pointer finger wrapped around yours. “That you hate darties. Now look at you.”
“What can I say?” You shrugged. “I’m a changed woman.”
“You know,” he was bouncing nervously on the balls of his feet. “I was just about to play a game of pong. I don’t know if you’d be down, but I need a partner.”
Something about seeing him reduced to a bumbling nervous mess made you incredibly mushy inside. “I’m down.” You smiled. “I’m so down. Lead the way.”
And when his hand tightened its grasp on yours, you said nothing, simply following after him.
two: the spa day
This was stupid. There was no way that he would want to do this.
Spa day was originally a girls' night. All of your roommates had excitedly put the event into their calendars. Then, suspiciously, hours before, all of their boyfriends had decided to take them out for a date, a date that they just couldn’t get out of.
They later confessed with not a shred of guilt in their tones.
They were giggling when they told you. Actually giggling in your face as they destroyed your girls night. The smug bastards. Grace at least gave you the courtesy of apoligizing.
“We’re sorry, but we knew you would never do it on your own. You need to make sure he knows you’re interested, babe. And what better way than a chill night in? Just the two of you.” She wiggled her eyebrows. “Alone.”
“We want to see you in love.” Malia added on. “You deserve it.”
“And in order to do that-” Grace continued. “You need to be vulnerable.”
The phone is ringing longer than normal, and you take that as a sign to hang up. The second you pull the phone away from your ear, Beau’s voice rings out like a beacon in the dark. “Hello?” Your throat closes, and suddenly, you’ve forgotten how to speak. Why were you so nervous? “Killer? Are you there?”
“Hi.” You put him on speaker as you pace around your apartment, your voice crackling. “Are you, um…” You take a deep breath. “Are you busy right now?” You can hear Dean in the background, as well as some of the other hockey guys. Shit. “This was crazy, sorry for bothering-”
“I’m not busy at all.” Dean groans, and you can hear Beau hiss at him to ‘shut up’. “What’s up?”
“My roommates and I were supposed to have a spa day today, but they all backed out at the last minute. And I know this is stupid, so I honestly wouldn’t blame you for saying no, but I was wondering-”
“Yes.”
“Yes to this is stupid, or yes to-”
“To the spa day.” Beau laughed. “Yes to the spa day.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, really.” He sounded like he was smiling. God, you hoped he was smiling. “I’m on the way. Do you need anything?”
“I have snacks and wine and face masks, so I’m good.”
“Give me ten minutes.” It takes at least twenty minutes to get to your apartment from the hockey house. He most definitely drove over the speed limit, because ten minutes later, Beau was at your door.
You whipped it open, trying your best to look disappointed. “How many minor traffic laws did you break?”
“Only a few.” He grinned. “Can I come in?”
“Please.” You shut the door behind him, watching as he walked around your living room.
“It’s different from the last time I was here.”
Ah, yes, the last time he was here.
Sophomore year, you had had too much to drink. After making Beau swear that he would take care of you, your roommates all left the party. And take care of you he did. The entire night he stayed by your side, guarded your drinks, danced, and even laid with you on the grass to look at the stars.
When you were ready to leave, so was he. He walked you all the way home, took off your makeup, and tucked you into bed. Looking back, Beau had always been boyfriend material. Even when you were just mutual friends. That was just Beau though, he was kind to a fault.
“We went with a coastal grandmother vibe this year.”
“Ah.” He nodded slowly. “As opposed to the ‘barbie hot pink’ vibe.”
“Exactly.” You laughed. “You get it.”
“This face mask is cold.”
“Did you expect it to be warm?” You mumble, carefully spreading the mask around his face. “It’s supposed to help your skin glow.”
“Do you think my skin needs to glow more than it already does?”
A snort escaped you before you could help it. “Just think, you’ll like the sun baby from Teletubbies after this.”
“I’ve always wanted to look like her.”
“Really?” Giggles snuck out between every word. “Trust me. With the help of this mask, people are going to have to wear shades to look at you.”
“They already do.” He wiggled his brows. “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Because my future’s so bright.”
You closed your eyes. “You did not just say that.”
“I’m not ashamed.” He smirked. “What does the one that you’re wearing do?”
“It uh-” You opened your eyes, suddenly realizing how close the two of you are. There’s no other way to put it: you were sitting on his lap, straddling him as you applied his mask. “It’s supposed to hydrate your skin while cooling it down. Sometimes-” Your breath hitches as his hands drift up from your hips to your waist. Normally, you’d flinch. You’re extremely uncomfortable with people being anywhere near your rolls, but with Beau, you crave more. Always more. “My moisturizer doesn’t exactly do the trick, and I use this face mask to rejuvenate.”
“Huh.” His smile could make flowers bloom. “So that’s why your skin looks so dewy.”
Your head falls back as the giggles take over once again. “Dewy?”
“What’s so funny?” His hands squeeze ever so slightly. “Your skin is dewy.”
“You’re perfect.” You laugh. “Who taught you how to use that word?”
“Learned it all on my own, thank you very much.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” You focus back on the task at hand. “Now hold still, I’m almost done.”
He tried to contain his smile as he tipped his head back. “Yes, ma’am.”
three: the gala
“Football’s biggest fundraiser of the year is coming up.”
You look up from your textbook. “That’s cool.”
“It’s a silent auction, gala, sort of thing. Briar’s entire board of trustees normally attends. We also invite our biggest donors, parents, and friends.”
“Sounds like a fun night, Beau.” You smile, trying not to be obvious about the fact that you’re talking in the middle of a lecture. “Is it fancy?”
“The fanciest.” He leaned back in his chair, taking a deep breath. “Would you want to go?”
“To the gala?” You hummed. “With you?”
“Yes?” He sounds scared.
“I’d love to.” You looked over, covering your mouth to hold back the laughter. “Breathe, Maxwell. You know I can’t say no to you.”
“I just don’t want you to go because you feel obligated or anything-”
“I don’t feel obligated, Beau.” You smiled. “I want to go with you.”
“Good.” He smiled back. “Good.”
“I’ll have to buy a new dress.”
“Of course.” He sounds so sure when he says it, that you just know he’s gonna weasel himself into coming along with you.
“Is there a color scheme?”
“Normally I see the girls wearing navy blue, red, black, that sort of stuff.”
“Briar colors?” You nod slowly, envisioning the possibilities. “I can work with that.”
“You know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you wear.”
Your cheeks could cook an egg. “That’s sweet of you to say but-”
“Am I interrupting something?” Your professor stared at the two of you. “Is Mr. Maxwell distracting you?”
“Not at all.” You smiled brightly. “I was just clarifying something for him.”
“Mhm.” She was not convinced. “Raise your hand next time.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Beau replied. “Will do.”
You waited a minute before continuing. “Is there dancing?”
“So much dancing.”
“Good.” You grinned. “I love dancing.”
“I know.” His pen tapped against the table at a million miles a minute. “I know you love to dance.”
“Relax, Killer.” Beau leans over, whispering in your ear.
“I’m very relaxed.”
“You’re messing with your dress a lot for someone who’s relaxed.”
“Do you always notice everything I do?” A scowl forms on your lips.
He hums. “Usually.”
“Oh.” You don’t have a retort for that. “I should have gone with the black one. It’s more slimming and-”
“You look beautiful. Like a movie star.” His eyes bear into yours, with a look that almost feels like he’s daring you to disagree with him. “You’re beautiful.”
“Thank you.” You whisper. “Are you sure it’s not too much-”
“Killer, don’t make me do something drastic.”
“Drastic?” You raised a brow. “And what exactly would that entail?”
“Do you really want to know?” He put the car into park, staring at you.
“That’s why I asked.”
He smirked, running around to open your door. “I guess I’d have to prove to you just how beautiful I think you are.”
“Oh.” Your breath hitched as he extended his hand for you to take. “I’ll take your word for it then.”
“Thought you might.” He handed his keys to the valet, walking you into the venue. Jazz standards and small talk filled the air, with people packed into the hotel ballroom as far as the eye could see.
Beau was immediately bombarded with fans, board members, and the like. He smiled, shook hands, and introduced you to every single one of them. He talked his way through a million conversations like it was easy, like this was just another day. He’d grabbed you champagne without you even having to ask, handing it to you mid-conversation.
After what felt like an hour of talking, you’d finally found yourselves alone. Or at least, able to talk to each other without another person present. “How do you do it?”
“Do what?” He tilted his head.
“You just seemed so-” Your cheeks feel hot. Maybe it’s the champagne, maybe it’s his attention. “So natural talking to all those people.”
“I like to talk, so it works out.”
“No that’s not it.” You shook your head. “You’re just so-”
“So?” His hand found its way to your waist.
“So confident. So quick witted and kind. A natural leader.” Your hands, now free of a champagne glass, found themselves placed gently on his chest. You can’t help but think that to an outsider, it must look like the two of you were about to kiss. “It’s admirable. You’re amazing.”
“Wow.” He grinned, his hands falling to your hips as he spoke. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever told me.”
“Don’t let it get to your head.” You laughed. Your eyes drifted from his lips to his bow. “Your bow is crooked.”
“Oh.” He looked down, frowning.
“Do you mind?”
“Not at all.” Your hands reached up, fidgeting with it until it was just right. When you were done, you leaned back, admiring your work and smoothing out his jacket. Was it sort of an excuse to rub your hands down his chest?
Maybe.
Beau must have been holding his breath, because when you’d finished, his chest practically heaved. “Thank you.”
“Of course.”
“Killer.” His voice broke.
“Beau.” This felt like something out of a fairytale.
“Do you want to dance?”
“Yes.” You sound breathless.
He grabbed your hand, leading you through the crowd. The dance floor is in sight when an older man and his wife steps in front of him. “Mr. Maxwell.”
“Sir, ma’am.” Beau smiles kindly. “How are you?”
“I’m fantastic. You were fantastic this season. Lots of talk about the draft.”
“Thank you sir.”
“Do you have time to talk?”
“I-” Beau looks back at you, and then at the man. “Sorry sir. I need to dance with my date.”
“Understood.” The older man smiles at you. “Miss.”
You nod, staring over your shoulder and Beau leads you the rest of the way. “Who was that?”
“Oh him?” Beau shrugs, twirling you into his arms. “He’s the head coach of the Buffalo Bills.”
“What?” You’re gawking, you can feel it. “Beau, go talk to him.”
“Do you not want to dance?” His hands find their place, gently swaying to the music.
“Of course I want to dance. But I can wait.”
“Well, so can he.” He’s holding you so close it feels like you’re one person.
“That man could get you a career, Beau. It’s really not worth it.”
“It is to me.” He leaned his forehead against yours. “You’re worth it.”
You were gawking again. You can’t think of anything to say, and so, you lean your head against his chest and dance with him for what felt like forever.
And when the dance is over, he guides you back towards the Buffalo Bills coach with his hand on the small of your back. “Sir.”
“You have a good one here.” The man smiles.
“Thank you.” Your arm wraps around Beau’s. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“I’m Joey Brady, and this is my wife Lauren.”
“It’s so nice to meet you.” Lauren sticks her hand out, and you shake it.
“It’s nice to meet you as well.”
“Did you have fun dancing?” Lauren replies. “It’s so rare to find a moment to slow dance anymore.”
“I agree.” You smile. “Thank you for waiting.”
“No need to thank us.” Mr. Brady smiles. “I would do the same.”
The conversation flows easily between the four of you. The night ends before you can blink. You and Beau are leaning against the bar, nursing a couple of espresso martinis when the bartender yells out last call.
“Shall we?” You tilt your head, pushing your drink away.
“We shall.” he grins, shrugging off his coat. “Here.”
“You really don’t need to.”
“Take the coat, Killer.”
You gladly take the warm, cologne soaked coat from his hands, pulling it close. “If you insist.”
one: the conversation that changed everything
So this was what heartbreak felt like.
Yesterday, Briar Hockey threw a party. Of course, you went. You had fun, played Pong, danced (of course), and you’d even stayed longer than normal, watching ‘America’s Got Talent Worst Auditions’ with Dean and Beau until the wee hours of the night. And, in the deep moments of tired delusion, you’d left your things behind.
Most notably, your hoodie and purse.
You’d texted Garrett asking when a good time to come over was, and he’d said whenever. Your fist had been raised, you’d almost knocked. And then you heard it.
“She’s been leading you on, man.” Some Sig Tau brother.
Beau’s voice cuts through. “No she hasn’t.”
“She kind of has, though.” Some other Sig Tau brother. Dean must have been hosting some brotherly bonding event.
“What do you know about it?” Dean. You smiled to yourself. “Some girls take a little longer to warm up. That doesn’t mean that they’re leading you on.”
“It’s been four years, man.”
Beau scoffed. “Are you guys keeping track or something?”
“Maxwell, you have to admit, it’s crazy that she still hasn’t-” The first Sig Tau brother speaks up. “You know.”
“No I don’t, you know.” Beau sounds heavily annoyed. “And you should stop talking about her like you know her. You have no idea what she’s been through or what she’s actually like. You’ve talked to her once, dude. In class.”
“She’s not exactly the easiest person to talk to.” He had a point.
“Or the nicest.”
“I guess that’s why she’s called Killer.” The second Sig Tau brother mutters.
Tears threaten to spill over your water line. “Hold on a second. When did this turn into a ‘let's all be dickhead’s’ party?” Dean, once again.
“If she needs to take her time, then I’ll do anything she needs me to-” Beau’s voice grows in volume, but you sort of black out from the sheer embarrassment of it all. “And for however long she wants. I’m sorry you assholes don’t understand what being in lo-”
You step back, the floor board creaking under the weight. A gasp leaves your lips before you can help it, and you know you’ve been caught. The only reasonable thought that passes through your mind is to run.
So you do.
Or at least, you try to. You get down the porch steps and to the sidewalk when the door swings open, and Beau Maxwell calls out your name. “How much of that did you hear?”
“Enough.”
He frowns. “They’re dicks.”
“Beau-” A single tear falls. “I- I shouldn’t have been here. It’s really okay-”
“Killer.” He approaches you carefully, like you’re a stray dog. Like you’re going to bite at any minute. Because, in all fairness, you might. It’s your defense mechanism after all, and it kills you that you’ve made him feel like he has to walk on eggshells around you. “Don’t listen to them. They’re stupid, they don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“They’re not stupid.” You shook your head. “They’re right, and you know they are.”
“What?” This is the first time you’ve seen Beau look even slightly annoyed in your presence. You never want to see him look like that again. “What are you saying right now?”
“Beau-” You sob, hugging yourself. “I- It’s all my fault, why we haven’t-”
“Haven’t what?” He steps closer. “Haven’t what, baby?”
That’s new. “We could have been something this whole time, and I- I’ve held us back.”
“You haven’t held us back.” He shook his head. “How could you think that?”
You’re fully sobbing. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry for projecting my insecurities on you. You just- you don’t understand what it’s like.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” He whispered. “You have to know that.”
“Boys see someone like me and they laugh. It’s just the truth. Eventually, after years of being asked out as a joke, I decided that it was easier to be harsh and mean than it was to be kind and vulnerable. I became resentful, and harsh to cover up the fact that I-” You laughed, angrily wiping away your wet cheeks. “I wanted what everyone else had.”
“Baby-”
“And then you came along, all kind and pure, and I thought, this must be a joke. A bet him and his friends made. And then you kept talking to me. You hung out with me, you introduced me to your friends, and I was like maybe, maybe you liked me.”
“I do.” He’s now in front of you.
You almost step back from the shock of it all. “You care about me, even when I treat you like shit.”
“You don’t treat me like shit.”
“I do.” You whisper. “I do and you know it. I push you away, and you always come back.”
“Because I love you.” He sounds as confident as ever, like he’s barking out orders on the field. Like what he just said is something he’s said a million times. “And I’ve always known it, deep down. From the day you tore into me, I told myself that if it took a million years, I was gonna get you to trust me. And if it took another million, I was going to wait for you to love me back.”
“You’re determined.”
“Yeah.” He laughed. “I guess I am. Others could say I’m in love.”
Your stomach flipped as you spoke. “You’re wrong, you know.”
“About what exactly?”
“You don’t have to wait for me to love you back.”
The look of sheer panic was replaced with one of a pure smug nature. “Is that so?”
“I’ve loved you always. But I especially love you right now.”
He lunged forward, lips colliding against yours, and his hands holding your face as if it were made of glass. He’s no longer afraid to hold you. No longer are you a stray feral killer. You are in love with a man who knows all of you and chooses to stay.
He leans his forehead against yours, and his hands fall to your waist.
The photographer had been smiling for exactly seventeen minutes, which was about sixteen minutes longer than she wanted to.
You could tell she was trying. Really trying. Her smile was still polite, her camera still hanging around her neck, and her voice had remained sweet through at least three failed attempts at a simple couple’s shoot. But even the nicest people had limits, and you were beginning to think Beau Maxwell was testing every single one of hers.
“Okay,” the photographer said carefully, stepping back from the lens and lowering the camera. “Let’s try that again. Just look at each other. No laughing. No faces.”
Beau, standing beside you in a white button-down he had already somehow made wrinkled, put a hand over his chest like he had just been personally attacked. “No faces?”
You bit your lip so you would not laugh. “That is a very reasonable request.”
He turned to you with mock betrayal. “You’re taking her side?”
“I am a fan of professionalism.”
The photographer looked between the two of you and gave the kind of small smile people reserved for situations that had gone beyond recovery but might still be salvageable with prayer. “Maybe a little softer this time.”
You nodded immediately. “We can do soft.”
Beau leaned closer to you, his shoulder brushing yours. “I can do soft.”
The photographer lifted the camera again. “Great. Look at each other.”
You did.
Beau held your gaze for exactly two seconds before his mouth twitched.
Your brows rose in warning. “Don’t.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“You are definitely doing something.”
“I’m looking at my girlfriend.”
“You are plotting.”
That made him grin. A real grin, bright and helpless and way too good-looking, and you already knew where this was headed.
The camera clicked once.
Then again.
Then the photographer lowered it slowly and shut her eyes for one long, quiet second.
Beau, who had been trying very hard to look innocent and failing beautifully, had crossed his eyes.
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
The photographer exhaled through her nose. “Beau.”
He straightened at once. “What?”
“What was that?”
“What was what?”
You covered your mouth with your hand, shoulders shaking. “You crossed your eyes.”
“I did no such thing.”
“You absolutely did,” you said, laughing now. “I saw it.”
He looked wounded. “I was trying to create a playful atmosphere.”
The photographer stared at him.
Beau stared back.
You could practically hear her soul leaving her body.
“I appreciate playfulness,” she said finally, “but I would also like one photo where both of you look like you are not being held hostage.”
That made you laugh harder. Beau glanced at you, clearly pleased with himself, and then said, “See? Hostage is strong. That means the energy is memorable.”
The photographer turned to you, not even bothering to hide the pleading in her expression. “Does he always do this?”
You opened your mouth, then closed it.
Beau answered for you. “Yes.”
You shot him a look. “That was not your place.”
“It absolutely was.”
She let out a tiny, tired laugh, and you could tell she was trying to stay in control of the session by sheer force of will. “Okay. New approach. You two stand closer.”
Beau stepped in immediately, one hand settling at your waist. His touch was warm and familiar, the kind that still made your stomach feel light even after all this time. You angled toward him, chin tipping up with a smile you were trying to keep under control.
The photographer nodded. “Better. Now just relax.”
Beau made a face. “I am relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to fake your own death.”
He gasped. “That is offensive.”
“It is also accurate,” you said, and that was enough to make him look down at you with that crooked smile he used when he was in trouble and knew it.
“See?” he said. “She’s on your side too.”
“Because I like photos where we both still have eyes,” you muttered.
The photographer raised the camera again. “Okay. This time, Beau, do not make any weird expressions.”
He pressed a hand to his chest. “Why does everyone assume I’m the problem?”
You and the photographer said at the same time, “Because you are.”
He blinked, then looked offended again. “Wow. So this is bullying.”
You leaned into him, trying not to smile too much. “You brought this on yourself.”
Beau rested his chin lightly on top of your head, and for a second the whole thing actually felt like it might work. The photographer’s voice softened. “Good. Stay there.”
The shutter clicked.
Once.
Twice.
Then Beau whispered, just loud enough for you to hear, “I can feel you trying not to laugh.”
You muttered back, “I can feel you being impossible.”
“That is not a crime.”
“You’re right,” you said. “It should be.”
He made some tiny noise of offended amusement against your hair, then, because he was Beau and self-control was clearly a myth, he whispered, “If I kiss your cheek, will she let us go sooner?”
You turned your head a fraction. “No.”
His grin widened. “Didn’t say it had to be a good idea.”
The photographer, from behind the camera, sighed. “Beau, if you make her laugh again, I am officially quitting.”
He looked over at her, dead serious. “That sounds dramatic.”
“It is dramatic.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding like he was taking this all very seriously. “No more laughing.”
You watched him for exactly three seconds before narrowing your eyes. “That face means you are absolutely about to do something.”
“I’m just standing here.”
“With intent.”
He smiled innocently, which was never a good sign.
The photographer pointed at the two of you. “Hands on each other. Natural. Not weird.”
Beau placed both hands on your waist like he was obeying a command from the gods. You mirrored it with one arm around his middle, your fingers curling lightly against the back of his shirt. If not for the photographer’s increasingly strained patience, you might have actually been able to enjoy this.
“Okay,” she said. “Now look at each other like you love each other.”
You did.
That part was easy.
Beau’s expression changed first, the teasing fading into something softer, steadier. It happened so quickly you almost missed it, but then you caught it fully, the way his eyes settled on you like he had no interest in looking anywhere else. The whole room seemed to quiet a little.
The photographer’s voice softened too. “Good. That’s good.”
You felt your own smile turn smaller, more real. “Like that?”
“Yes,” she said. “Exactly like that.”
For one perfect second, Beau stayed still.
Then his face slowly shifted into a ridiculous over-the-top smolder that was so exaggerated it looked like he was parodying a romance cover.
You lost it immediately.
The photographer made a sound that was halfway between a groan and a cry for help. “Beau.”
He broke character at once and started laughing too, which only made you laugh harder. You leaned forward, forehead hitting his shoulder, while he bent slightly at the waist, one hand gripping his stomach like he had been wounded.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped.
“No, you’re not,” you said, trying and failing to catch your breath.
The photographer lowered the camera and just stared at him. “What was that even supposed to be?”
He straightened, still laughing. “I thought it was sexy.”
You wheezed. “It was terrifying.”
“Okay,” he said, pointing at you. “That’s hurtful.”
She rubbed a hand over her forehead. “I need you to know I have photographed weddings, babies, and one extremely emotional engagement in the rain, and I have never felt this close to quitting.”
Beau’s grin softened into something more sheepish. “That bad?”
“Worse.”
You covered your face with one hand while still laughing, and Beau glanced down at you with a little smile that said he had no intention of helping the situation. He brushed his thumb over your hip, then leaned in and kissed your temple.
The photographer clicked the camera anyway.
At that, you peeked through your fingers. “Did you get something usable?”
She looked at the screen, then looked back at the two of you with a suspicious expression. “Maybe.”
Beau perked up. “Maybe?”
She turned the camera around so you could see the shot. It was not perfect, which was somehow the point. You were half laughing, Beau was kissing your temple, and both of you looked messy and real and so clearly in love it was almost embarrassing.
You stared at it for a second longer than you meant to.
Beau did too.
His voice came out quieter when he finally spoke. “That one’s good.”
You glanced up at him. He was no longer joking. His eyes stayed on the photo for a second, then moved back to you, and there was something so warm in his expression that your chest gave a small, stupid ache.
The photographer noticed the shift too, because she immediately lifted the camera again. “Yes. That. Don’t move.”
Beau looked back at her, then at you, then slowly let his expression settle into a real smile. “Oh, so now you trust me?”
“No,” she said. “I trust her. You’re just there.”
You snorted. Beau put a hand over his heart like he had been mortally offended, but he was smiling too, and this time when he pulled you closer, he did not try to ruin it.
“Eyes on me,” he murmured.
You lifted yours to his.
His voice dropped even lower. “There she is.”
Something in your face must have changed, because the photographer gave a sharp little yes under her breath and started snapping pictures again.
This time, Beau stayed still.
Mostly.
He did, however, decide to whisper, “You’re really pretty when you’re annoyed.”
You shot him a look. “I’m going to destroy you later.”
His smile turned dangerous in the softest possible way. “That sounded promising.”
The photographer made a strangled noise from behind the camera. “Please do not say things like that during a session.”
You and Beau both went red.
Then, because he had clearly decided embarrassment was just another form of entertainment, he leaned forward and kissed you.
Not a dramatic kiss. Not one meant to show off. Just a quick, warm press of his mouth to yours that made your entire body go pleasantly weightless for a second.
When he pulled back, your lips were tingling and the photographer looked like she had just witnessed either a masterpiece or a crime.
Beau’s grin was lazy and satisfied. “There. Natural.”
The photographer stared at the camera screen for a long, silent moment.
Then she looked up.
“Finally,” she said, with the exhausted reverence of someone who had barely survived a storm. “That one is perfect.”
You laughed again, though this time it was softer. Beau slid his hand into yours and squeezed once, pleased with himself in the way only he could be. The photographer continued taking a few more shots, but now there was less pressure in the air, less frustration, more of the easy rhythm that had been there all along beneath the chaos.
Still, Beau could not help himself.
The moment she lowered the camera for a break, he leaned toward you and murmured, “We should frame that one.”
“The one where you acted like a menace?”
“The one where I was emotionally compelling.”
You gave him a flat look. “You crossed your eyes.”
He smiled, completely unashamed. “And yet, you loved it.”
“I tolerated it.”
“Same thing.”
The photographer looked up from the camera bag, visibly alert. “If either of you start making faces again, I’m done.”
Beau held up both hands in surrender. “No more faces.”
You looked at him skeptically. “That’s not a promise you can keep.”
He glanced at you, all faux innocence. “Watch me.”
The next time the photographer lifted the camera, Beau managed exactly four seconds of serious composure before he started laughing at absolutely nothing.
She shut her eyes.
You laughed so hard you had to grab his arm to stay upright.
And somewhere in the middle of all that chaos, the photo she took ended up being the one you loved most.
Because it was not perfect.
It was better.
It was you, laughing into Beau’s shoulder while he looked at you like you were the whole reason he was smiling at all. It was messy and real and impossible to stage, which was exactly why it felt like the kind of picture you would keep forever.
When the session finally ended, the photographer lowered her camera with the expression of a soldier returning from war.
“I survived,” she announced.
Beau gave her a solemn nod. “You did great.”
She pointed at him. “Do not flatter me after what I endured.”
You laughed, stepping closer to Beau as he draped an arm around your shoulders. The photographer began packing up with one final glance in your direction.
“For what it’s worth,” she said, “the ridiculous pictures were better than the serious ones.”
Beau grinned. “I knew it.”
You looked up at him. “You would.”
He kissed the top of your head and said, with complete satisfaction, “You looked cute when you were trying not to smile.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You are impossible.”
He smiled down at you, warm and easy and entirely certain. “Yeah,” he said. “But you still kept me.”
And that, more than the photos, was the part you knew you would remember.
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Synopsis: What starts as a simple repair turns into late-night diner runs, coffee deliveries to the garage, and a growing attachment neither of you expects. Logan likes that you talk too much when you're nervous. You like that Logan becomes softer when nobody’s watching.
But as pressure mounts with Logan's hockey career and real life starts pulling at you from opposite directions, you begin to wonder if you’re just a temporary stop in Logan’s fast-moving future.
And Logan realizes far too late that somewhere between oil stains and midnight drives, you became the closest thing he’s ever had to home.
━━ john logan x graham!reader ; wc 3.5k
tw ; mention of parental abuse ( phil graham ) , secret relationship/brothers best friend , kissing , unedited
You should have been asleep.
Honestly, you had every intention of staying asleep.
You'd barely stirred when Logan carefully untangled himself from around you a few hours earlier. The second Logan's warmth disappeared from around you, sleep had abandoned you completely. You remembered the sleepy press of lips against your temple, remembered him whispering something about emergency practice before disappearing back through the bathroom with more effort than a six foot hockey player should have needed to move quietly.
You had laid there for nearly twenty minutes staring at the ceiling while cold air slowly replaced the heat his body had left behind. That had been the end of sleep.
Eventually, you gave up and grabbed your laptop instead.
Which was how you ended up cross legged in the middle of your unmade bed at six in the morning, drowning in English literature notes while wearing one of Logan's old briar jerseys like a sleep shirt.
The sleeves hung past your wrist, and the stitched hem brushed against your thighs whenever you shifted beneath the blankets. Your laptop sat balanced on your knees in front of you while color coded note card littered the comforter around your legs in chaotic little piles.
The room smelled faintly like vanilla coffee creamer and Logan's cologne. The thought probably should have bothered you more than it did. Garrett would lose his fucking mind if he saw this.
The thought flickered through your head so automatically it barely registered anymore. By now sneaking around with Logan had become muscle memory. You were half way through rereading your notes on gothic symbolism when the bathroom door connecting your room to his clicked softly.
You barely looked up. That alone probably should have been alarming. But the only people who used that bathroom were you and Logan.
He paused halfway through the doorway, one hand still resting against the door knob as surprise crossed his face. His dark hair was damp from a rushed shower after practice, curling slightly at the ends, and he’d traded his gear for gray sweatpants and a black Briar Hockey hoodie that looked like he’d pulled it on without fully drying off first.
“You’re awake?" His hockey bag hit the bathroom floor softly behind him as he nudged the door shut with his foot.
You hummed absently, eyes still scanning the highlighted paragraph glowing on your laptop screen.
A beat of silence passed.
“Tell me I didn’t wake you when I left.”
That finally dragged your attention toward him.
You scrunched your nose automatically, guilt flashing across his face the second he saw it.
“Oh, baby,” he groaned quietly.
You shrugged one shoulder, trying to dismiss it, but Logan already looked annoyed with himself as he crossed the room.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight when he dropped onto the bed beside you, close enough that his thigh pressed against yours immediately. Warmth radiated off him in sleepy waves, carrying traces of cold winter air, clean soap, and lingering hockey equipment beneath it all.
“I’m sorry.”
"You're loud," you mumbled, teasingly.
"I was not loud."
"You're, like, genetically incapable of being quiet."
"That is offensive."
“What’d they drag you guys in so early for anyway?” you asked, eyes drifting back toward your screen.
Logan rested his chin against your shoulder, close enough that his voice vibrated lightly through your skin when he answered.
“Cody got drunk at a frat and fell off a table. Dislocated his shoulder.”
You snorted softly.
“And you have a game tomorrow,” you murmured, piecing it together out loud. “Hence the emergency practice.”
He hummed against your shoulder in confirmation, the vibration making you shiver slightly before his mouth followed after it, pressing a lazy kiss against the fabric stretched over it.
Then another.
Then another higher up near your neck where the oversized collar slipped low against your skin.
Your fingers paused over the keyboard.
“Come on,” Logan mumbled against your throat. “Take a break?”
You ignored him on purpose.
It was almost impossible to study with Logan around. Not because he was obnoxious about it but mostly because he wanted your attention with the same attention he wanted ice time, and when John Logan wanted something, he tened to throw his whole body at it.
Which, unfortunately for your GPA, usually worked.
He sighed dramatically.
“Baby.”
“Logan.”
His mouth curved against your skin at the warning in your voice.
Logan lifted his head just enough to pout at you, and unfortunately for your concentration, he looked unfairly good like this—fresh from practice, slightly sleepy, soft around the edges in a way nobody else ever got to see.
He knew it too.
“I missed you,” he added, pouting still. You laughed quietly before you could stop yourself, turning your head enough to look at him properly. Logan immediately brightened like he’d won something. “You were at practice for like two hours.”
“Hey,” he said, nudging your knee with his. “Don’t be mean just because I like you.” The teasing grin lingered for only a second before something softer settled over his face.
His hand slid over your thigh absentmindedly, thumb brushing against the bare skin beneath the hem of his jersey. “I’m serious, though,” he said quietly. “I really like you.”
The words still did strange things to your chest no matter how many times he said them. Not because you doubted him. But because part of you still wasn’t entirely used to being wanted this gently.
You looked at him fully. “I know,” you said softly. “I like you too.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
His entire face changed.
It hit you suddenly sometimes, how different he was with you compared to everybody else downstairs. The version of Logan most people got was loud laughter, easy flirting, cocky one-liners, and chaotic energy spilling into every room he entered.
With you, he was soft in a way nobody would believe if they only knew him from hockey games and party stories and whispered puck bunny gossip around campus.
This version belonged only to you.
Before you could process the thought too deeply, Logan reached over and closed your laptop. “Hey,” you protested immediately. “I’m studying.”
“Nuh uh.” He grabbed the laptop before you could reclaim it and set it carefully on the nightstand. “Break time.”
“Logan.”
But he was already gathering your note cards into one messy stack, ignoring your increasingly offended expression entirely.
“You are the worst,” you informed him.
“Mm. Keep talking. Gets me all hot.” He tossed the final stack of cards aside before turning back toward you fully. Your pout barely lasted two seconds before he kissed you.
Heat crept into your face immediately. You hated how easily he could still do that to you. Logan was your first relationship.
Briar had been your first real school, your first time living around people your age instead of watching normal life through windows and secondhand stories from Garrett.
Your first sememster had felt like everybody else had recived some invisible handbook you'd somehow missed entirely. Parties, flirting, hookups, dorm drama, it all seemed to come naturally to everyone exept you.
Especially hockey culture.
You still remember Garrett standing in the kitchen before the semester started, arms crossed while Dean snickered into a beer beside him. "No hockey players," Garrett had said flatly.
You remember rolling your eyes so hard it hurt. Dean had immediately pointed at himself and Tucker. "What about us?"
"You especially," Garrett had laid the law. At the time, you'd thought it was stupid, embarrassing overprotective older brother bullshit. You'd assumed Garrett simply didn't want to hear locker room stories about his little sister from his teammates.
Now, with Logan's mouth brushing yours softly while morning light spilled gold across your tangled bedsheets, it almost felt funny.
Logans kisses were slow, not rushed the way your kisses sometimes became when you were sneaking around the house trying not to get caught.
This kiss felt like exactly what he’d said earlier.
I missed you.
Your fingers curled automatically into the front of his hoodie as he kissed you deeper, patient and unhurried as he pulled you closer across the mattress.
Even now, months into sneaking around, it still caught you off guard sometimes—the way he touched you carefully without making you feel fragile, the way he held your waist like it belonged beneath his hands naturally, the way he kissed you like he genuinely missed you after only a few hours apart.
Your hands slid into his damp hair as he shifted closer, and suddenly your laptop and exam and notecards felt impossibly far away. “Missed you so much,” he mumbled again against your mouth.
You smiled helplessly into the kiss. “Needy.”
“For you? Yeah.”
Somewhere between one kiss and the next, you ended up in his lap.
One second he was beside you and the next his hands were spread warm against your waist, guiding you over his thighs while your knees pressed into the mattress on either side of him. The position pulled a quiet sound from him, one that made your pulse jump embarrassingly fast.
The jersey had ridden dangerously high up your legs by now.
Logan noticed. His hands slid carefully from your waist to your hips, fingertips brushing beneath the hem just enough to make your breath catch against his mouth.
The look he gave you afterward nearly unraveled you completely.
Your heart hammered hard enough to make your chest ache. Maybe this would be the moment. The thought arrived suddenly and stayed there.
Heat bloomed low in your stomach when Logan kissed you again, slower this time, one hand slipping up your spine while the other settled low against your hip.
The knock at your bedroom door barely registered. You froze. Neither of you had time to move before the door opened.
Garrett stepped inside.
For one horrible second, nobody moved.
His gaze swept across the room slowly. The abandoned study notes, Logan’s practice bag at the foot of the bed, your bare legs over Logan’s lap, his jersey hanging off your body, Logan’s hands still spread across your body.
The silence turned suffocating.
You scrambled off Logan immediately, yanking the jersey down your thighs as heat flooded your face. Garrett looked stunned until his expression twisted. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?"
The words cracked through the room so sharply that it felt like the temperature dropped with them.
Garrett stood frozen in the doorway, broad shoulders filling the frame completely, hockey hoodie half-zipped. His eyes moved once more across the scene in front of him like he still couldn’t quite make sense of it.
You in Logan’s jersey.
Logan sitting on your bed.
His practice bag on your floor.
Your flushed face.
The way Logan’s hands had only just left your body.
You and Logan began speaking at the same time. "Garrett—"
"G—"
"No," Garrett snapped immediately, voice rough enough to cut skin. "Don't 'Garrett' me right now." Logan stood slowly from the bed to stand beside you.
Garrett laughed once under his breath, but there was nothing amused about. "How long?" The question was simple enough but neither of you answered fast enough.
Garrett looked at you then. Anyone else might have mistaken his expression for just pure rage, but you could see the fear in his eyes. "You promised me."
Your stomach twisted. Because you remembered it. You remember Garrett standing in this exact house, telling every guy under this roof to stay away from you and more importantly you had promised, no hockey players.
"G, listen, man—"
"Do not call me that right now!" Garrett barked. The force of it made silence slam back into the room. Then Garrett looked at Logan fully for the first time since walking in, betrayal twisting ugly across his face.
"Out of every girl at Briar," he started harshly, "you just had to pick my baby sister to get you fucking dick wet?"
"What the fuck, bro?" And again, you and Logan spoke simultaneously. "Garrett, back off!"
The second the words left your mouth, Garrett went still. Something flickered across his face so quickly most people probably wouldn't have caught it, but you knew Garrett too well not to.
It was shock. Not because you had yelled but because you had defended Logan. And suddenly Garrett was looking at the two of you like a pissed off older brother anymore.
Logan stepped forward slightly. "I swear it's not like that, man," his voice was strained now, confused and defensive all at once, "we haven't had sex."
You actually thought, for one horrible second, that maybe that would help. Maybe if Garrett understood that this wasn't just some reckless hookup, he'd calm down. Maybe if he understood that Logan cared about you, really cared about you, the situation would stop spiraling so fast.
Instead Garrett covered his whole face with both hands. "Jesus fucking Christ."
You chest tightened, you hated what this secret had done. "I really care about her, G," Logan confessed.
Garrett dropped his hands slowly, then he laughed. Not because anything was particularly funny, but because he knew he was on the brink of loosing control. The sound had come jagged and breathless and it had made a knot form in your throat.
"You care about her?"
Logan frowned immediately, he was really trying to not get worked up. But his defensiveness got the better of him as he yelled, "Yeah," he shot back. "I really fucking do."
The volume of it bounced off the bedroom walls. You recoiled, but the only person who saw was Garrett because Logan stood in front of you. The motion had practically confirmed every fear that Garrett was trying to prevent.
And then suddenly he wasn’t standing in your bedroom anymore.
You could see it happen in real time.
His eyes stopped focusing properly. His jaw locked so tightly a muscle ticked there. Whatever Garrett was seeing now wasn’t you and Logan anymore—it was memory layered over reality until he couldn’t separate the two.
“What happens after a bad game?”
“Garrett—”
“What happens when your pissed off and she the only one home?”
Your blood ran cold. Logan's brows furrowed in confusion. “Garrett.” You try to pull his attention to you, anything to get him to stop talking, but his sights are solely set on Logan. “What happens when you start drinking too much and she says the wrong thing—”
“Garrett!”
The shout ripped out of you loud enough to sting your throat.
Garrett sucked his top teeth with his tongue hard enough for you to hear it. It took him a second to drag his glare away from Logan and back toward you.
Beside you, Logan had gone very still.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
But Garrett wasn’t even looking at him anymore.
Your palms were slick with sweat now. Your heart hammered so violently it made your ribs ache. Logan was standing right there. Right there. And Garrett was too angry to stop talking and Logan was far too smart not to put the pieces together eventually.
One more sentence.
That was all it would take and the one person in the entire world you tried to shield this from, would know everything.
“You think dad walked around acting like a monster all the time?” Your stomach dropped. “Stop it, Garrett!” You stepped forward until you were standing in front of Logan, closer to Garrett. You don't know what you were going to do, but some insane part of you wanted to shield Logan even though he probably already understood what was happening.
“You think mom didn’t love dad once too?”
The room tilted. You made the mistake of glancing toward Logan and immediately regretted it because there it was.
That look.
Your entire body flushed hot with humiliation so intense it almost made you dizzy.
“Fuck you, Garrett!”
“Woah, baby—” Logan started but he was quickly cut off by Garrett.
“Fuck me?” Garrett snapped, pointing at himself before swinging that same finger toward Logan. “No, fuck him!” If not for pointing at Logan, you might have thought the him he was refering to was your father.
Your chest hurt.
You suddenly couldn’t stand the way Logan was looking at you. Couldn’t stand the fact that he knew now. Maybe not every detail, maybe not every ugly memory, but enough.
Enough to understand.
“I watched mom make excuses for him for years—”
“I know,” you fired back instantly, voice shaking now. “I was there too.”
Garrett’s expression cracked for half a second. Then hardened again. “Then why are you making the same mistakes she did?”
“Shut up!” The words tore out of you so violently they almost sounded broken. Silence crashed over the room. Nobody moved. Your breathing sounded too loud. So did Logan’s.
Garrett stared at you like he wanted to say more and knew he shouldn’t. Logan looked like somebody had knocked the air out of him entirely. You suddenly felt sick standing in Logan’s jersey.
Like your own skin didn’t fit correctly anymore. “Get out,” you whispered. Garrett hesitated.
“Get out!”
The shout echoed off the walls.
Something ugly flashed across Garrett’s face then, anger winning over reason for one disastrous second. He slammed his fist into the hallway wall hard enough to shake the framed picture hanging beside your bedroom door.
The sound cracked through you instantly. You flinched before you could stop yourself. Tears burned your eyes immediately afterward, humiliation following close behind them. Because Garrett saw it. You knew he saw it.
Garrett looked horrified for exactly half a heartbeat. Then he walked out. The bedroom door stayed open behind him. Silence swallowed the room again.
Logan moved first, slowly and carefully, as if approaching a wounded animal. “Baby—” You stepped backward immediately.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, shaking your head before he could touch you. “Just please get out.”
He stopped a few feet away from you, chest still rising hard from everything that had just happened. His eyes flickered over your face quickly, like he was trying to figure out which version of this situation he was standing in now.
The girl he’d been kissing five minutes ago.
Or this one.
The one standing barefoot in the middle of her bedroom looking like the floor had dropped out from beneath her.
“Baby,” he said carefully, voice quieter than you had ever heard it. “Please just let me—”
“Get out!” Your breathing shook. Logan froze completely.
Heat crawled viciously up your throat. You suddenly couldn’t stand the feeling of the jersey against your skin anymore. Couldn’t stand standing there wrapped in something that belonged to him while he looked at you like that.
Before you could stop yourself, your fingers hooked beneath the hem of the oversized Briar jersey and yanked it harshly over your head.
Logan’s eyes widened instantly.
The cold air hit your skin all at once, leaving you standing there in nothing but your bra and underwear, chest heaving unevenly.
For one horrible second, nobody moved. Then you threw the jersey at him.
The fabric smacked against his chest before falling halfway down his arm, and Logan caught it automatically out of reflex more than anything else.
The expression on his face wrecked something inside you further. He was in complete and utter shock. Not because you were half-dressed, he’d seen you in less before.
Shock because he understood what you were doing.
Your eyes burned. “Take it,” you snapped, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “Take your shit and just go.”
“Baby—”
“No!”
Your gaze caught on the hockey bag sitting at the foot of your bed. Still sitting exactly where he'd dropped it after practice because he had come straight here. Like this room had become home to him too.
The thought made something sharp twist painfully in your chest. Before you could think better of it, you grabbed the strap and hurled the bag toward him. It hit the floor beside his feet heavily with a dull thud, one skate shifting loudly inside the bag from the force.
Logan stared at it for half a second.
Then at you.
You hated how careful he looked now, how cautious. That look was exactly what you had spent your entire relationship terrified of.
Your throat tightened painfully. “Please,” you whispered this time, weaker now. “Just leave.”
Something else flickered across his face but it wasn't pity like you expected. God, somehow that would have been easier, you think.
It was the look of pure heartbreak. Which was way way worse. Logan swallowed hard once before bending slowly to pick up his bag. He gathered the jersey after it, fingers tightening around the crumpled fabric for a brief second.
At the bathroom door, he hesitated but you couldn’t look at him anymore so you kept your gaze on the floor.
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and then, there was steve harrington - rewrite series masterlist
steve harrington x fem!henderson!reader
status: ONGOING
last update: 24 April ‘26
summary: being dustin henderson’s older sister means one thing: steve harrington is always around.
he’s arrogant, annoying, and way too comfortable in your life.
you’re stubborn, impossible, and not impressed by his former “king steve” reputation.
but between dustin’s matchmaking, demogorgon crises, and being constantly thrown together, hatred starts to feel a little too close to something else.
warnings: slow slow slow burn, enemies to lovers, smut much further down the track, cursing, canon-typical violence, angst (will add more warnings when necessary)
note: hey y'alllll - so my the thing we grow into series will be over soon (so sad lol), but as I said a week ago, I want to write another series rewrite. so!! this was the series you all voted for in my poll! due to start on the 17th of April <3 about a week after my other series ends.
He’s in way too deep now to back down.
“Yeah, I know.” Steve directs his path towards the tower’s electricity shed, pretending it had been his plan the entire time. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You sure?” You call out, annoyance clear in your voice.
Steve ducks his head and continues walking. He knows it’s best not to keep engaging with you. You’re already pissed off at him as it is.
Summary: youve really enjoyed running away from your feelings, dustin is a pain in the ass but also so is steve, youre a part of a radio show for some reason, robin endorses polyamory, and you seriously consider jumping out of a moving vehicle because of idiotic men (typical).
Rating: general, some swearing
Warnings: swearing, fem!reader, use of y/n, trauma lol
Words: 11.4k
Before you swing in: well ,,,, this is it. the final season !!!! i apologize for the delay, i work full time and have been extremely busy but i am alive !!! heres the first chapter, i hope yall enjoy and excuse the probable typos as this wasnt proof read </3
–
November 3rd, 1987.
The rush of blood pounds against your ears, deafening the silence in your head. With every uneven breath, your heartbeat steadies itself. Inside your lungs resides the cold sting of the air, reminding your body of the hill still ahead of you.
You stare at it, hunched over your knees as you struggle to return the much needed air into your lungs. The steep hill of a road has long since been worn down due to use. Its concrete cracked and freckled with debris. Your mother once told you it was the oldest road in Hawkins. The unimportant fact was once the only thing you knew about the road.
Then one November night Will rode his bike down this very hill, before disappearing, changing everything you once knew.
You stare at the stretch of road before you. Every morning you run the same path over and over again. Around Lover’s Lake, through the woods, past the Byers’ old home, before finally coming to the hill. Its steep surface always taunts you.
It knows the reason why you run. It’s embedded with the remnants of the nightmares from the night before.
Running has become all you have left to burn off the exhaustion that follows.
Your legs scream at you to rest. The lactic acid within them burns, but you’ve grown used to the sensation. Struggling to catch your breath, your fingers dig into your knees and your head falls. The lack of sleep snaps every muscle in your body.
Yet you force your legs to push off the concrete, running as hard as you physically can. You have to finish the hill. You have to keep running. It’s the only thing that drives out the screaming within your head.
“Y/N!”
Your mother’s voice causes you to trip. The landing isn’t graceful by any means. You scrape your knees, cutting the inside of your palms and fingertips.
“Oh, sorry, sweetie!” Your mother shouts from the car, parking herself next to you. You hadn’t even heard her driving so closely to you. “Though, I do feel that I need to remind you that this is exactly why I hate you running in the road. There are plenty of perfectly good sidewalks all around Hawkins.”
“Thanks for the concern, mom,” you mumble, slowly wiping your hands off on your leggings as you evaluate whether or not you can stand. The blood that spills from your knees makes you wince. They’ll be a bitch to heal. Sighing, you look up at your mother, “What do you need?”
She sticks her head out of her window even further, doing her best to make eye contact with you from the awkward angle. She flashes you an apologetic smile that you don’t trust. “Well, my sweet girl, I need your help.”
Immediately you know what she wants you to do. “No.”
Your mother pinches her cheeks. “Y/N, dear, I really need to get to work and I’ve already tried–”
“I’m not waking him up.”
“He’s your brother.”
“And he’s your son.”
“Y/N,” your mother’s usually patient and sweet voice turns fatigued. “Please.”
Sympathy floods through you. You know she’s had yet another unpleasant morning trying to wake your brother up for school. Dropping your head, you stare down at the ground. “Fine.”
“Thank you, sweetie.” Relief floods your mother’s voice. She then puts on her sunglasses, fixes her hair, and honks a friendly goodbye as she leaves. Before rolling up her window she shouts, “and please don’t get hit by any cars! Have a great day!”
Claudia Henderson speeds away in her car, leaving you to deal with Dustin all on your own.
As usual.
The walk back down the hill serves as a small grace period before the inevitable storm. You dread what will come when you walk through your front door and into Dustin’s room.
You used to love waking him up for school. You’d have pancakes ready for him on the table by the time he finished getting dressed.
Now you stand before Dustin’s bedroom door, hesitant to even breathe too deeply in case he hears you.
Fist hovering over the door, you brace yourself for impact. You knock gently the first few times, hoping the tenderness of the knocks will convince Dustin to finally let you in. “Dustin, you awake in there?”
But all that can be heard on the other side is silence.
You’ve come to expect Dustin’s silence.
Frustrated, with little patience left for the silence, you straighten your shoulders and start pounding on the door. Your fists turn red at the harshness, but you don’t care. The sting in your knuckles gets lost in the insistence that maybe today Dustin will open the door for you. You don’t care whether he gives in due to annoyance or to something else.
All you want is for your brother to let you in again.
“C’mon, Dustin,” you call through the door, voice edging on irritation. “It’s time to get up. You know mom doesn’t want you missing any more school.”
No response.
Your palm slams against the door. “Dustin!”
Yet it all amounts to nothing.
Exhausted from more than just your run, you press your head against the door and softly say, “I love you, you know.”
Silence echoes back at you.
Forcing down the tears that threaten to spill over, you close your eyes. “I’ll wait as long as you need me to for you to come back.”
It’s what you did for me.
Though it goes unspoken, you know that Dustin hears it.
“Come back, please.” Your fingers trace the ridges in the wood of the door. Faint, worn initials are carved into it, down near the hinges: D.H. He used to be such a lively, excited kid.
Grief took him away.
“I miss you.” You exhale softly, before pressing one final kiss against the door that your brother refuses to open. Swallowing down the grief, you know that you’ve done all you can. At least for now. “Have a good day at school, Dust.”
From the kitchen rings the telephone. You glance at the watch on your wrist, though you already know the time. Steve always calls just before he leaves his house to come pick you up. An old, familiar routine.
Though your fingers linger on Dustin’s door. Steve will be expecting you to answer any second, but you can’t bear to leave your brother just yet. But his room remains silent and you know that it’s useless pulling a response from him.
“Hi, angel.”
Steve’s voice is honey. It soothes the wounds in your skin, grazing over the cuts on your knees and the scrapes on your hands. Honey. An old remedy for childhood aches.
“Hi, honey.” Your finger twirls around the phone’s cord. Another familiar routine.
“You guys all set for me to be at yours in fifteen?”
You look at Dustin’s door one last time, biting your lip. It remains silent. Dustin won’t be ready in time for Steve to drive him to school. “It’ll just be me, actually.”
“Oh. Interesting.” Steve clicks his tongue. “That’s the sixth time in two weeks, angel.”
“Yeah.” Your eyes close. “Thanks for the reminder.”
Steve winces. “Sorry, I know it’s been hard–”
“I should get ready.” You interrupt your boyfriend, though not unkindly. The conversation just makes you miserable and you still need to shower. “I’ll see you soon. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Steve mumbles softly. There’s more he wants to say, but he knows that now just isn’t the time.
The line disconnects. You don’t have any time to ruminate over the morning’s events as you quickly get ready. You’d hate to keep Steve waiting. Not when your skin buzzes at the idea of being near to him after a night apart.
True to his word, Steve arrives in your driveway soon after. He beams at you through the windshield, winking playfully as he parks the car and gets out, eager to open the passenger door for you because he knows it makes you laugh.
But as you giggle over how ridiculous Steve looks, sprinting over before you can beat him to the car’s door, movement behind the front porch catches your eye. You stop, squinting to figure out what lies behind the brustle, only to catch Dustin trying, and failing, to sneak off on his bike before either you or Steve spot him.
At first you’re stunned, and relieved, he’s even awake and heading to school.
Then you see that he’s wearing Eddie’s old Hellfire Club shirt and immediately you’re pissed off that your brother could be so stupid and infuriating.
Dustin Henderson’s specialty.
“Dustin!” You shout after him. You must not mask your anger very well given the fact that the kid nearly topples over on his bike. Worried you’ll only upset him further, you quickly run after him. “Wait, no. I’m not angry, I-I just wanted you to hitch a ride with me and Steve!”
“Fat chance.” Dustin shouts over his shoulder, already beginning to pedal away. “No way in hell I’m third wheeling with you and Harrington for the millionth time.”
“But–”
“Bye, Y/N.” And then Dustin is gone.
You stand in the driveway, watching him disappear down the hill. At least he’s going towards the high school rather than away.
How depressing it must be that your once prodigious brother now having a dwindling attendance record makes you grateful.
“Is your brother seriously wearing that Hellfire shirt?” Steve scoffs next to you, squinting at the sun.
“It’s been a rough morning.”
“Aren’t they always rough?”
You pinch the bridge of your nose, harshly squeezing your eyes shut as if that will somehow dim the sun and diminish your growing resentment. “Not now, Steve.”
“Listen, all I’m saying is–”
“Get in the car before I leave you.”
“What?” Steve whips around to face you, baffled. “I’m the one who drove here, how could you even–”
“You have five more seconds to get in the car before you find out exactly how I’ll leave you behind.”
He drops his head, slowly walking back to the car, though not without mumbling under his breath, “have fun opening your own car door.”
You smile. “I heard you.”
“Didn’t intend for you not to.”
“Start the car, smartass.”
“Yes, dear.”
–
When you first heard of New York University, you’d been twelve. Jonathan had tugged you through the woods, swatting away bugs before they could get to you. It had been the early stages of your first summer in Hawkins.
He dragged you through the thick leaves and tall grass and brought you to a giant field that slowly ascended into a hilltop. Embedded in its weeds were beautiful yellow dandelions and their white seeds.
Jonathan, long past his shyness around you, tackled you to the ground and laughed over your surprised squeals. He had made sure that your head would land on hand, safe, soft. He’s always been soft with you.
It was that day that Jonathan confessed to you that he’d always wanted to attend NYU. Showcase his photography, something he picked up earlier that winter. He asked whether you’d thought about college yet, where you wanted to go.
Truthfully, you hadn’t ever thought about your future.
But then Jonathan had smiled at you, plucking a dandelion seed out of your hair as he did so, and you knew then that you’d never be able to leave him. His dream became yours, though in the end it was only yours to have.
Until Hawkins fell under quarantine and any chance of escaping its nightmares became a dream in itself.
You would’ve been a sophomore at NYU by now, had you stopped Vecna.
Except you didn’t.
Instead, Max lies in a coma while you sit in a formerly abandoned radio station amongst everyone else suffering the consequences of that bastard’s victory.
“Count me in, pretty girl.” Robin’s gentle voice breaks you out of your spell. She looks at you expectantly, though with a fondness that makes you ache.
You’d gotten lost in your own thoughts. Again.
“Right, sorry.” You clear your throat, ignoring Steve’s concerned eyes as you straighten in your seat. Fingers hovering over the radio’s control panel, you adjust your headphones and give Robin a thumbs up. “You’re live in three… two…”
You mouth the final number before pointing both fingers at Robin, her designated signal that the show has begun, and she smiles wide.
“Good morning, Hawkins!” She greets enthusiastically. “This is WSQK The Squawk.”
Quickly you flash a notebook page at Steve, which simply has the words chicken! now! scrawled on it. He salutes you and rushes to punch the poor rubber chicken wired to a mic. It’s a job he takes very seriously.
When Robin first started her show, she was in charge of both directing Steve’s sound cues and hosting. A daunting task, but she managed to make it work.
Then Steve accidentally cued up an applause track for someone’s funeral announcement rather than the mournful piano Robin had originally wanted.
After that she dropped the cue job onto you, all but forcing you to join the production. While you protested and tried to get out of it, secretly you were relieved to have something to do in the mornings to distract yourself.
It also helps that the sound booth is so small that you have to practically sit in Steve’s lap in between cues and that he always kisses the base of your neck in an attempt to get you to break out into giggles that the entire town will hear.
Robin hates it.
It’s her fault for forcing you into the job.
“It’s my 500th broadcast,” Robin spins around in her chair after having made her usual announcements regarding the weather and cues up a celebratory song while you motion to Steve for applause. “Yeah, you heard that right, folks. Five-double-O!”
The cheesy audience applause plays over the broadcast and you can’t help but laugh. Who knew Robin Buckley would one day terrorize the town with 500 days worth of broadcasts in the midst of a military coup?
Robin goes into the monologue she’s been writing all week full of not so subtle jabs at all Hawkins has been through this year and the unrealistic regulations you’ve been forced to endure since then.
“And now, I’m stuck here with you, my fellow quarantine compatriots.” Robin says, snickering when you salute at her like the diligent soldier Hawkins expects you to be. “And, if I can be brutally honest, I couldn’t be happier. Because when you really think about it, why would you want to live anywhere else?”
You cue to Steve for a booing crowd, but Robin sees and reaches over to tear the page out.
Absolutely not, she mouths at you, eyebrows furrowed.
Lame, you mouth back.
Steve watches the interaction in amusement, deciding to resolve the issue with a sliding whistle he found the other day. Its unexpectedly pathetic sound distracts you long enough for Robin to continue her spiel.
The traitor took her side.
With a sigh, you walk over to Steve and help him find the rest of the tracks needed for the broadcast. The two of you work fluidly together, always anticipating the other’s needs and moving just where needed. He hands you a freshly brewed cup of coffee after a sickly cough tape plays and you couldn’t be more grateful for him as the liquid warms your ever cold hands.
You’re quiet for the rest of Robin’s broadcast, content simply handing Steve the necessary tapes and ordering him around via cues.
“And go on that date! Which, by the way, is exactly what yours truly is doing tonight.”
A loud, shocked gasp slips from your lips before you can stop it. Embarrassed, you clamp your hands over your mouth and pray that it escaped Robin’s notice.
You should know better by now.
Hearing your shock, Robin spins in her chair and grabs her chest, feigning pain. “Did you hear that cute little gasp, folks? It seems that Hawkins’ sweetheart is surprised that I have my own sweetheart. Or, maybe…” she leans in close to you now, wiggling her eyebrows at your horror of being publicly denounced, “she’s just jealous that she isn’t the only person in town who gets serenaded via broadcast.”
Steve just barely suppresses his laughter with a cough, which only mortifies you more. Pinching his side, you harshly whisper at Robin, “I’m not jealous! I just didn’t think you’d announce your relationship so openly!”
“Regardless,” Robin ignores your frantic explanation and cues up her next song. “This one’s for you, babe.”
Some new song plays, but you don’t hear it over your struggle against Steve’s hands around your waist preventing you from jumping over the tape player and tugging Robin’s headphones off in retaliation.
“Let go of me!” You whisper as loud as you dare, trying to twist out of Steve’s grasp.
“Not worth it, angel,” he sighs into your ear. “I’ll help you sneak coffee grounds into her shoes after this but–”
Suddenly the broadcast begins cutting in and out. Static leaks into the audio as you and Steve look at each other in alarm. Then, at the same time, you both run to the control panel, hitting every button you can think of in a vain attempt to fix whatever has gone wrong.
Probably not the most efficient method, but the two of you have never been the best under pressure together.
“What the hell?” Robin shouts, watching you and Steve running around like headless chickens. “What did you guys do?”
“Nothing!” You both exclaim in unison, just before the broadcast completely shuts off.
“Oh,” you wince. “That can’t be good.”
Robin tears off her headphones. “Shit!”
She runs out of the sound booth with you and Steve close behind. Irritation and disappointment radiates off of her skin while remorse coats yours. You can’t imagine how excited Robin had been to play her song for Vickie.
“I told you to stop thumbing your nose at the military.” Steve berates as Robin scours the station for any sign of technical issues that can quickly be resolved.
“You really think the military did this?” You ask, scrunching your nose. “I mean, Robin wasn’t as snarky as she could’ve been. I thought it was relatively tame.”
“Thank you, pretty girl.” Robin slams her hand against one of the station’s panels. “Seriously, I was just reiterating their goddamn rules, encouraging compliance!”
Steve sighs. “Right. No sarcasm there.”
“Says the dingus with the rubber chicken.”
“These are very serious people, Robin.”
“They’re morons, not ‘serious people’.” You scoff, but when you see the panic growing in Robin’s eyes, you tuck your hair behind your ears and exhale slowly. There’s only one person you know who’ll be of any use. “Listen, I’ll radio Dustin and see what he thinks.”
Robin doesn’t acknowledge what you’ve said, focused on turning some random dial she’s found over and over again without any luck.
It’s Steve who hears you, and he’s the one who grabs the walkie before you can.
“You sure you want to call the kid right now?” He asks you, holding the device over your head. “I mean, no offense, but do you really think he’ll answer after the psychological warfare I witnessed this morning?”
“He’s my brother,” the excuse has become an old friend on your tongue. You’ve repeated it every day, every time, for months now. “We have to at least try before Robin loses her mind.”
Steve wants to argue further, but Robin’s voice starts to raise and you both know she’s five seconds away from a breakdown. Reluctant, he grabs the nearest walkie and extends its antenna. “Henderson, you copy?”
You hold your breath at the silence that follows. Steve looks at you, shaking his head slightly when still no response comes. Growing anxious at the silence, you grab the walkie from him. “Dustin? Can you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you.” He sounds tired, edging on the annoyance you’ve become familiar with.
Yet hearing Dustin’s voice, regardless of the displeasure that intertwines within his cadence that stings your skin, causes you to exhale in relief.
“Hey, buddy. Listen, we’re having some trouble with the tower.”
“Took you long enough.” Steve snatches the walkie from you, frustration cutting through the room.
“God, you sound swell.” You can practically hear Dustin rolling his eyes at Steve’s impatience. Something you find yourself doing as well. “Let me take a wild guess, you and my sister aren’t calling to wish me a good morning.”
“You’re the one who refused to ride with us,” you snatch the walkie back from Steve, now annoyed with both of the boys. “And I know you heard me standing outside your door this morning.”
“Are you seriously calling just to berate me? Jesus, can’t you just–”
Steve cuts in before Dustin ever growing resentment spikes. “Alright, we really don’t have time for this seeing as how we’ve got a situation down here at the Squawk. The signal’s gone all wonky.”
“I was getting there,” you say through gritted teeth, glaring at your boyfriend. He takes a cautious step back. A wise choice. Exhaling the last of your frustration, you continue. “But Steve’s right. We think Robin finally pissed off the higher ups.”
“Doubtful. She was encouraging compliance.”
“Told you!” Robin shouts, which Steve waves an annoyed hand at.
Biting back a smile, you press for more. “That’s what I figured, but the broadcast suddenly went out and we can’t get the signal back. Any ideas?”
“Check the remote radio head.” Dustin suggests. Faintly you can hear a mixture of voices behind him. He must’ve just arrived at the school.
Steve crosses his arms. “What the hell is a radio head?”
“Remote radio head,” your brother sighs tiredly. “Just read the manual, guys.”
To be completely honest, you had no idea that the radio tower came with an instruction manual.
“Sure, we could read it, but…” You pause, trying to find the right words. “You know I’m pretty horrible with AV stuff. Maybe you could walk us through the more complicated parts? Help us with the terminology?”
Selfishly, you just want to hear your brother’s voice for a little while longer. Even if all he does is give curt, short responses.
You miss him.
“Find a dictionary and learn the terminology yourself.” Dustin huffs into the walkie. You flinch at the tone. “I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.”
Steve bristles next to you.
You try to still the slight tremor of your hands.
Despite how many times Dustin has rejected you, you don’t think you’ll ever get used to how deeply the sting cuts into your pulse.
“But what if I always want you to be there?” You hate how small your voice sounds. How, even with how hard you try for it not to, the waver in your vocal chords reveals the hurt.
A beat of silence passes. Dustin doesn’t say anything.
Instead the walkie shuts off.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Steve runs an angry hand through his hair. “Does he seriously have to ignore you every time you try to reach out to him?”
He throws the walkie onto the couch and paces the room. “It’s his tone. It’s always his goddamn tone!”
Robin turns to you, eyes weary as Steve continues to pace around the room and mumble angrily to himself. She silently asks what you want to do, but you just shake your head.
You’re familiar with Steve’s anger directed towards your brother.
You despise it.
“I don’t know how you aren’t sick of it by now, Y/N.” Steve laughs humorlessly. “I sure as hell am.”
And there it is. The insistence that you be in the middle of Steve and Dustin constantly arguing. As if you aren’t already dangerously close to losing your little brother in his grief. As if you want to constantly be begging for Steve’s understanding and Dustin’s vulnerability.
But as Steve tugs at his hair and continues to talk a mile a minute about how much your brother pisses him off, you just choose to bite your tongue. Like you always seem to do these days.
“We should look for the manual.” You say instead, needing something to distract yourself with.
Steve’s footsteps falter, having not expected you to move on from Dustin’s dismissal so quickly, but Robin seems to sense what he can’t and nods eagerly. “I couldn’t agree more!”
Before Steve can say anything else, Robin takes your arm and drags you away from him, the two of you giggling at Steve’s almost immediate protests.
It’s enough to distract you. If even for a little while.
–
Finding the instruction manual turns out to be a shockingly difficult task.
With how large the radio station’s infrastructure is, trying to find some ancient document is like trying to find a needle in the haystack.
“I swear to God this stupid thing does not exist.” Robin slams yet another filing cabinet closed. Seems her search through the office hadn’t gone well.
“It fucking better exist.” You roll your shoulders in an attempt to lessen the tension within your spine from crouching over a rack of files. “This really isn’t a pleasant experience.”
Jonathan snorts next to you. He’d shown up alongside Nancy just as you, Steve, and Robin started scouring the tower for the alleged manual. While Nancy chose to search through the bookshelf, Jonathan announced that he would search alongside you.
Something that Steve narrows his eyes at.
You choose to pretend that you don’t notice.
“Can you try Dustin again, bug?” Jonathan asks after rifling through the fifth file without any luck.
“He turned off his walkie!” Robin answers for you, rushing over to search through yet another pile of boxes.
“What’s been up with him lately?” Your head falls against the wall at Nancy’s question. Hearing your defeat, she hums to herself. “Noted.”
Eventually Nancy manages to find the manual, which ends up being a giant binder held together with a rather concerning amount of paperclips and tape. She holds it up gleefully and beckons everyone over to a table, dropping the thing down.
You all crowd around Nancy as she quickly flips through the pages, searching for anything that even remotely resembles what Dustin had been talking about.
“Wait, there it is,” Steve reaches over to point at a figure, inadvertently placing the majority of his body against Nancy’s as their hands graze. She tenses at the touch. “There it is. Remote radio head.”
It takes Nancy a second to respond. You watch as she swallows nervously, obviously uncomfortable with how close Steve has become. A thick, dark cloud of uncertain tension ebbs off them, and an unpleasant taste sours your mouth.
The taste only bitters more when you notice the way Jonathan’s disdainful eyes linger on Steve.
He knows just as well as you do why Nancy shifts away from your boyfriend. While you trust Steve more than anything, Jonathan doesn’t.
The small, innocent touch will be yet another rift between Nancy and Jonathan. It will become yet another thing you have to pretend you don’t notice. Something you can’t talk about. Not with anyone.
Steve hasn’t quite forgiven Jonathan for the phone call.
Do you ever wonder if we’ve made a mistake?
And Jonathan hasn’t quite forgiven Steve for falling in love with you.
I’ll always love you the most, bug.
Lost in your thoughts, you miss Robin asking how to find the remote radio head and Nancy’s terrifying, yet genius mind coming up with the solution: the radio tower itself.
–
Immediately you hate the plan.
You’ve never stepped foot anywhere close to the radio tower due to its unnatural size and the unease it brings you.
As you stand before the tower alongside the others, squinting against the harsh sunlight and height, you’re reminded yet again of how much you loathe the ideas Nancy comes up with.
“It’s up there somewhere,” she says, squinting at the sun as well. “It’s gotta be.”
“Are we going based on fact or a hunch?” You ask. “Because as much as I adore you, I’m getting nauseous just looking at this thing.”
Robin pokes your side. “Scared of heights, pretty girl?”
“As if you would climb up there.”
“Oh, absolutely not.” Robin laughs, looking around at everyone else. “But, that does beg the question of who will climb to the tippy top of this bad boy.”
Nancy studies the tower, unsure. “Without a harness or anything, it does seem kind of dangerous.”
You choke back a scoff. “Kind of dangerous? C’mon, Wheeler. It’s a death trap.”
“Sounds like a job for me.”
Immediately you grab the back of Steve’s jacket and yank him to your side. “I’ll kill you.”
“Sounds pretty death trap-y to me.” He smirks at you, grabbing the hand that holds him back to kiss the inside of your wrist. He caresses the skin tenderly, amused by your reaction. “Relax, angel.”
In all honesty, he doesn’t actually want to climb the tower. Steve only volunteered because he thinks you’re adorable when you fret over him. He’s about to say as much when Jonathan suddenly steps forward and puffs his chest.
“I actually think this might be a better job for me.”
What little rationality that Steve has quickly gets forgotten when Jonathan opens his mouth.
“I got this Byers,” Steve throws his jacket off and slams it against the other’s chest. A small rush of satisfaction courses through him when Jonathan grimaces at the force. “Don’t sweat it.”
“Steve Harrington.” His name barrels through your gritted teeth. You know that he’s only trying to show off for you. “Don’t you dare.”
Hearing the finality in your voice is almost enough to get Steve to back down. But then Jonathan starts taking his jacket off as well and walks towards the tower and Steve really does wish he knew how to not make stupid decisions based around his pride.
“I’ll be fine, angel.” He calls over his shoulder, unable to turn fully to look at you in fear that your beauty will break him. “Don’t worry.”
“Don’t forget about the voltage, dingus.” Robin shouts at him. “Unless you want to fry.”
Embarrassment washes over Steve. He can feel your eyes burning into his back and how eagerly you want to scream “I told you so”.
He’s in way too deep now to back down.
“Yeah, I know.” Steve directs his path towards the tower’s electricity shed, pretending it had been his plan the entire time. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You sure?” You call out, annoyance clear in your voice.
Steve ducks his head and continues walking. He knows it’s best not to keep engaging with you. You’re already pissed off at him as it is.
Finding the necessary dial to shut off the tower’s power surge, he turns it all the way to the left until the faint electric hum shuts off. One step down. Pleased with himself, Steve exits the shed and is about to brag before he sees Jonathan dangling off the tower’s ladder like a fucking idiot.
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I got this, dude.” Jonathan’s smug face pisses Steve off even more. “Don’t sweat it.”
And the race is on.
Steve runs towards the tower’s ladder and throws himself up, climbing as fast as he physically can to make up for Jonathan’s head start.
You watch from the ground, not even bothering to try and stop what’s happening. It’s embarrassingly immature. While you understand Steve’s feelings towards Jonathan, you hate how he feeds into them. Anyone can see how fragile Jonathan’s relationship with both you and Nancy has become, and everyone knows that you’ll always be Steve’s.
Yet instead of having a conversation about it, or even allowing himself to be the bigger person, Steve feeds into Jonathan’s insecurity like he’s chasing after the high.
Nancy turns away in disgust as Jonathan and Steve race to the top of the tower, and her sigh echoes your own disappointment.
“How committed are the four of you to monogamy?” Robin throws her around you and Nancy, squeezing the two of you together with a glint in her eyes.
You shove her away. “Please stop talking, Robin.”
She pinches your cheek as she grins wickedly, far too amused with the situation. “Aw, c’mon, I’m sure there’s plenty of room for more in your relationship–”
The rev of an engine cuts Robin off, its harsh sound loudly announcing Murray’s arrival. He waves excitedly from his giant cargo truck and for once in your life you’re relieved to see the bastard.
“I thought the next delivery was scheduled for tomorrow?” You tilt your head in confusion.
Nancy’s eyes draw together. Concern sketches her features. “Me, too.”
Your teeth scrape over your lips. While you’re grateful Murray’s arrival has given you an excuse to turn away from your idiotic boyfriend and best friend, you know that Murray’s early delivery can’t mean anything good.
Something is about to happen. You’re sure of it.
Murray waits for you down the hill. He rubs his hands together in anticipation, eager to show what he’s smuggled in this time.
“Ladies, hello!” He cackles in glee, yellow teeth and all. “Always a pleasure to see your beautiful faces.”
You don’t bother to mask your disgust. “Yeah. Right back at ya.”
“Santa’s brought a full sack today.” Murray ignores your indifference and opens the truck’s backdoor in a flourish. He grabs a large sack of supplies and throws it onto the ground before you. “A fresh telemetry bag. Scarcer than hen’s teeth, these things.”
He hands you the box and you carefully inspect the thing. “This is what Dustin wanted, right?”
“Correct, little miss. His requests are always the most annoying things on God’s green earth to find.” The disdain in Murray’s voice pleases you. He then turns to Nancy and hands her two large metal containers. “As for you, here are enough bullets and shells for Hop to start a small war, if he so chooses.”
Nancy accepts the containers with a small nod.
“And did someone order a salad?” Murray holds up what you sincerely hope isn’t a grenade, but when he smiles wide with a crazed look in his eyes, you know it can only be a lethal weapon he’s playing with in his hands. “A grenade salad. Ha! Get it? I hid the grenades under the lettuce, and–”
“Is there anything else?” You interject, long fed up with the man’s horrible jokes and monologues.
Murray glares at you. “You know, I work really hard to provide for your needs. A little respect wouldn’t hurt.”
You shrug. “I think I’ll pass.”
Robin snickers behind you and Nancy covers her mouth, hiding a pleased smile. Knowing he’s outnumbered, Murray purses his mouth and finishes his haul. “I also brought Gatorade for El’s battery, in case anyone was wondering.”
“God, please toss me one,” Steve slides next to you, severely out of breath and apparently alive with Jonathan, who doesn’t look any better. “I’m dying here.”
Murray happily complies, tossing the Gatorade bottle in the air, not anticipating that you’d intercept it and take the drink for yourself. “Thanks, Bauman.”
“What the hell, Y/N?” Steve exclaims, choking on his own shock and eliciting several dry, overexhausted coughs after you elbow him in the ribs. “Fuck!”
“On a tight leash, Harrington?” Murray clicks his tongue, smug.
Unscrewing the cap off the bottle, you flick the small piece of metal at the guy’s head. “Aren’t you a grown man?”
Murray steps closer to you, eyes seething and on the brink of losing all composure. “Alright, listen here, you little shit–”
“Is there anything else?” Nancy clears her throat expectantly. While she understands your prolonged annoyance for Murray, she wishes you’d piss him off after he’s delivered everything, rather than during. “We were kind of in the middle of something.”
The man inhales sharply for a moment, clenching his jaw as if to steady himself. You watch the overdramatic show of patience in obvious amusement. “Yeah, anything else, Bauman?”
“No,” Murray spits out venomously. “At least, not for you.” He turns back to his truck and fishes out an old cassette tape and dangles it in Jonathan’s face. “As for you, Mr. Byers, I know you’re allergic to jazz, but just a whirl. You might find it rather engaging.”
He then proceeds to use his entire face to wink at Jonathan, laughing to himself over a joke none of you seem to understand. Jonathan quickly snatches the tape from Murray and shoves it into his pocket, face red in embarrassment.
Jonathan’s reaction unsettles something within your chest. The strings snap together in a brutal crescendo, pricking your skin as the lines break apart inside your ribcage. Jonathan keeps his eyes down, low enough that you can’t look into them.
You dislike the way Murray presented the cassette tape. The words he used.
But it all gets forgotten when the man hits Nancy’s head with an envelope of papers. “And for the station manager, the reason for my premature delivery.”
She snatches the envelope and fingers through its contents without hesitation. You all crowd around her, silent. You’ve become familiar with the envelopes and what they bring.
The crack in your left ribcage seeps open.
Dread creeps in.
“A burn? Tonight?” Nancy asks, shaking her head. “But it’s–”
“Too soon. I know.” Murray’s normally overzealous nature falters. Even he can’t mask the worry. “Whatever they’re doing in the Upside Down evidently needs a serious injection of resources.”
Nancy flips through the pages of the leaked document. All crowded with numbers and orders, you’ve lost count of how many correspondences you’ve read through by now. They blur together, yet even as the numbers become harder to decipher due to how quickly Nancy rifles through them, you know why Murray came when he did.
“They’re requesting more supplies than they normally do,” you peer over Nancy’s shoulder, face twisting in concern. “The supply drop could take hours.”
Murray shrugs. “Two, at the minimum.”
“Which gives Hopper plenty of time for a crawl.” The rough timbre of Nancy’s voice reveals more than her words do.
The dread seeps into your lungs. Thick like molasses, you know there isn’t any use trying to escape it.
“Maybe tonight’s the night we finally find that bastard and end this.”
Murray’s words hang in the air.
End this.
But will it ever really end?
You’ve long stopped believing in miracles or that retribution can exist alongside the cruelty that predates it.
Except Nancy’s hands remain steady, without any tremor, still somehow always firm in her belief that one day Vecna’s blood will finally cease the nightmares.
You wish you had her faith.
But for now, all you can do is prepare for yet another crawl.
–
The beginning is always the same.
Nancy’s quick eyes skim through the document’s pages as instructs you to write down every piece of information she deems relevant to the crawl. What time it will begin, how many men will be sent, which route they’ll take.
Once completed, the two of you then pour over the details and try to piece them into a jigsaw code of a puzzle only few will understand.
Steve adds in pieces of his own humor in an attempt to mask the code even further, while Jonathan selects the music that will play and alert the rest of the party to be ready.
Then all Robin has to do is go on air as Rockin’ Robin with her script in hand and deliver the code while you and the others sit quietly behind her, bracing for what’s to come.
The beginning has always been the easiest.
In the midst of creating ciphers and analyzing complex military documents, you can usually convince yourself that maybe this time it’ll be different. Maybe this time the crawl will amount to anything other than disappointment and frustration.
But then you’re perpetually reminded that you will never get what you want.
Nancy always insists that she have you, Robin, Steve, and Jonathan go over what you’ve found in the documents together in the radio station’s basement with nothing but a projector to light the room.
Though you understand why she remains adamant about going over the details and plan, it's become the thing you hate most about the crawls. Being stuck in the dark, rotting basement going over the same gridlines of Hawkins that you memorized well over a year ago as Nancy recites the same plan she always does creates a misery you never thought possible.
“If Murray’s intel is correct, the supply convoy is set to reach Hawkins at 10:00 sharp. Meaning I want Hopper in the tunnels and en route to MAC-Z no later than 9:00.” Nancy motions to the military base on the gridmap with a pointer Robin jokingly got her months ago that she still hasn’t thrown away.
Nancy conveys so much confidence as she speaks. It’s a shame it centers around a topic you really, really hate.
“Barring any delays, I expect that the convoy will reach MAC-Z by about 10:15.”
“And the crawl begins." You finish for Nancy with a sigh.
Her pointer now aims at you. “Exactly, meaning Hop will be going a gentle 30 miles per hour while you, Dustin, and Steve do your best to keep up with his telemetry tag’s signal.”
“I’ll blow through any red lights we come across so we stay within range.” Steve nods to himself, satisfied with his own plan that he spoke with no one else about. A terrible plan, at that.
Your foot kicks the edge of his chair fondly, getting his attention. “And that’s why I’ll be the one driving.”
“Oh, in your dreams, angel.” He sticks his tongue out at you childishly, leaning back in his chair so his hair splays across your lap. “My car’s too pretty for you to drive.”
“More importantly,” the slight rise in Nancy’s voice is enough to snap Steve’s chair back to the ground, forcing his attention back to her. “We’ll lose Hopper if you get pulled over,” she then looks pointedly at you, “Regardless of who’s driving.”
Steve waves his hands up in surrender, knowing better than to argue with the girl. You simply place your chin in your hand, bored. Beneath the table you sit at hides your clenched fists. “Carry on, Wheeler.”
She purses her lips and exhales curtly before continuing. “As I was saying, Hop will have two whole hours to search for Vecna, which is ample time. He’s cleared zones faster, meaning all signs point to yet another successful crawl.”
Successful.
“An interesting word choice.” The molten dread within your chest solidifies to bitterness, and you don’t realize you’ve voiced your resentful thoughts until Nancy’s contempt eyes bear into yours.
“I’m sorry?” She asks defensively, arms crossed over her chest. “Is there a problem, Y/N?”
Awkwardly you clear your throat. “Nothing, it’s just…”
“We’re good.” Jonathan shuffles his feet, anxious to move onto a different conversation. He can feel a shift in the air, the charged static forming between you and Nancy that he desperately wants to avoid. “Promise.”
“We definitely aren’t good. I mean, no offense, but Zone G1 is not that exciting or Vecna-y.” Robin’s bluntness cuts through the room, voicing what you’ve been too afraid to.
Taking the risk, you swallow down your own hesitations as well and bite the bullet that Robin has inexplicably shot. “There’s nothing in the zone, either. Nowhere he could hide in that Hopper wouldn’t be able to find.”
The stiffness in Nancy’s posture sends pins through your body. Her eyes, always cunning and alert, darken into something malicious, almost even protective. She doesn’t say anything, though. She simply sets her cold gaze on the room, studying everyone before her.
“Or maybe…” Steve’s loose arm around you flicks in the air, indifferent. “He’s already dead.”
Robin shot the gun, you bit its bullet, and Steve echos its finality.
“Your plan is great, Nance, but this is crawl what? Aren’t we in the thirties now?” He continues, voicing the dread and contempt that has consumed you for months.
“Thrity-three,” you speak slowly, quietly. As if it will hide the pain that the knowledge plagues you with. You’ve written to Max thirty-three times now about the crawls. “This would be crawl thirty-four.”
Steve’s hand rubs up and down your back. Only he knows why you’ve counted each and every crawl. Why their every failure cuts deeper and deeper into your chest, like a landmine waiting to blow.
“El can’t find him in her bath and that Will and Y/N haven’t felt Vecna since the world basically fell apart,” Steve scratches his face, worried he’s overstepping with the reminder that you’re still marked, still a target. “Don’t you feel like we’re scouring a battlefield that we already won?”
“Have you forgotten what he showed Nancy? Hawkins on fire.” Jonathan stands in for Nancy’s silence, infuriated. “Karen, Holly, everyone dead.”
“And what about what he showed me?” Your anger flings from your throat harsher than you intend for it to. The anger rings throughout the room, forcing everyone to stand in its messy wake, silent. Fingers digging into your palms, your eyes close and exhale slowly. “He showed me my father. He made me relive Will’s disappearance and-and…”
Your voice trails off as Nancy’s eyes avert yours. She shifts ever so slightly, the only indication of her unease, and you choke back your own discomfort at the memory you both share.
Did you really think I’d forget her, Y/N?
The venom that had laced Steve’s voice will always fester your skin, no matter how many nights you’ve spent trying to forget them.
I can’t. At least, not as easily as your dad forgot you.
You wonder if Nancy has forgotten the venom, or if it haunts her, too.
“What I’m trying to say is that Vecna only shows your worst fears,” your fingers scratch the tabletop beneath you, unable to look at anyone. “He’ll do anything to get into your head and scare you.”
“Yeah, well he did a good job because I am scared.” Nancy blurts out, her composure finally gone. “And you should be scared, Y/N. Because if he’s still out there, I can promise you that he’ll finish you off and end our world.”
As soon as she’s said it, the fire in Nancy’s eyes dims. A frail hand covers her mouth, but the damage has been done. She drops her head in shame. “I-I’m sorry. That was unfair.”
So deeply you want to scream at her how exhausted you are of trying to hold onto a hope that refuses to be grasped after every failed crawl. You want to scream at Nancy that every morning you run until you can’t breathe because it’s the only sensation similar enough to the death that took Max from you. You want to scream that you’re sick of pretending you don’t have the same bloodlust for Vecna’s body, a yearning so intense that it terrifies you.
Above all, you just want to scream at Nancy that all your life all you’ve ever done is fail again and again in what matters the most, in protecting who you love.
To expect you to want to endure it all over again is a fate much more cruel than Vecna’s curse.
But rather than scream until your throat becomes a bloodied mess of vocal chords, you just stare back at Nancy’s mournful eyes and force a smile.
“It’s alright,” you tell her, too tired to mask the apathy. You’re sick of pretending. “Let’s just stick to the original plan for tonight.”
The frown line between Nancy’s brows only deepens. “Are you sure? If you really feel strongly about something, you know I’d trust whatever call you make.”
“I want him dead.” The words come out softly, an exhale more than anything. But they’re the only semblance of truth that you can provide Nancy.
She studies your face, eyes silently caressing the silhouette of your body. The gaze lingers on your chapped lips, your nailbeds that have been picked raw, the way your hair hides more of your face than it used to.
“Then it’s settled,” she eventually announces, gesturing to the others. “Tonight, kill Vecna.”
The declaration should provoke celebration and inspire awe. But no one stirs. Steve remains lock-jawed by your side, fingers pressed lightly into your skin to calm his own uncertainties. Jonathan keeps his head down, caught between relief and mourning. You’re no better, gnawing at your lip until you taste the familiar metallic consequence while Robin picks at her own nails and shifts in her seat, never one for being in a stuffy room for long.
She breaks first.
“Well, this was certainly a pleasant and absolutely not at all uncomfortable conversation,” Robin jumps up from her seat, wringing her hands out as if it will disperse her nausea. “And while I totally long to stay here with you guys, I unfortunately have to go make a rather doomed phone call and cancel a date that I was actually really looking forward to.”
Hand at her temples, Robin salutes the room and leaves you stranded with the ensemble to your estranged love triangle that you want no part of.
Lovely.
“I should go, too.” Desperate for air, you quickly stand and head for the staircase. “Need to call Dustin and make sure he has everything for the crawl tonight.”
Steve jumps to his feet as well. “I’ll help you call him–”
“I’d rather do it alone, actually.” You don’t mean to interrupt him, but it’s obvious how anxious Steve is to go with you and while you adore how tenderly he treats you, you’re terrified that he’ll start yet another argument with Dustin and become the crux of your brewing breakdown.
Seeing the disappointment on Steve’s face, you kiss the crown of his head, stroking his cheek. “I’ll be right back, honey. Promise.”
He sighs into the touch, mumbling softly enough so that only you will hear, “Can’t believe you’re leaving me alone with Byers and Nancy.”
“Why do you think I want to leave?” You whisper, laughing under your breath.
Steve’s eyes shine back, full of the ever present boyish charm that you stood no chance of surviving.
–
You radio Dustin a total of fourty-nine times.
Not once does he answer.
Steve finds you in a spare closet, screaming into a walkie over and over again demanding that your brother respond.
“Dustin Henderson, I swear to God if you don’t answer me I will shove Tew’s litter down your pillowcase and make sure you get pinkeye for the rest of your life!”
“What did the kid do now?” Your boyfriend comes up behind you, wrapping a loose arm over your shoulders.
You brush him off, too worried and overwhelmed to stand still. “He’s not answering.”
Steve snorts. “Shocking.”
“I’m serious, Steve.” You spin around, facing him with anxious eyes. “I’m starting to worry. He’s never been radio silent like this.”
“Are you forgetting what happened this morning? The little shit totally shut you out. Again, might I add. Like he does every time. I’m not surprised he’s decided to go full AWOL.”
“He always answers eventually.” You argue weakly, knowing how pathetic it sounds. “Dustin’s never just gone completely silent without warning.”
“The kid also never used to spit profanities at you until one day he thought it’d be a brilliant idea,” Steve shrugs. “Now it’s all he does.”
Your eyes sting in frustration, though you have nothing left to say. Not to Steve, anyways. He used to be the only other person in your life who truly understood your brother, but lately you wonder if Steve ever knew Dustin at all.
“Y/N? Steve?” A hesitant knock sounds against the closet door. “You guys in there? And, uh, are you… decent?”
Will’s shy voice accompanies the knock, and you swing the door open without second thought, startling both him and Steve.
“Where’s my brother?” You demand immediately, not bothering to acknowledge Will’s previous implications.
He stumbles back, slightly alarmed. “Dustin isn’t here yet?”
It’s the absolute worst thing Will could’ve ever said.
You barrel out of the doorway, ignoring Steve’s small yelp of pain when you accidentally elbow his chest trying to get out of the closet. Instead you start scouring the radio station, slamming every door open and shouting Dustin’s name until your tongue goes numb.
On your rampage you run into Mike and Lucas in the field, both attempting to radio your brother as well. Seeing them prompts bile to rise in your throat.
They don’t know where he is, either.
“When was the last time you saw Dustin?” You demand the minute you’re close enough to the boys, Will and Steve struggling to keep up behind you. “Why didn’t you guys bike here with him? Where did he go?”
“Woah, slow down.” Mike throws his hands up in defense. “We just got here and I can guarantee that we know shit else like you.”
Lucas rubs the back of his neck. “We gotta tell her about Andy, man.”
“Who the fuck is Andy?” Heart rate spiking, you almost pass out from how fast you turn to face Lucas. “What the hell is going on?”
“I just got off the phone with Mrs. Henderson.” Robin joins the group, unaware of the argument unfolding. “She hasn’t heard from Dustin all day.”
“No way we’re telling Y/N about Andy.” Mike scoffs at Lucas, ignoring what Robin has said. “You know that Dustin would kill us.”
Lucas slaps the kid’s shoulder childishly. “We have to! He almost gave Dustin a black eye today for wearing that stupid Hellfire shirt–”
“Where’s my brother?”
Your shout echoes off the woodline. Its reverberation cascades down your spine.
Yet no one can expel the remnants of the outburst with any semblance of what you want to hear.
“We don’t know, Y/N.” Mike murmurs, his careful hand grazing yours. He doesn’t want to give you unnecessary false hope. He understands better than anyone how painful it can be. “He didn’t meet us after school. That’s all I can tell you.”
“But he’ll be here soon.” Will offers, trying to comfort you as best as he can. “Dustin always shows up for a crawl.”
The tall grass beneath your feet tempts you to lay amongst them. You’re so exhausted from it all. “He should be here by now.”
“Yet he’s an hour late.” Robin not so gently reminds you.
“So we go and look for him.” It’s the only answer you’ll accept. You’re not going on a goddamn crawl without knowing whether or not your little brother is okay.
But a look gets passed between the boys. An underlying understanding seems to connect the three of them together, unifying against you before you can even come up with a defense.
“You know we don’t have time, Y/N.” Lucas says delicately, eyes apologetic.
“But–”
“Dustin would want us to do the crawl without him.” Mike cuts in, not unkindly, though firm. “Look, we’re all worried about him, but this is our shot at Vecna that we can’t miss. And if we don’t have your brother… someone has to step in for him.”
They want you to take your brother’s place.
Steve carefully takes your hand, risking everything when he says, “Dustin isn’t a kid anymore, angel.”
I can’t always be there to solve your problems for you, Y/N.
But what if I always want you there?
The silence that followed had been Dustin’s answer.
You just have to accept it.
“Fine,” you spit out, always prone to succumbing to the needs of others. “But the minute we’re done with this, we’re looking for Dustin.”
“No member of the party gets left behind.” Mike interlocks his pinky with yours. “Promise.”
While the gesture warms your skin, you wish you could believe that its sentiment was sacred and untouchable.
Instead it leaves a hollow pit in your stomach.
–
Everyone gathers their things in silence. No one needs to ask what to bring or where to go. You all have your designated areas and tasks from dozens of crawls before.
Nancy and Will help Mike and Lucas ready their gear for the stakeout. While you’ve always hated sending them so close to MAC-Z, you’re at least comforted by the fact that you were able to secure Bookstrordinary as their base, providing them with information about where to hide and how to escape the building quickly if they were to get caught.
Joyce helps Hopper with his bullet proof vest and readies his gun, Robin readies the radio signal, and Jonathan prepares the telemetry tracker.
You sit in the WSQK van with Steve, going over Dustin’s detailed instructions about how to signal for the tracker.
“Jesus, this kid has awful handwriting.” Steve sighs under his breath, eyes straining at your brother’s messy scrawls.
“No one in our family has nice handwriting.” You sort through your own papers, making sure you have all the necessary data from last week’s crawl. Dustin insists that you help him track the exact distance of each route for crawls as a way to compile more data that could help in the future.
You think it’s unnecessary, but arguing with Dustin never ends well.
The reminder of him tugs at your chest. You wish he was here, you wish you knew where he was and why he always chooses to run away these days.
Steve playfully tosses a pen at you. “I like your handwriting.”
“You’re easy to please.”
“Watch it, angel.”
You giggle despite the grief in your chest, tossing the pen back at him, and for a moment you’re just two kids in a car, happy and in love.
“Harrington, Henderson, you guys getting any signal? Tag is active.” Robin’s voice interrupts from the walkie.
“Yeah, just give us a second.” Steve bites the pen in his mouth and grabs the walkie. He then throws his legs over the driver’s seat and crawls towards the back of the van where the hatch to the antenna resides. He frowns for a moment, unsure what to do next. “Any idea what to do next, Henderson?”
You shake your head. Dustin never taught you. “Maybe twist it?”
Steve spits the pen out and sighs, fixing his hair. “Well, here goes nothing.”
He grabs the handle to the wheel and attempts to turn it. Except it never moves. He tugs at it with more force, but the wheel remains locked. With a frustrated huff he grabs the walkie again. “Anybody know how Henderson’s wheelie thing works?”
Robin takes a moment to respond. “Uh, there should be a safety lock under the wheel.”
“Safety lock, real necessary.” Steve laughs in disbelief, but when he sees your pointed glare, he drops the subject and tries the wheel again. This time, it moves. He turns the antenna towards the station as you hand him a pair of headphones to put on.
“Okay,” he says into the walkie. “I’m getting a signal. It’s pretty quiet, though.”
Steve slowly turns the wheel’s handle, eyes steady on the decibel meter attached to the van. “Okay, signal’s holding a steady 90 dB… But how am I supposed to monitor this and drive without Henderson?”
“Isn’t Y/N already with you?” Robin’s confusion rings clear through the static.
You crawl over to Steve and take over the walkie. “I have to track the route and time how long it takes us. Dustin uses it to calibrate the telemetry tags.”
The walkie goes quiet.
“Robin?” You look down to see if the signal somehow has been cut off. “Hello?”
“Guess they didn’t consider who to send beforehand.” Steve yanks the headphones off. “They must’ve thought Dustin would show by now.”
“He still might.” You aren’t sure why vehemently insist on believing the impossible.
Steve spares you pity, choosing to change the subject. “Who do you think they’ll send, anyways? I mean, no one really understands this stuff like Dustin does.”
“Nancy should be able to do it.” You say hopefully. “She’s smart enough to figure it out quickly.”
“As if Byers would let her anywhere near me–”
The van’s backdoors swing open.
You turn, expecting to find Nancy climbing through them, but when you see Jonathan, you freeze.
“Oh,” the words tumble out on their own as you stare at him. “They sent you.”
He fixes his jacket, eyes avoiding yours. “Don’t sound too excited, bug.”
In the corner of your eye you notice Steve’s fingers clenching the steering wheel at the nickname. You hadn’t even noticed he went back to the driver’s seat.
Knowing that nothing you can say will alleviate the already choking tension, you force a smile at Jonathan before crawling back to the passenger seat.
“You comfortable back there, Byers?” Steve asks, innocently enough. For a moment you think he’s playing nice, trying to appease you, but instead he turns to look at Jonathan with cruel, teasing eyes. “Or do you want me to get you a pillow?”
Jonathan forces the headphones on. “Just focus on driving.”
Your head drops to your hands. Running on little sleep and emotionally drained, you aren’t sure you’ll make it through the night trapped in a van with the two idiots.
From the rear window you spot Mike on his bike alongside Lucas, waving his hands in the air to signal that they’re ready to head towards the meeting point.
It’s time.
Fingers grazing over the knives in your back pocket, you turn to Steve. “Let’s go.”
He nods, starting the engine.
The crawl has begun.
–
Waiting in the hidden alleyway with Steve and Jonathan quickly becomes a nightmare.
While no one talks, the silence weighs so heavily within the van that it cracks open your chest and steals any oxygen left in it.
Your fingers trace over the papers for the crawl, scratching at the ink splotches of numbers and miles written within it and trying to busy your mind to prevent yourself from spiraling.
Steve busies himself with a snack he stole from Murray. He eats messily, noisily, and with every grotesque swallow you can feel Jonathan’s patience waning.
You dread the inevitable explosion.
“We got action.” The crackle of the walkie coming to life with Mike’s voice startles you. You’d almost forgotten why you were even stuck in the van in the first place. “Four trucks, outer east gate on Main.”
Jonathan’s hand comes up to his headphones, the other to the wheel. He readies himself for a signal. He knows how crucial the timing is.
You hold your breath as Mike counts down to the burn. If all goes well, you should be driving in minutes.
“Hopper’s in.”
You allow yourself to exhale. All Hopper has to do now is get through the gate undetected. Your eyes close, silently hoping your luck hasn’t run out just yet as you whisper, “C’mon, Hop.”
Seconds later Mike announces, “He’s flipped.”
Steve fist bumps the air. “We’re in!”
But his celebration is short lived once Joyce takes over the walkie, directing the attention to her son. “Jonathan, signal?”
Jonathan turns the wheel painstakingly slowly, careful not to go over or under. Once he finds Hopper’s signal, he walkies back to his mother, “Snagged it.”
“Should I go?” Steve asks, mouth full of food.
“No… hold.” Jonathan shakes his head. His eyes never leave the monitor as his fingers twist the wheel. You can see he’s holding his breath. “Hold… hold… Go!”
He locks the antenna’s wheel before he can lose Hopper again and Steve speeds off, flinging the van sideways at the abrupt turn. You brace yourself on the dashboard, forcing down the nausea so that you can monitor the car’s speed. You still have a job to do.
You’ve driven this route a dozen times. Looking at your notes, you notice that every time prior the military tanks consistently drove slower. Yet tonight the van flies down the route, struggling to keep up with the telemetry tag in the Upside Down.
At first you think you’ve miscalculated something. Maybe you started the stopwatch too soon, or maybe the speedometer in the van has malfunctioned in some way.
That’s when it all goes wrong.
“We’re losing him!” Jonathan shouts from the backseat, alarmed.
“How?” You spin around in your seat, fearful that he’s simply misread the decibels.
“I-I don’t know–” Jonathan’s eyes suddenly widen. “Wait, stop! We need to stop!”
Steve flings an arm over your chest as he slams on the brakes, the force nearly sending you through the windshield. He looks at you in concern. “Christ, are you alright, Y/N?”
Except you don’t hear him. Your head swarms with dread as you stumble to your feet and kneel besides Jonathan. “What the hell is going on?”
He doesn’t answer you, too busy forcing the antenna whatever way it will go in a desperate attempt to locate Hopper again. Your teeth dig into your lips.
You can’t lose him. Not again.
“We got him.” Jonathan’s relief rivals your own as you both breathe heavily against each other.
You cling to his knee, unsteady as all the dread that built its way to the crevice of your collarbones spikes your blood.
Steve’s gentle voice attempts to coax your heartbeat back down. “Breathe, angel. We got Hop, it’s okay.”
Your nails dig into Jonathan’s skin. “Then why are we stopped?”
Neither Steve nor Jonathan can give you an answer. The three of you sit in silence, all unable to voice what you desperately hope isn’t true.
Suddenly the lights in the van begin to flicker.
The rapid flash of light elicits a sickening sense of deja-vu. It’s happening again. It always happens again.
Something has gone wrong.
“What’s going on?” Steve exclaims, now rushing to join you and Jonathan in the back. “What the hell is this thing doing?”
You lunge for the walkie, shaking as you scream, “Joyce? Joyce?”
No one answers.
“Answer me!” Your vocal chords strain against your screams. “Someone answer! What happened to Hopper?”
But all contact has been lost. The radio station’s power must have gone out.
Back pressed against Steve’s chest, you sit in complete shock as the terror consumes you. You’re helpless against it. That’s all you ever are.
Helpless.
Muffled, static filled panic screeches from your bag.
“Y/N? Do you–copy?” Barely able to decipher the words, you scramble to the bag and find the source of the voice. Dustin left his personal walkie. Robin must’ve remembered.
“Robin?” The panic in your shrill voice nearly deafens you.
“There’s a–demogorgon–” Whatever Robin is saying is barely audible. The walkie isn’t within its normal range. Static infiltrates every word that comes through.
You bring the walkie closer to your lips. “Robin, I-I can’t understand what you’re saying–”
“The Wheelers!” She screams at you, loud enough that the static doesn’t drown her. “There’s a demogorgon–running towards–Wheelers!”
A metallic ringing pierces your ear drums.
The Wheelers are in danger.
Adrenaline infiltrates your veins. Every one of your senses sharpens.
You’re not far from their home. A mile, maybe even less.
You’ve spent all summer running. You could be there within minutes if you left now.
The only thought running through your head as you fling open the van’s doors is Holly, alone without her siblings in the home. She needs you.
They need you.
“Y/N, where are you going?” Steve shouts after you, already stumbling to his feet to follow you into the dark.
Jonathan isn’t any better as he tears his headphones off and nearly falls out of the van. “What the hell?”
“Nancy and Mike need me!” You’re standing in the middle of the road, torn between staying or leaving. But it was never really a decision. “Stay here, alright?”
“Didn’t you hear Robin?” Steve reaches out for you, tries to pull you back into the van. “There’s a demogorgon out there, no way am I letting you go by yourself!”
“I’m going.”
And before Steve’s hand can land on your wrist, you run.
All you do is run.
-
⌑ series masterlist
⌑ if youd like to buy me a coffee ☕︎
⌑ thank you for reading ! feel free to like, comment, reblog, or send in an ask so we can chat <3
tags: social media au, college au, modern au (will update this as I write the fic) ⋆˚꩜｡
Steve in the beginning is very much based off of season one Steve!! But he will have an arc and become the pathetic loser we all love! <3
Use of yn for display/ usernames
In your first year of college, Steve Harrington had existed tangentially to your life. You heard bits and pieces about him through Robin. They worked together in the campus coffee shop. He was in a frat. He was single. It was all noise to you, he seemed like an asshole anyways, why waste your time?
Or,
you meet Steve at a frat party, he falls madly in love with you. ⊹ ࣪ ˖
Your profile!
Steve and Robins profiles!
a/n lowkey having terrible writers block rn so hoping this will get me out of it 😔 idk how often this will be updated! But if people like it I will try my best to make them frequent 😋😋
hi! can i ask for turnbow!reader x steve? like they're dating and steve never told her anything about the upside down stuff (he'd decided it would be better for her to be faaaaaar away from it) so when he found out about the turnbow trap and that he had to kidnap her family (people that he took so long to conquer and to be liked by) he was like devasted?? idk lol but i imagine he'd be against it ig?? also sorry if there's any typo xx
KIDDNAPPING FREAK
steveharringtonxfem!reader
desc- when the one person steve wants to keep furthest away from all the evil of the world ends up right in the middle of it all.
val speaks ‹𝟥 - hii thankyou for the request! i feel like i kinda rambled a bit and i had to make up some of the story line but i could totally do a pt2 if anyone’s actually interested😭 i was also very tired n half asleep writing half of this but i had fun so i hope u like!
the map on the table was already covered in coffee rings and frantic scribbles when steve realised exactly where this conversation was going.
he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed so tightly it almost hurt, eyes flicking between nancy, robin, and dustin like one of them might suddenly say just kidding. the room buzzed with that awful, familiar tension.
“no,” steve said flatly.
robin blinked. “steve, we haven’t even finished explaining-”
“i don’t care,” he cut in, shaking his head, already standing up. “no. absolutely not. we are not doing that.”
nancy sighed, rubbing her temple. “steve, listen. vecna’s already reaching out to her brother. it’s the same pattern. we don’t have time to dance around this.”
his stomach dropped at the mention of you, even indirectly. of your little brother. steve paced the room like a trapped animal, hands running through his hair until it stuck up worse than usual.
“you want to kidnap her family,” he said, voice low but sharp. “do you hear yourselves? i’ve spent months, months, trying to convince them i’m not some idiot jock with bad intentions. her dad finally offered me a beer last week. a beer. do you know how big that is?”
dustin shrugged. “kinda irrelevant if vecna kills her brother.”
steve spun on him. “don’t. don’t you dare act like i don’t know what’s at stake.”
the truth was, that was exactly why his chest felt like it was caving in.
he’d kept you away from all of it so carefully. the demogorgons. the gates. the blood and the screaming and the way hawkins never really slept anymore. he told you half-truths, dumb excuses. late nights were “work,” bruises were “basketball injuries,” nightmares were just stress.
all because if you knew, you’d be in danger.
and now they were talking about dragging your family into it.
“we don’t tell her,” robin said gently, like she was trying not to spook a wild animal. “not right away. we get them somewhere safe, somewhere warded. we protect them.”
steve laughed, short and humorless. “oh yeah? and when she wakes up and her and her family are tied up? what then, robin?”
silence settled heavy over the room.
nancy met his eyes, steady but apologetic. “she’s going to find out eventually, steve. vecna won’t let her stay untouched forever. you know that.”
that was the part he hated most.
because he did know.
he slammed his hands onto the table, leaning forward, jaw clenched. “there has to be another way. i will find another way. you don’t get to make this call. not about her.”
“this isn’t just about her,” nancy said softly. “it’s about her brother. and if vecna gets to him through her family, we lose him, and more.”
steve swallowed hard, throat burning.
every instinct in him screamed to shield you, to keep you in the dark, safe and laughing and arguing with him over what movie to rent. to keep you far away from monsters and gates and a town that ate people alive.
but hawkins didn’t care about what steve harrington wanted.
“i won’t be the one to tell her,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “and i won’t help you scare her family.”
robin’s expression softened. “steve…”
“but,” he added, straightening, eyes dark and determined, “if this goes wrong, if she gets hurt because of this, i swear to god i will never forgive any of you.”
no one argued.
because they all knew he meant it.
and somewhere across town, completely unaware, you were living your life. while a plan formed that would tear it open.
⭑
steve shows up at your place an hour earlier than usual.
he doesn’t knock like he normally does- three quick taps, too loud, like he’s announcing himself. this time it’s hesitant. uneven. like he almost changed his mind halfway through.
when you open the door, he’s standing there with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, shoulders tense, hair not quite doing the thing it usually does. his smile is there, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“hey,” you say, stepping aside. “everything okay? you look… tired.”
“yeah,” he says too quickly, following you in. “just- long day.”
you hum, not pushing it. steve has long days sometimes. everyone does. hawkins has a way of grinding people down.
he sits on the couch beside you, closer than usual, knee pressed against yours like he’s afraid you might drift away if he gives you space. his hand finds yours almost immediately, fingers lacing together tight.
you squeeze back. “steve, you’re being overly clingy.”
he lets out a breathy laugh. “am i not allowed?”
“you are,” you tease softly. “just means something’s up.”
he shakes his head, staring at your joined hands. his thumb rubs slow circles into your skin, over and over, like he’s memorising the feeling.
“do you ever think about,” he starts, then stops. swallows. “like… what you’d do if someone really screwed up. someone you loved.”
you turn toward him, brows knitting together. “that’s kinda random.”
“hypothetical,” he says quickly. “just curious.”
you shrug, leaning into his shoulder. “i dunno. depends what they did, i’d probably hear them out if i loved them though.”
his jaw tightens.
“even if they lied?” he asks quietly.
you tilt your head, thinking. “yeah. i mean… i don’t love lying. but sometimes people lie because they’re scared. or because they think they’re doing the right thing. depends really.”
he goes very still at that.
for a moment, you think he might actually tell you something. his mouth opens, then closes again. instead, he pulls you closer, forehead resting against your hair.
“you’re too good,” he murmurs. “you know that?”
you smile, half-laughing. “you say weird stuff when you’re tired.”
“yeah,” he agrees, voice rough. “tired.”
he asks to stay in tonight. no movies, no going out, just you and him. you don’t question it. you curl up together on the couch, his arm wrapped around you like a shield, his chin resting on the top of your head.
he keeps kissing you, your temple, your cheek, your forehead, soft and lingering, like each one matters more than the last.
“steve,” you laugh quietly. “what is this? am i dying or something?”
he stiffens slightly, then exhales. “don’t joke like that.”
“sorry,” you say, confused but gentle. “i didn’t mean-”
“i know,” he cuts in softly. “i know.”
there’s something in his eyes when he looks at you then. something heavy. like he’s already lost you somehow.
when he finally stands to leave, he hesitates at the door longer than usual. his hands cup your face, thumbs brushing under your eyes.
“hey,” you say. “you sure you’re okay?”
he nods, but it’s a lie. you don’t see it, can’t see it, but it’s there.
“no matter what happens,” he says carefully, “just… remember i love you. okay?”
you smile, heart fluttering. “i know. i love you too.”
that almost breaks him.
he pulls you into one last hug, holding on a second too long, breathing you in like it’s the last safe thing he’ll ever know.
and when he finally walks away, he doesn’t look back.
because if he does, he might not be able to go through with it.
⭑
steve doesn’t make it to the car.
he gets halfway down the block before his chest locks up like something’s snapped shut inside him. his breath comes out wrong and suddenly the world feels too loud, too much.
he braces his hands on his knees, hair falling into his face.
“get it together,” he mutters. “just get it together.”
but his heart won’t listen.
every image of you crashes into him at once. your smile earlier, the way you laughed at his dumb jokes, the softness in your voice when you told him you loved him. the way you trusted him. the way you had no idea what he was about to let happen.
his hands start shaking.
he straightens, then bends over again as a sharp wave of dizziness hits. his lungs burn like they’ve forgotten how to work.
he stumbles back against the fence, fingers clawing at the wood like it might anchor him to reality.
his vision blurs. his throat tightens until every breath feels like it’s scraping its way out.
she’ll hate me.
the thought hits harder than any punch he’s ever taken.
she’ll look at me like i’m a stranger. like i betrayed her. like everything we had was a lie.
his chest aches, deep and sharp, and for one horrible second he’s convinced he might actually die right here, on a quiet suburban street, surrounded by perfectly normal houses, while monsters tear the world apart somewhere else.
“steve,” robin’s voice cuts through the noise, suddenly right in front of him.
he hadn’t even heard her approach.
she grabs his shoulders, steady and grounding. “hey. look at me. breathe. in. out.”
he tries. fails. tries again.
“i can’t,” he chokes. “i can’t do this to her, robin. i promised myself-i promised-”
“i know,” she says softly, pressing her forehead to his. “i know, you love her.”
his eyes burn. “what if this is the thing that breaks her? what if she never trusts me again?”
robin doesn’t lie to him. “maybe she’ll be furious. maybe she’ll scream. but she’ll be alive. and her family will be alive. that has to count for something.”
he squeezes his eyes shut, breath finally slowing just enough to not feel like he’s drowning.
alive.
he hates that she’s right.
steve drags a hand down his face, swallowing hard. “if she gets hurt-”
“she won’t,” robin says. “not if we do this right. and not if you’re still here to protect her.”
he nods, once. barely.
because loving you means choosing the option that hurts him the most.
even if it costs him everything else.
⭑
your night starts normal enough that you almost forget steve’s weird mood earlier.
tea is brewing in the kitchen, the kind your mom insists on even when no one really wants it. your dad’s newspaper is spread across the table, tina’s laughing about something dumb from school, derek’s sulking on the floor with his comics, feet kicking the coffee table every few seconds.
and then there’s erica sinclair.
she stands in the doorway like she owns the place, pie tin balanced proudly in her hands.
“hi,” she says, sharp and bright. “i brought pie.”
your dad lights up. “oh, that’s sweet! lucas’ sister, right?”
“the only one that matters,” erica replies, already settling down.
you exchange a look with tina, suppressing a smile. “your'e friends again?.”
“we made up” tina mutters back.
erica plants the pie on the counter like it’s a mission objective. thick and glossy, steam still faintly rising.
“you should eat it,” erica says. “seriously. all of you.”
your mom laughs. “someone’s eager.”
“yeah,” erica says. “i am.”
something about the way she says it makes your stomach flutter, but you brush it off. probably nerves. probably steve’s earlier words still echoing in your head.
you sit around the table together, family plus one. forks clink against plates, derek complains about not getting a big enough slice, your dad steals a bite off your mom’s plate like he always does. everyone except tina digging in.
“this is really good,” you say honestly.
erica watches. doesn’t eat any herself.
she watches as you take another bite.
then another.
the room starts to feel… wrong.
not all at once. it creeps in. your limbs feel heavier, like gravity’s been turned up too high. the edges of your vision blur just slightly.
“hey,” your mom says, blinking. “is it hot in here?”
your dad presses a hand to his forehead. “i feel dizzy…”
your heart starts to race. “wait-”
the world tilts.
your fork clatters to the plate. the last thing you see is erica hopping down from her chair.
“sorry,” she says quietly. “this is the only way.”
then everything goes dark.
⭑
the upside down never comes quietly.
there’s a sound first. wet, like something ripping through fabric and bone at the same time. the air turns cold. the lights flicker once, twice, then die completely.
steve is already moving when the demogorgon comes through the wall.
wood splinters explode outward, plaster dust choking the air. mike shouts something he doesn’t hear. robin swears loudly behind him. lucas freezes for half a second too long before snapping back into motion.
the thing is massive, taller than steve remembers. skin stretched too tight over muscle, flowered face opening with a scream that rattles the windows.
“go go go!” steve yells, charging forward.
he doesn’t think. thinking gets people killed.
the bat connects with a sickening crack. the demogorgon roars, slashing wildly. furniture is destroyed in seconds. chairs overturned, the table shattered, pie smeared across the floor like some awful joke.
steve’s mind keeps snapping back to you.
passed out. somewhere nearby. defenseless.
the thought makes him reckless.
the demogorgon grabs him, claws digging into his jacket, throwing him across the room. he hits the wall hard, stars bursting behind his eyes.
“steve!” lucas screams.
he’s back on his feet anyway. always is.
fire blooms as molotovs shatter, flames licking up the creature’s side. it shrieks, stumbling, rage and pain filling the room.
“now!” robin yells.
they drive it back through the tear it came from, fighting inch by inch until the gate collapses in on itself with a sound like a dying scream.
then- silence.
just smoke. broken furniture. heavy breathing.
steve doesn’t wait.
he runs.
⭑
your house smells like smoke and something bitter when he reaches the living room.
you’re there.
all of you.
your parents are slumped against opposite walls, wrists bound gently but securely. tina’s on the couch, derek curled beside her, both of them breathing steadily, drugged into deep unconsciousness.
and you-
you’re on the floor, head turned to the side, hair fanned out, chest rising and falling.
steve drops to his knees next to you.
“no no no,” he whispers, hands shaking as he brushes hair away from your face. “hey. hey. you’re okay. you’re okay.”
you don’t wake.
his throat closes painfully.
this was never supposed to touch you. never supposed to reach this far.
he presses his forehead to yours, eyes squeezing shut.
“i’m so sorry,” he breathes. “i tried. i swear i tried.”
and the awful, sinking knowledge that when you wake up-
nothing will ever be the same.
⭑
you wake up slowly.
your head feels like it’s full of cotton, heavy and fogged over, thoughts sliding out of reach the moment you try to grab them. the air smells wrong. damp and earthy, like soil and old wood. hay pricks at your cheek.
you open your eyes just a crack.
a barn.
the ceiling looms above you, wooden beams dark with age. moonlight filters through the slats in thin silver lines. for a moment, panic flares sharp and hot, but you don’t move. instinct tells you not to.
you listen.
voices.
your heart stutters.
you shift your eyes carefully, taking in the space without lifting your head. your wrists are bound behind you, rope biting into your skin. your ankles too. your parents are nearby, still unconscious, breathing slow and even. tina hasn’t stirred either.
but derek-
your chest tightens as you spot him.
he’s awake. standing up on a raised ledge near the far side of the barn. his face is pale, eyes wide, but he’s trying to look brave.
he’s talking to someone.
you don’t recognise the voices at first. low, urgent whispers drifting up toward him. you stay perfectly still, barely breathing, afraid even the sound of your heartbeat might give you away.
“we’re not here to hurt you or them,” a woman says quietly.
another voice- older, tired but kind. “we just need your help, okay?”
you don’t understand. none of it makes sense. your brain is still too foggy, still lagging behind reality.
then a familiar voice cuts in, sharp and no-nonsense.
“if anything happens to his family, this deal’s off.”
you know that voice.
nancy.
your pulse spikes.
what are they doing here?
you stay low, eyes darting as derek nods shakily, answering their questions. they keep their distance from him, you notice. like they’re trying not to scare him.
and then-
a sound.
a low, wet clicking noise, coming from somewhere deeper in the barn.
every muscle in your body locks.
the voices stop.
you see it before you fully understand it.
something moves out of the shadows below the ledge. tall. wrong. its skin looks stretched too tight, like it doesn’t belong on its body. it steps forward slowly, deliberately.
your breath catches in your throat.
its head opens.
not like a mouth should. not human. petals peeling back to reveal rows of teeth that glisten in the dim light.
your stomach lurches violently.
this can’t be real. your mind scrambles for explanations. shock, hallucination, a bad dream? but the fear is too sharp, too real.
derek freezes.
“it’s okay,” someone whispers urgently. “just stay where you are.”
you don’t make a sound.
you don’t scream. you don’t call out. you don’t move.
your fingers begin working at the rope behind your back instead, slow and careful, every motion measured. the knot is tight, skin-splitting, but your hands are slick with sweat. you tug gently. stop. listen.
the thing shifts, distracted by the voices above.
you pull again.
the rope loosens.
your wrists slip free.
you bite down hard on your lip to keep from making a noise as you work on your ankles, heart pounding so loudly you’re sure it must echo through the barn.
the creature lets out a low growl.
everyone’s attention snaps to it.
that’s your moment.
the rope falls away.
you don’t look back.
you crawl through the hay, keeping low, body shaking, every nerve screaming. the side door is closer than you thought.
you slip through it, silent as you can manage, and the cold night air hits you like a slap.
you run.
only far enough to dive into a thick bush just behind the barn, branches scratching at your arms as you curl in on yourself. you press a hand to your mouth, forcing your breathing to slow.
from here, you can see the barn doors.
light flickers inside. shadows move. voices rise in urgency.
and that sound again. too deep, too wrong to be anything you’ve ever heard before.
you squeeze your eyes shut, tears leaking despite your efforts.
you have no idea what that thing is.
no idea why steve’s friends are here.
no idea why your family is tied up inside a barn with a monster.
all you know is that the world you thought you lived in is gone.
and whatever this is-
it’s been there all along, hiding just out of sight.
⭑
the barn goes quiet.
not peaceful, never that, but quieter. the shouting fades. the horrible sound fades too, like it’s been dragged somewhere far away. your ears ring in the aftermath, your whole body buzzing with adrenaline and fear.
you stay in the bush longer than you think you need to.
long enough for your legs to cramp. long enough for your heart to stop trying to punch its way out of your chest. long enough to convince yourself that if you move, something will hear you.
eventually, headlights cut through the dark.
you tense immediately, shrinking back, until you recognise the car.
steve’s car.
your breath stutters.
it’s parked a little ways off, half-hidden by trees, like whoever left it didn’t want it noticed. there’s something wrong with it, though- something you can’t place at first.
then you see it.
a long, makeshift antenna sticking out of the roof, ugly and very not normal.
“what the hell…” you whisper.
no one’s around.
no voices. no movement. just the car, idling softly, like it’s waiting.
your brain is screaming at you not to do this.
this is stupid. this is reckless. this is how people in horror movies die.
but then you think of the thing in the barn. of derek on the ledge. of steve’s face earlier, haunted and apologetic, like he was already saying goodbye.
and honestly?
if there’s a monster out there, you’re probably dead anyway.
might as well die with answers.
you creep toward the car, every step careful, every shadow a potential threat. when you reach the back, your hands hesitate over the trunk.
“this is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” you murmur.
then you pop it open and climb inside.
it smells like gasoline and leather and steve. your chest tightens painfully at that. you pull the trunk closed just as footsteps approach.
voices.
your stomach drops.
“everyone in?” dustin says, breathless.
“yeah,” nancy replies. “signals destabilising- we don’t have long.”
steve’s voice comes last. tight. focused. scared. “then let’s go.”
the trunk slams shut.
and suddenly you’re moving.
the car lurches forward, acceleration pressing you back into the metal. you grab onto whatever you can as the engine roars louder, faster, reckless.
“steve, slow down!” someone shouts.
“can’t,” he snaps. “if we miss it, we lose it.”
you don’t know what it is.
you don’t know where you’re going.
all you know is that the air changes.
“now!” dustin yells.
there’s a sound like the world tearing open.
and then-
everything lurches.
your stomach drops like you’ve driven off a cliff. your ears pop painfully. the air inside the trunk turns icy, damp, wrong.
the car bursts through.
you don’t see it, but you feel it.
like passing through a membrane. like being swallowed.
the engine screams. the car skids. metal groans.
from inside the trunk, you lie there shaking, eyes wide in the dark, every sense on high alert.
you have no idea where you are.
but you know, deep in your bones, that you are not in hawkins anymore.
and the worst part?
steve drove you straight into it.
the car doesn’t slow down once it’s through.
it feels like steve floors it harder, if that’s even possible, the engine screaming as the tires tear through something that isn’t quite road. the air inside the trunk turns thick and damp, every breath tasting like rust and rot. the car swerves violently, and you’re thrown against the side, shoulder slamming into metal hard enough to knock the air out of your lungs.
you bite back a cry, curling in on yourself as the car fishtails again.
they’re shouting up front. you can’t make out every word, just the panic threaded through it. directions being yelled, warnings snapped too late. something heavy thuds against the side of the car, hard enough to rock it, and your heart leaps into your throat.
whatever they’re chasing is close.
you manage to brace yourself and carefully shift, peering through a gap near the trunk latch. the world outside is wrong in ways you don’t have words for yet. dark and blue-grey, coated in something that looks like ash or snow but drifts too slowly to be real. twisted shapes loom where trees should be, stretched and skeletal, and for one terrifying second you see it.
the creature.
it moves impossibly fast, long limbs eating up ground as it runs, head snapping open as it lets out that awful sound. you recoil instantly, pressing back into the darkness, pulse roaring in your ears.
what the fuck is happening.
the car jolts again, swerving sharply as steve yanks the wheel. you slide hard across the trunk, knees knocking painfully as something inside the car crashes to the floor.
“steve!” someone shouts.
too late.
the impact is sudden and brutal.
metal shrieks as the front of the car slams into a massive wall of something solid. concrete, maybe, or the ruined remains of a building. the force sends you flying forward, head snapping back as you slam into the trunk lid.
everything goes still.
for a half second, there’s nothing but ringing in your ears and the taste of blood in your mouth.
then the doors fly open.
boots hit the ground. hurried breathing. frantic voices overlapping as they scramble out of the car, weapons clattering, someone swearing loudly.
no one checks the trunk.
you lie there, stunned, heart pounding, staring up at the dark metal inches from your face.
fuck it.
rage cuts through the fear like a blade.
you plant your feet and kick.
the trunk flies open with a loud metallic bang.
cold, dead air rushes in as you scramble upright, hair wild, hands shaking, fury written all over you.
every single one of them freezes.
steve turns first.
the color drains from his face so fast it’s almost impressive. his eyes widen, mouth falling open like his brain has completely short-circuited.
“what the fuck was that,” you demand, voice shaking but loud, raw and furious. “where are we, why does the world look like it’s rotting, and why the hell was i kidnapped?”
nancy’s jaw drops.
dustin lets out a small, horrified sound. “oh my god.”
jonathan just stares at you like you’ve crawled out of a grave.
steve takes a step toward you, hands lifted instinctively, like you might bolt or break. “you-you weren’t-how did you-”
“in your trunk,” you snap. “because apparently monsters are real and you all thought tying my family up in a barn was a normal thing to do.”
his face crumples.
“i was trying to protect you,” he says, voice breaking around the edges.
you laugh, sharp and incredulous, tears burning in your eyes. “you drugged us, you dragged us out here and i watched a thing with a flower face try to kill my brother. so forgive me if ‘protect’ feels like the wrong word right now.”
the silence that follows is thick and suffocating.
the ash keeps falling.
somewhere nearby, something roars.
and steve stands in front of you, heart in his eyes, knowing there is absolutely no fixing this without finally telling you everything.
you don’t wait for an explanation.
the silence stretches just long enough to make your skin crawl, ash drifting lazily around you like the world isn’t completely ending, and something in your chest just snaps.
“okay,” you say, voice sharp, brittle. “cool. great. since nobody’s gonna fucking say anything, i’ll just figure it out myself.”
you turn on your heel and start walking. no direction, just away from them, away from the car, away from whatever nightmare this place is.
you get maybe three steps.
steve grabs your wrist.
it’s instinctive. desperate. too tight.
“no,” he says quickly. “you can’t- you don’t know where you’re going, it’s not safe-”
you spin on him instantly, yanking your arm back like his touch burns.
“hands off me, kidnapping freak,” you snap.
there’s a beat.
then dustin snorts.
like, actually snorts.
steve shoots him a look that could kill a man. “this is not funny.”
“i’m sorry,” dustin says, biting his lip, eyes wide with barely-contained laughter. “it’s just kinda true”
you glare at him. “oh my god, hilarious. do you do birthday parties or just hostage situations?”
nancy presses her lips together, clearly trying not to smile and failing miserably.
steve looks like he might pass out.
“please,” he says to you, quieter now. “you can’t just walk off. there are things here. bad things.”
you gesture wildly around you. “yeah, no shit, steve. i noticed the sky looks like it’s dying.”
you start walking again.
this time jonathan steps in front of you, holding his hands up. “okay, listen. i get that you’re freaked out, but you really don’t want to be alone here.”
“why,” you demand, “because the murder dog might get me?”
everyone goes very still.
“…murder dog?” dustin repeats.
“the thing,” you snap. “with the teeth. the flower face. whatever the hell that was. unless you’re about to tell me that’s normal?”
steve swallows hard.
“it’s called a demogorgon,” he says.
you stare at him.
“of course it is,” you mutter. “because why wouldn’t it be.”
you look around again, really look this time. the way the trees twist unnaturally. the vine-like growths creeping along the ground, pulsing faintly like veins. the air feels alive, watching you.
your anger wobbles, just for a second, threatened by something much closer to fear.
“so let me get this straight,” you say slowly. “monsters are real. there’s a weird hell version of hawkins. my family got drugged and tied up. my little brother is somehow involved. and you,” you jab a finger at steve, “have known about all of this the entire time.”
steve’s eyes shine.
“i didn’t want you anywhere near it,” he says. “i was trying to keep you safe.”
you laugh again, but this time it’s hollow. “you drove me into another dimension.”
“that was not part of the plan,” dustin says quickly.
you whip around. “oh, so sorry, was i supposed to stay kidnapped back there?”
“we thought you were unconscious,” nancy admits.
“yeah,” you say flatly. “because that makes it better.”
a sound echoes through the ruins then. low, distant, unmistakably the same thing you heard in the barn.
your heart leaps into your throat.
everyone snaps into motion.
“it’s close,” dustin says.
steve steps in front of you without thinking, body angled like a shield. “stay behind me.”
you stare at his back, at the familiar shape of him in a place that feels so wrong, and for a moment your anger tangles painfully with something else.
fear. betrayal. love. all twisted together.
“don’t,” you warn quietly.
he flinches, but he doesn’t move.
“i’m not losing you,” he says, voice low and firm. “even if you hate me after this.”
you don’t answer.
the ground trembles slightly beneath your feet.
and whatever explanation you were owed is going to have to wait,
because the monster you accidentally followed them into hell for is still out there. and apparently, much, much worse is too.
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hopeless for valentine's day (pining!steve harrington x reader)
pairing: Pining!Steve Harrington x reader
summary: steve is in love with you, he just isn't ready to say it out loud. so he sticks to the closest thing: ditching his date to spend valentine's day with you at the squawk.
a/n: happy valentine's day, lovelies! be kind, your girl is rusty.
disclaimer: pining!steve aka his natural state of being, jealous!steve (because I can't help myself), slightly angst, comfort. they're idiots in love, you honor.
story's mixtape steve's masterlist taglist request nav
Steve Harrington lets out a long sigh, plopping down on Robin's mandatory chair. He can't help but feel like a kid sitting in his dad's office for the first time, picking out random papers and pretending to be important— until Danny Harrington screams for him to get out and stop bothering him.
There's no shouting this time, no noise other than "When You're Alone" by Bruce Springsteen playing for Steve and whoever else is lonely enough to stick near a radio for the night. Not an ounce of doubt that Buckley will kill him if she finds out he's putting on 'the blandest white man on Earth' (her words) during her Rockin' Robin segment but hey, Harrington is the only covering for her on Valentine's Day while she's out with on a date with Vickie.
A furtive grin spreads on his face; at least Robin is happy. Happier than he had ever seen her, to be honest. That's all he wants for her. Even if it means being alone at the station, bored and pathetically waiting for something that won't happen.
If it was a movie, they'd call Steve a hopelessly romantic and he'd get the girl before the credits started to roll. But in real life, it's just staying at work while the world ends, having your heart broken multiple times by hope and still clinging to it like a stupid dog who won't bark to another tree. Because that's his tree, alright? He likes his tree.
Okay, he's going crazy. Why aren't you here?
Steve groans, tapping his fingers against the wooden table to the song's rhythm. His mind wanders to what everybody else is doing: The Wheelers are throwing a thematic party for the whole family and the Byers. Nance had asked him to come over, but the last holiday they spent together was in 84’ when they were still dating, and Harrington isn't really thrilled about having to see her with Jonathan all night. So, the former athlete thanked her and refused the invite, promising he'd show up the next day to snitch away some of Karen's famous cookies.
The Hoppers were probably there too. Henderson was having a movie marathon and a whole lot of food with his mom; which Steve also had declined because Dustin didn't seem to want to be around him all that much lately. The Sinclairs were most likely to be at a fancy dinner with the church folks, Lucas surely would be visiting Max later (to remember she's still in a coma makes his heart clutch, so he shakes his head and focuses on his own misery for a bit). Robin had reservations for Enzo's and planned on taking it to the next level with Vickie; the ladies man tried to give out some advice about that, but Buckley threatened to cut his tongue off and kill herself in front of him all at once.
When he asked you about your plans, you shrugged it off and said you'd probably be at the station. No dates in sight. One hour after the shift started and you still hadn't showed up, it was clear that your plans had changed. That annoyed guy from the convenience store that always got a little too friendly with you (even when Steve was by your side, mind you) probably worked out the guts to ask you out. And apparently you had said yes, God knows why. Whatever. Maybe Harrington should've asked you before like he wanted to, maybe you'd have said yes. He was sure it would be better than whatever you had going on with that douchebag. The point is, everybody is up to something, everybody has someone.
And Steve..
Steve is alone. Isn't it how he always ends up, anyway?
That's the thing about being a jack-of-all-trades. He just shows up at the right time by luck or miracle or the lack of importance in any other aspect, gets the job done, and his friends cheer about it. But then everybody goes home and the handyman is put on the shelf until he's needed again.
He isn't complaining, alright? It's better than having no at all. Steve would've known; he had been through it with his parents.
They asked him to tag along once the ground cracked open like something rotten that stayed under for too long. His mom and dad asked Steve to come with them with a disinterested facade, the same you flash someone with when you offer them food out of education and silently hope they won't accept it.
When their only son said no, the Harringtons smiled bigger than he remembered they could; it didn't take more than two hours for the bags to get packed up. They left before dawn and hadn't looked back once.
His mom calls each two months to make sure Steve is alive, but that's about it. Eventually, his dad chimes in the conversation, throwing a casual hello and an occasional scolding. Truth to be told, it isn't all that different from the time they were in town. Less arguing, for sure.
And more Springsteen blasting out.
When you're alone you ain't nothing but alone, Bruce sings like a mockery.
It could've been worse, Steve thinks to himself.
But it could also be better, that same old voice in his head answers.
Steve shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with the quietude. The song is coming close to an end, so he sighs and leans in, looking for another tape that's at least close to the lovely spirit. I'll be alright without you by Journey, Harrington snorts. As if.
He continues his searching, flipping through the options. Right Here Waiting by Richard Max? That had to be a joke. If people want to hear about doomed romance and miserable love lives, Steve can just start broadcasting his daily life. Another peak, Countin' On A Miracle.
He scoffs. “Wow, Springsteen. I thought we were buddies.”
Harrington settles down for 'Time After Time' and places his foot on the dashboard of the radio table. Robin would sweat his legs off if she was here, but she isn't.
Just him. Alone again.
Fucking sucks.
And it's all he's ever had. Come on, Harrington. You should be used to it by now. Who's a more loyal lover than loneliness for a guy like him?
Until he hears something.
Steve doesn't even turn around. It's too late for anyone to decide to check up on him between their lovey dovey errands, unless.. “Robin, I swear, if you stormed out in the middle of your date just because you don't think Bruce Springsteen makes good music—”
“Not Robin.” Your voice piques his interest immediately and the honorary DJ turns around to face you, who is leaning against the cabin's door with an arched brow and a pinkish box in your hands. “But she's right, Bruce Springsteen is bland, Steve.”
It's you.
He hides a smile and ignores thrilling sensation under his skin. Instead, Harrington rolls his eyes at your lighthearted judgment, but his undying affection stains his antics. Even if you are making fun of his music taste, at least you are here, and not with some idiot from the store. “You and Robin are just heartless.” and then, Steve scrunches up his nose, “Whatever your weird, indie artists sing about?”
“The same thing your American boy does, but with spicy and actual, real world problems.”
Steve shrugs, “I think we've got enough of those.”
Your features soften at his words as you nod. If anything, your little gang of friends had enough trouble to fill out an old Western movie script. Maybe even a trilogy.
Steve licks his lips, then scratches his eyebrow. What's he supposed to say? He's not one to get speechless, but he's trying a little too hard to seem nonchalant about the fact that you are here and that's pretty much all he has wanted the whole damn night.
So much for pretending it doesn't matter.
Honest to God, Steve knows he should've made a move on you by now. It's been months. But what good did it get so far? His track record isn't looking good. Besides, he doesn't want to be just another girl, he doesn't want to mess it up. Better to have her as a friend than nothing at all, you know? He had told Robin only a couple hours ago.
That's if you even want him. Why would you? You are amazing. Pretty. Selfless. Caring. Brave. And he's.. Well, Steve Harrington.
That name used to make women swoon back in high school, but nowadays it just means a guy in a dead-end job with a bunch of nasty scars underneath his shirt, and that has no prospect of future — also, his own best friend hates him and he's forced to watch his ex and the guy she left him for, who always calls him dumb and all the lovely names when Steve so much as voices an opinion. So yeah, things are not looking great for good old Steve Harrington.
You are the only good thing about quarantine and the mess he's in right now. Therefore, Steve sticks to stolen touches; brushing your hand when you point at something on the map, leaning in a little too close when you are talking, ignoring personal space and pressing his leg against yours on the couch, pulling you gently by the hand whenever you need to gather for a meeting, or offering to bring you water and snacks just so he can feel your fingertips against his when he hands the items to you.
It's enough. Steve can take the crumbs! it's all love has ever given him, anyway. He's used to it. That way, he won't lose you.
But sometimes, your gaze lingers too long. You grimace when he mentions a girl. You defend him when Byers is a bit too rude to pretend he doesn't hate Steve. You ask to tag along in the van to do nothing but drive around during crawls. You stay late at the station and place your legs in his lap while you both talk. Or you just smile a certain way and Harrington swears you might be falling for him, too.
Suddenly, something like the supermarket guy happens and he's in cold water again. Story of his life.
Steve peers at you, leaning back in his chair. “Shouldn't you be out with.. Kiran?”
You huff. “Kyle. And you know his name.”
“Sure.” Steve drawls, and then points at the box in your hands, “Did he get you this? What is it?”
“Boppers.” You shrug, finally walking inside the booth and placing the food on the counter. “And no, he didn't. I got them for us.”
He blinks, dumbfounded. There's something inherently real, yet delicate in the way you say us and brings him his favorite snack. But Steve doesn't give shape to it, he doesn't want to shatter the moment.
“Oh.” He mumbles instead, clears his throat, and grins at you, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” You shoot him a beaming smile, and Steve's heart does a triple jump before falling face-first onto the concrete. How can someone be so in love that it feels like choking and breathing fresh air at the same time? If only he could reach over and touch you. “Shouldn't you be with Amber tonight?”
He laughs. Because of course you'd bring out another girl while he's going insane thinking about pulling you close to him, “Annie, and you know her name.”
“Sure.” It's your turn to roll your eyes, “It might have slipped my mind, so many girls lately.”
“Turns out, not really.” Steve admits. He turns around to open the box and grabs a bopper, stretching a bit to hand it to you. “Besides, I had other plans for tonight.”
You met him halfway, you always do. Harrington wonders if it means you crave those clandestine touches as much as he does. Your fingers brush on his and it sends a shiver down his whole body, and then you're gone, ready to munc on the sweetie before speaking.
“Being alone and crashing the squwsk reputation with your questionable music choices?” you joke and he chuckles with a shake of head. Harrington grabs himself a donut, considering if he should say it or not.
He decides to be bold. It's Valentine's Day, after all.
“I thought you'd be there.” Steve says, plaid and simple. “And, you know, no one should be alone on Valentine's Day.”
You hold on to silence for a moment. Eyes set on him like you know what he meant. He knows you do.
Ultimately, you nod, voice coming out tenderly: “Yeah, no one should.”
For now, you two just enjoy each other's company as Cyndi Lauper plays in the background. Fancy places, house parties, and expensive gifts.. you'd trade it all for this simple moment with Steve Harrington. And so would he. Donuts and music he doesn't care about make the perfect holiday if it means you are there, laughing at his dumb jokes and leaning in just a little too close.
Because there's always gonna be someone who loves you, even if they aren't ready to speak it out loud.
Did you like it? Comment and reblog! It helps me to know you want more content. Steve's masterlist with more stories! I recommend this for fluff and this for smut. Here if you wanna get real sad about it.
STEVE HARRINGTON TAGLIST & REQUESTS are OPEN!
steve's bat (taglist): @sunshine-daydreams0809
also tagging @artofwounding because I deleted the version you had liked before and this is a repost. sorry <3
