Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): the bedtime story was supposed to be a metaphor: an omega princess, a dying knight, a bite that pulls him back from the edge. Nobody told you it was also a how-to guide for the night you pull over on a dark Massachusetts highway and crawl through a shattered car window toward a stranger who smells like pine trees and everything you’ve been waiting for. Fate, apparently, does not believe in a slow introduction
Warnings: 18+ content, descriptions of a car accident, and critical injuries
The heater in the rented Ford Explorer blasts at full speed, but the New England chill still seeps through the glass. Beau leans his head against the passenger window, watching the dark, snow-dusted trees of the Massachusetts highway blur past.
“I’m just saying, your grandmother would have appreciated it if you had a second slice of cake,” his dad says, his hands relaxed at ten and two on the steering wheel.
Beau lets out a low laugh, his chest rumbling. “Dad, I ate half the lasagna by myself. If I eat two slices of a triple-fudge cake, Coach is going to bench my ass on Saturday. I’m an alpha, not a black hole.”
“You’re a growing boy.”
“I’m twenty-two. I think I’m done growing. And Briar needs me at peak performance. We’re two wins away from the championship.”
His dad glances over, a proud smile crinkling the corners of his eyes. “You played a good game last week. Your mother and I watched it from the living room. She was screaming at the television every time you got tackled.”
“Tell Mom to chill,” Beau says, shifting his long legs in the cramped footwell. “It’s football. Getting tackled is part of the job description.”
“Try telling an omega mother not to worry about her alpha son. It’s against her nature, Beau. You know how she gets.”
“Yeah, yeah. But seriously, thanks for driving me back to campus. I know you and Mom wanted to get back to the hotel.”
“Are you kidding? I jump at the chance to chauffeur Briar University’s star quarterback,” his dad jokes. “Besides, you had three beers at dinner. You know my rule. No driving after drinking, no matter how fast your alpha metabolism burns through it.”
“I was fine to drive,” Beau protests, though there’s no real heat in his voice. He stretches his neck, feeling a satisfying pop. “But I appreciate the ride. Seriously. It was good seeing Grammy. Wisconsin to Boston is a long flight for you guys.”
“She turned eighty, Beau. We wouldn’t miss it.”
The conversation lulls, the only sound the hum of the tires against the pavement and the low volume of the classic rock station playing on the radio. Beau closes his baby blue eyes, letting the alcohol and the heavy meal pull him into a comfortable drowsiness. He has practice at six a.m. tomorrow, and he needs the sleep.
“So,” his dad says after a few miles. “Any prospects?”
Beau groans, keeping his eyes shut. “Don’t start.”
“I’m just asking! You’re a handsome kid. You’ve got the looks, the swagger. You’re heading to the draft next year. Surely there’s an omega on that campus who’s caught your eye.”
“Dad, I don’t have time for a mate right now. Football is my priority. My only priority.”
“Life isn’t just about football, kid. Your mother and I met when we were your age.”
“And you guys are great,” Beau says, finally opening his eyes. “You’re the perfect mated pair. But I’m not looking for that right now. I just want to focus on the season.”
“Alright, alright. I’ll drop it.” His dad chuckles. “But you can’t fight fate, Beau. When you meet your mate, you’ll know. It hits you like a freight train.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“I’m serious! It’s-”
His dad cuts off with a sharp gasp.
Beau’s eyes snap forward.
A massive buck is standing dead center in their lane, its antlers gleaming in the headlights.
“Shit!” His dad yells, wrenching the steering wheel to the right.
The heavy SUV swerves violently. The tires lose traction instantly. Black ice.
“Dad!” Beau shouts, bracing his hands against the dashboard.
The world spins. The headlights illuminate a terrifying blur of tree trunks and snow. The vehicle skids sideways, completely out of control, tires screaming against the frozen asphalt.
Then comes the impact.
It sounds like a bomb going off. The passenger side of the Explorer slams into a massive oak tree. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and the airbag deploys with a violent punch to Beau’s face. Pain, white-hot and blinding, explodes through his head and down his spine.
Then, there is nothing but ringing silence.
***
You tap your fingers against the steering wheel, belting out the lyrics to an old nineties R&B track playing through your phone. You’ve just finished a gruelling three-hour practice session in the vocal booths at Berklee, and your throat feels a little raw, but the drive always puts you in a good mood.
“I’m telling you, Mom, Professor Hastings hates my vibrato,” you say, speaking loudly over the Bluetooth connection.
“She doesn’t hate your vibrato, honey,” your mom’s soothing voice comes through the speakers. “You’re just being too hard on yourself. You’re an incredible singer.”
“She said it was ‘too emotionally unrestrained.’ What does that even mean? I’m an omega. We’re supposed to be emotional.”
“She’s an old beta with a stick up her behind,” your mom says, making you laugh. “Just sing from your heart. That’s what matters.”
“I know, I know. I just want this showcase to go perfectly.”
“It will. You’ll be wonderful.” Your mom pauses. “Did you see that boy from your music theory class today? The alpha?”
You roll your eyes, taking a sip from your water bottle at a red light. “Mom. Stop.”
“What? I’m just asking!”
“No, I didn’t see him. And even if I did, I don’t care. He’s not my mate.”
“You don’t know that until you talk to him.”
“Mom, I want what you and Dad have,” you say softly, the humor fading from your voice. “I want the real thing. I don’t want to just settle for some random alpha because he has nice hair and plays the cello.”
“I know, sweetie. And you’ll find him.”
“I know I will.”
You stare out at the dark, winding road. You were raised on fairytales. Real ones. Stories of alphas and omegas finding each other against all odds. Your absolute favorite, the one you made your dad read to you every single night until you were twelve, was about an omega princess. Her alpha knight was dying, struck down in battle, and she saved him with a single bite to the claiming gland. The bond, the pure rush of mate-magic, pulled him back from the brink of death.
You know it’s just a story, a children’s myth, but a small part of your romantic heart still believes in the power of that kind of connection.
“Drive safe, okay?” Your mom says. “The roads get icy out there near the city limits.”
“I will. I’ll call you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
The call disconnects. You turn up the music, humming along. You round a sharp bend, the headlights cutting through the darkness.
That’s when you see the tire tracks.
They swerve wildly across the road, cutting through the thin layer of fresh snow, leading directly off the shoulder and down into a shallow, wooded ditch.
You slam on the brakes, your heart leaping into your throat. Your car skids slightly before coming to a halt on the shoulder. You throw it into park and leave the headlights on.
“Hello?” You shout, unbuckling your seatbelt and shoving your car door open. The freezing air bites through your thin jacket.
You scramble down the snowy embankment, your boots slipping on the ice. Down in the trees, a crushed SUV is wrapped around a massive oak. Steam is hissing from the crumpled hood.
“Hey! Are you okay?” You yell, running toward the driver’s side.
The door is wedged shut, but the window is shattered. An older man is slumped over the steering wheel. As you reach the car, he groans, lifting his head. A cut bleeds down his forehead, but his eyes are open.
“Sir! Sir, don’t move,” you say, reaching through the broken window.
“My … my boy,” the man gasps, his voice trembling with sheer panic. He turns his head frantically to the right. “Beau! Beau!”
You peer into the dark cabin. The passenger side took the brunt of the impact. The door is caved completely inward, crushing the seat.
And then, the scent hits you.
It is a physical blow. It knocks the breath from your lungs and makes your knees buckle.
Pine needles. Crisp winter air. A sharp, electric tang of ozone.
Your inner omega rears up, a violent, desperate howl echoing in your mind.
Mate.
“No,” you whisper, the word slipping out in a horrified breath.
You scramble around the back of the car to the passenger side. It’s a mess of twisted metal. You grip the handle of the mangled door and pull with all your strength, but it won’t budge.
“Help him!” The dad cries from inside. “Please, God, help him!”
“I’m trying!” You shout, tears already welling in your eyes.
You climb up onto the hood, slipping on the slick metal, and lean down through the shattered passenger window.
He is there. Your alpha.
He is beautiful, even covered in blood. Dark hair falls over a strong forehead. His eyes — a striking, pale baby blue — are half-open, unfocused and glassy.
“Hey,” you choke out, reaching in and pressing your shaking fingers to his cheek. His skin is terrifyingly cold. “Hey, stay with me. Please.”
His lips part. A terrible, wet rattling sound comes from his chest.
“Mate,” he breathes, the word barely a whisper.
“Yes,” you sob, tears spilling over your cheeks and dropping onto his jacket. “Yes, I’m here. I’m right here.”
You look down. His neck is bent at a sickening angle. Blood is pulsing sluggishly from a deep gash near his collarbone, soaking his shirt. His pulse, fluttering weakly under your fingertips, is slowing down.
He is dying.
“No, no, no,” you panic, pressing your hands against the wound to stop the bleeding. “Don’t you dare. You can’t leave me. We just met.”
His baby blue eyes lock onto yours. They are filled with an overwhelming sadness. His hand twitches, lifting just a fraction of an inch before falling back down.
“Cold,” he whispers.
“I know. Hold on. The ambulance is coming.” You haven’t even called them yet, but you need him to hold on.
But his pulse is fading. The bond, the fledgling thread connecting your soul to his, is dimming, flickering like a dying candle in a dark room.
He is slipping away.
Panic, primal and overwhelming, seizes you.
An omega princess. Her alpha knight was dying … she saved him with a single bite to the claiming gland.
It’s a fairytale. A stupid, childish myth.
But you have nothing else.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper, leaning down through the broken window.
“What are you doing?” His dad shouts from the driver’s seat.
You ignore him. You press your face into the crook of Beau’s neck. The scent of pine and ozone is intoxicating, even under the metallic tang of blood. You find the soft spot right above his collarbone.
You open your mouth, letting your canines descend.
“Please work,” you pray, tears blinding you.
You sink your teeth into his neck.
You bite down hard, breaking the skin, tasting salt and copper and him. You pour every ounce of your soul, your desperation, your pure, unrestrained omega energy into the bite. You claim him.
A shockwave ripples through the air.
Beau gasps. A sharp, violent intake of air. His back arches off the seat.
You hold on, crying, biting down until your jaw aches, tethering his fading life to yours. The metallic taste of his blood coats your tongue, but you don’t care. You hold on.
Underneath your hands, Beau’s chest heaves. A sharp, ragged gasp tears from his throat, loud in the freezing night air. The horrific rattling in his lungs stops, replaced by the deep, desperate pull of oxygen.
You slowly break the bite.
You don’t want to. Your omega instincts are screaming at you to stay exactly where you are, to bury your face in his neck and never, ever let go. But the rational, human part of your brain knows he needs real medical attention.
You pull back, just an inch.
Instantly, a large, heavy hand clamps onto the back of your jacket.
“Don’t,” Beau rasps. His voice is a broken, gravelly sound, but it’s entirely coherent.
“I have to,” you choke out, tears still streaming down your freezing cheeks. “I have to call 911.”
His grip tightens. Even covered in blood, even trapped in the mangled wreckage of the Ford Explorer, his alpha strength is undeniable. “Mine,” he grunts, his baby blue eyes locking onto yours. They aren’t glassy anymore. They are sharp, dilated, and blazing with a terrifying intensity.
“I know,” you whisper, your voice trembling. “I’m yours. I’m right here. But I need my phone.”
You fumble blindly in your coat pocket with your free hand, practically draped over the shattered window frame, your chest pressed against his uninjured shoulder. You manage to pull your phone out and hit the emergency button.
“911, what is your emergency?” The dispatcher’s voice rings out clearly over the speaker.
“There’s been an accident,” you say, your voice shaking so hard you barely recognize it. “A car crash. Off Route 2, about five miles past the Concord exit. An SUV hit a tree.”
“Okay, honey, calm down. Is anyone hurt?”
“Yes! The passenger-” You look down at Beau.
You stop.
You blink, convinced the darkness and your own tears are playing tricks on you.
“Miss? The passenger?” the dispatcher prompts.
You stare at Beau’s neck. The massive, gaping wound near his collarbone … it isn’t bleeding anymore. In fact, it isn’t open. The skin is smeared with thick, dark blood, but underneath the mess, you can clearly see unbroken skin. And his neck. Just minutes ago, it was bent at an angle that made you want to throw up.
Now, his head is resting perfectly straight against the ruined headrest.
“He …” You swallow hard. “He was hurt. He was bleeding out.”
“Okay, stay on the line. I have ambulances en route. Are you injured?”
“No. I wasn’t in the car. I just … I stopped.”
“What the hell?” His dad’s voice breaks through the shock.
You look past Beau. His dad is leaning over the center console, ignoring his own bleeding forehead. He is staring at his son like he’s seeing a ghost.
“Beau?” His dad whispers, his hands shaking as he reaches out to touch Beau’s arm. “Beau, talk to me.”
Beau doesn’t look at his dad. He doesn’t even blink. His eyes are entirely locked on you. His large hand slides from the back of your jacket up to the nape of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair. A low, vibrating rumble starts deep in his chest. A purr.
“Mate,” Beau says again. It isn’t a question.
“What just happened?” His dad asks, his voice bordering on hysterical. “He was dying. I saw it. His neck-”
“I don’t know,” you say, your phone slipping from your numb fingers and dropping onto the dashboard. You don’t care. The dispatcher is still talking, but it sounds like white noise.
You cautiously reach out, your fingers trembling, and wipe a smear of blood away from Beau’s collarbone. Right where the gash used to be, there is nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. And right above it, sitting perfectly over his claiming gland, is the angry, red mark of your teeth.
It’s completely sealed.
“The story,” you whisper to yourself, the realization hitting you like a physical blow. “The fairytale.”
“What fairytale?” His dad demands. “What did you do to him?”
“I claimed him,” you say, finally looking at the older man. “He was dying, and I didn’t know what else to do, so I … I bit him.”
“You bit him?” His dad repeats, bewildered. “And that fixed a broken neck?”
“Dad. Shut up,” Beau grumbles. He shifts in the crushed seat, wincing slightly, but otherwise moving with complete fluidity. “Stop yelling at her.”
“I’m not yelling!” His dad yells. “I’m trying to understand why you aren’t a corpse right now!”
“Because she saved me,” Beau says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He tugs gently on your hair, pulling you closer. “Get in here.”
“I can’t,” you say, a nervous laugh bubbling up in your throat. “The door is crushed. I’m literally hanging through the window.”
“Then I’ll come out there.” Beau starts to unbuckle his seatbelt with his free hand.
“Don’t move!” You and his dad shout at the exact same time.
“Beau, seriously, you were just in a massive car wreck,” you say, bringing your hands up to cup his face. His skin is warming up, the terrifying ice-cold chill fading rapidly. “You need to stay still.”
“I feel fine,” he insists, leaning into your touch. He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “You smell amazing. Like … vanilla and rain.”
“You smell like pine trees and a heart attack,” you reply, the adrenaline finally starting to crash, leaving you lightheaded.
Sirens wail in the distance, growing louder by the second. The flashing red and blue lights paint the snowy woods in a chaotic strobe effect.
“They’re here,” his dad breathes a sigh of relief. “Thank God.”
Two ambulances and a police cruiser pull up onto the shoulder of the highway. Car doors slam. Heavy boots crunch through the snow as three EMTs scramble down the embankment, their flashlights cutting through the dark.
“Hello! EMS!” A female EMT shouts. “Who’s hurt?”
“Down here!” His dad waves from the broken driver’s side window.
The EMTs split up. One goes to the dad, and two rush around the front of the hood toward you.
“Miss, step back,” a tall male EMT says, reaching out to guide you away from the car. “Let us assess the passenger.”
You try to comply. You really do. You plant your boots on the snowy hood and start to pull yourself backward out of the window.
Beau’s eyes snap open.
His arm shoots out, wrapping around your waist like a steel band. He yanks you right back against the door frame.
“No,” Beau growls.
It isn’t a normal voice. It’s a sound ripped straight from the chest of an apex predator. A deep, chest-rattling alpha warning that makes the hair on your arms stand up.
The EMT freezes, his hands raised. “Whoa. Okay, buddy. I just need to check you out. You’re covered in blood.”
“I said no,” Beau snarls, his grip on your waist tightening until it’s almost painful. He pulls you so close your face is buried in his neck. “Mine.”
“Sir, you’ve been in a severe accident,” the second EMT, an older beta man, says calmly. “Your mate needs to step back so we can make sure you don’t have internal bleeding.”
“She stays,” Beau snaps.
“Beau, let me go for a second,” you try to reason with him, pressing your hands against his chest. “They need to help you.”
“I don’t need help. I need you.”
The tall EMT loses his patience. “Look, man, you’re in shock.” He steps forward and grabs your upper arm, pulling firmly to dislodge you from the window.
Your vision goes red.
It happens so fast you don’t even have time to process it. Before you can think, before you can rationalize, your omega instincts completely hijack your brain.
A vicious, ear-splitting hiss rips from your throat. You bare your teeth, twisting out of the EMT’s grip and lunging slightly toward him, shielding Beau’s body with your own.
“Don’t touch me!” You shriek, your voice echoing off the trees. “Don’t touch him!”
The EMT stumbles backward, completely caught off guard. “Jesus Christ!”
Beau lets out a booming roar of approval, his hand sliding up to grip the back of your neck protectively. He glares at the medics with absolute murder in his eyes.
“Okay! Okay, everyone take a breath!” the female EMT shouts from the driver’s side. She looks over the roof of the car. “What is going on over there?”
“They’re going feral!” The tall EMT yells back, rubbing his arm. “The passenger is practically holding the girl hostage, and she just hissed at me like a rabid raccoon!”
“I am not a raccoon!” You yell defensively, though you are still firmly plastered against Beau’s chest, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.
“They’re newly mated,” Beau’s dad calls out tiredly, leaning his head back against his seat. “Like, five minutes ago newly mated. Their instincts are completely fried.”
The EMTs all stop and stare.
“Are you kidding me?” The beta EMT asks, looking from Beau to you. “You guys decided to mate in the middle of a car crash?”
“I didn’t decide anything!” You argue, feeling a flush of embarrassment creep up your neck. “He was dying! His neck was broken, and he was bleeding out, so I bit him!”
Silence falls over the woods, save for the hum of the ambulance engines on the road above.
The tall EMT shines his flashlight directly onto Beau. The bright beam illuminates the horrific amount of blood soaking his shirt, his jacket, and the seat.
“If he was bleeding out,” the EMT says slowly, “where is the wound?”
“It’s gone,” Beau’s dad says. “She bit him, and … and it just stopped. The bleeding stopped. His neck snapped back into place. I saw it happen.”
The EMTs exchange a look that clearly communicates they think all three of you have severe concussions.
“Right,” the beta EMT says, his tone dripping with professional skepticism. “Spontaneous regeneration via mate-bite. That’s a new one for the incident report.”
“It’s true!” You insist, twisting slightly to glare at them. “Look at him! Does he look like he has a broken neck?”
“No, he looks like a guy who’s very lucky,” the female EMT says, walking around the front of the car. She keeps a safe distance. “Listen to me, both of you. Mated or not, feral or not, we need to get him out of this car. There is gasoline leaking. If you don’t let us help, we’re calling the police officers down here to physically separate you.”
Beau growls again, but you place a hand firmly over his mouth.
“Stop it,” you tell him, looking down into his fierce blue eyes. “She’s right. The car isn’t safe. We have to get you out.”
Beau kisses the palm of your hand, his eyes softening instantly. “Only if you stay with me.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
It takes another ten minutes and a ridiculous amount of negotiating to get Beau out of the wreckage. The passenger door is completely jammed, so the fire department has to pry it open with the jaws of life while you stand exactly three feet away — the maximum distance Beau’s feral alpha brain will tolerate without him trying to lunge out of the car.
When they finally pop the door off its hinges, Beau refuses the stretcher. He climbs out of the ruined SUV on his own two feet.
He is massive.
You hadn’t quite realized it when he was crumpled in the seat, but standing up, he towers over you. He’s easily six-foot-three, built like a brick wall under his ruined winter coat. He takes one step out of the snowbank, ignores the EMTs entirely, and wraps his arms around you.
He buries his face in your neck, right over your own claiming gland, and breathes in so deeply his chest expands against yours.
“Okay, big guy, let’s get you up the hill,” the beta EMT sighs, looking thoroughly exhausted.
Beau keeps one arm wrapped firmly around your waist, practically carrying you as the two of you trudge up the snowy embankment. His dad follows behind on a backboard, just as a precaution, arguing with the paramedics about his deductible.
When you reach the ambulances, chaos erupts again.
“Sir, you need to ride in this rig so we can monitor your vitals,” the tall EMT says, pointing to the first ambulance.
“Fine,” Beau says. He turns to you. “Get in.”
“Whoa, hold on,” the EMT steps in. “Protocol says passengers only in the back. Your girlfriend can ride up front or take her own car.”
Beau’s jaw ticks. His eyes flash with that dangerous, feral light again. “She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my mate. And she’s riding in the back with me.”
“Sir, I can’t allow-”
“Listen to me very carefully,” Beau interrupts, his voice dropping an octave into a terrifying, commanding alpha tone. “I just survived a crash that should have killed me. My mate is the only reason I am breathing right now. If you think for one second I am letting her out of my sight, you are out of your goddamn mind. She gets in the back, or I walk to the hospital.”
The EMT stares at him, then looks at his sheer size, then looks at the blood covering him.
“Fine,” the EMT mutters. “Get in. Both of you.”
You scramble up into the back of the brightly lit ambulance, your legs shaking slightly. Beau climbs in right behind you. Instead of sitting on the stretcher, he pulls you down onto the small bench seat along the wall, pulling you directly onto his lap.
“Sir, I really need you on the stretcher,” the female medic says from the corner.
“I’m fine right here,” Beau says stubbornly, wrapping his arms around you and resting his chin on your shoulder.
“Just let him,” you tell the medic apologetically. “It’s easier than fighting him.”
The ambulance doors slam shut, and the engine rumbles as it pulls out onto the highway. The bright fluorescent lights of the rig are blinding after the dark woods.
You finally get a good look at him.
His face is smeared with dried blood, some from his own vanished wounds, some from the cut on his dad’s head. His dark hair is wild and sticking up in every direction. His expensive winter coat is ruined.
And he is the most gorgeous man you have ever seen in your life.
“Stop staring at me,” he murmurs, a cocky smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth.
“I’m not staring,” you lie, your face heating up.
“You totally are.” He reaches up, his large, rough thumb gently wiping a tear track off your cheek. “You’re ruining my tough guy image. Crying over me when we just met.”
“You were dying!” You say, smacking his chest lightly. “Excuse me for being slightly upset!”
“I’m kidding,” he says softly, his smirk fading into something deeply sincere. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He tilts his head, his blue eyes searching yours. “You saved my life.”
“I … I guess I did.”
“No guessing about it.” He shifts, pulling you closer. “I felt it, you know. Before you bit me. I felt the bond. It was like … like a cord snapping tight in my chest. And then everything went cold. But when you bit me …” He shudders, a full-body tremor. “It was like lightning. It burned all the cold away.”
“I read about it in a book,” you admit quietly, feeling incredibly stupid now that the danger has passed. “When I was a kid. A fairytale about an omega saving her mate. I didn’t think it would actually work.”
Beau laughs, a rich, warm sound that fills the small space. “Well, remind me to buy that book and frame it.”
The medic clears her throat loudly. “I still need to take your blood pressure, sir.”
Beau sighs dramatically, extending his arm while keeping his other arm wrapped firmly around your waist. “Knock yourself out.”
While the medic works, Beau looks at you, his eyes crinkling. “I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Y/N,” you say.
“Y/N,” he repeats, testing the syllables on his tongue. He nods. “I like it. I’m Beau. Beau Maxwell.”
“I know.”
He raises an eyebrow. “You know? What, are you a football fan?”
“No,” you scoff. “My roommate is. She has a massive poster of you in our dorm. It’s deeply unsettling.”
Beau throws his head back and laughs again. “Ouch. My ego.”
“You’ll survive. You clearly have a talent for surviving.”
“Only because I have you.” He leans in, his face inches from yours. “So, Y/N. Since we skipped the whole dating phase and went straight to the life-saving, soul-binding mate claim … what do you want to do for our first date?”
You stare at him, completely incredulous. “Are you asking me out in the back of an ambulance?”
“I’m an opportunist,” he says with a wicked grin. “Plus, I have a feeling my schedule is going to be pretty packed with doctors telling me I’m a medical marvel. I need to pencil you in.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’m your alpha,” he corrects smoothly, his voice dropping an octave. “And you’re my omega.”
A shiver runs down your spine at the words. The sheer truth of it, the heavy, intoxicating reality of the bond humming between you, is overwhelming. You look at him — at the blood, the cocky smirk, the intense, adoring eyes — and you realize your life will never, ever be the same.
“Pizza,” you say finally.
“What?”
“For our first date. I want pizza. And you’re paying.”
Beau’s grin widens, bright and devastating. “Deal.”
***
The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic symphony of beeping monitors, squeaking rubber soles, and the low hum of medical staff, but inside Trauma Room 3, the silence is thick and highly irritated.
Dr. Evans, a balding beta with dark circles under his eyes, stares at the glowing X-ray on the tablet in his hands. Then, he looks up at Beau. Then, he looks back down at the tablet.
“I don’t understand,” Dr. Evans mutters, pushing his glasses up his nose.
Beau sighs, leaning back against the uncomfortable hospital pillows. “Doc, with all due respect, I don’t know how many different ways I can say this. I am fine.”
“You were in a high-speed collision with a tree,” Dr. Evans says, his voice flat. “Your father’s side of the vehicle sustained moderate damage, but the passenger side was crushed inward by nearly three feet. The paramedics reported that you were covered in a massive amount of blood. Which you are.”
He gestures vaguely to Beau’s bare chest. They had to literally cut his ruined, blood-soaked sweater off him when he refused to let go of your hand long enough to take it off normally. Now, he’s sitting shirtless in the stark hospital lighting, his skin stained with dried, dark red flakes, but perfectly intact.
“It’s my blood,” Beau says, sounding bored.
“Yes, but from where?” Dr. Evans asks, his voice rising in frustration. “Your X-rays are completely clear. No fractures, no hairline breaks, no internal bleeding, no contusions. There isn’t even whiplash. The only physical anomaly is a minor elevation in your heart rate and … well.”
Dr. Evans glances at you.
You are currently squeezed onto the edge of the narrow hospital bed, your legs pressed against Beau’s hip. His heavy, warm arm is locked around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. Every time a nurse or doctor has stepped within a three-foot radius, Beau’s chest rumbles with a low, instinctual warning growl that makes the staff extremely nervous.
“And the fresh bite mark on your claiming gland,” Dr. Evans finishes carefully.
“Exactly,” Beau says, pointing his free hand at you. “She bit me. She’s my mate. The bond healed me. We’ve been over this.”
“Mr. Maxwell,” Dr. Evans sighs, rubbing his temples. “Spontaneous cellular regeneration via a mating bite is an urban legend. It’s a myth omegas tell their pups. It does not actually happen.”
“Then explain the blood,” you say, speaking up for the first time in ten minutes.
Dr. Evans looks at you. “Shock can do strange things to the mind, miss. And being a newly awakened omega in the presence of a distressed alpha can trigger intense olfactory hallucinations. It’s highly likely the blood belongs to a wounded animal that was struck during the crash, and in the confusion, you believed-”
“Are you calling my mate a liar?” Beau’s voice drops instantly. It loses all the casual cockiness and turns into a lethal, icy rumble. His fingers dig into your waist.
Dr. Evans pales, taking a distinct step back. “No. No, I am simply saying scientifically-”
“Scientifically, I had a severed artery and a snapped C-spine twenty minutes ago,” Beau snarls, his baby blue eyes darkening. “She healed me. Put it in my chart and discharge me.”
“I … I need an attending to sign off,” Dr. Evans stammers, quickly retreating toward the door. “I’ll be right back.”
The door clicks shut.
You let out a long breath, slumping slightly against Beau’s chest. The adrenaline of the night is finally wearing off, leaving behind a bone-deep exhaustion. “He thinks we’re crazy.”
“Let him think whatever he wants,” Beau murmurs. The aggression instantly bleeds out of his posture. He shifts, pulling you fully onto his lap despite the cramped space of the hospital bed. He presses his face into your neck, taking a deep, greedy inhale of your scent. “You’re safe. I’m safe. That’s all that matters.”
You wrap your arms around his broad, bare shoulders, resting your chin on top of his head. His skin is so warm. The scent of pine and ozone is settling, shifting from the sharp, electric tang of a newly struck bond into something deeper, richer. Like a forest after a heavy rain.
“Your dad is going to be okay,” you say softly. “The nurse said it was just a surface laceration and a mild concussion.”
“I know,” Beau says against your skin. “I can smell it. He’s stressed, but he’s fine.” He turns his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your pulse point. “You’re exhausted.”
“I’ve had a busy night,” you joke tiredly. “Vocal practice, driving, pulling a giant alpha out of a car wreck. Standard Tuesday.”
Beau chuckles, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against your chest. “You have no idea how glad I am you decided to take that road.”
Before you can answer, a commotion erupts out in the hallway.
“I don’t care about the visiting hours, lady, my best friend is in there!” a loud, frantic voice echoes through the thin door.
“Sir, you cannot go back there-”
“Watch me!”
The door to Trauma Room 3 flies open with such force it bangs against the wall.
A tall guy with messy blond hair and frantic green eyes bursts into the room, chest heaving. He’s wearing Briar University sweatpants and a backwards snapback, looking like he literally ran all the way from campus.
Three more massive guys pile in directly behind him, completely ignoring the protests of the nurse in the hallway. They are all huge, clearly athletes, radiating an overwhelming wall of alpha energy that instantly makes your omega instincts flare in warning.
You tense, shrinking back against Beau.
Beau reacts instantly. A vicious, deafening roar rips from his chest. He throws his body over yours, shielding you from the door, his canines fully descended as he glares at the intruders.
The four guys freeze in their tracks.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Easy, man, it’s us!” The blond guy yells, throwing his hands up in surrender. “It’s Dean!”
Beau blinks, the feral glaze slowly fading from his eyes as he registers the familiar scents of his teammates. The growl dies down in his throat, but he doesn’t loosen his grip on you. He stays firmly angled in front of you, a physical barrier between you and his friends.
“Dean,” Beau breathes out, his shoulders dropping a fraction.
“Yeah, it’s me, you idiot,” Dean says, exhaling a massive breath. He looks Beau up and down, his eyes wide. “Jesus, Beau. We got a call from your dad. He said you guys hit a tree and you were crushed. I thought … man, I thought I was walking in here to identify a body.”
“I’m fine,” Beau says firmly.
A guy with dark hair and striking gray eyes steps forward, looking incredibly confused. “You don’t look fine. You’re covered in blood. But … you’re sitting up.”
“And you’re growling at us,” adds a guy with a sharp jawline and a sarcastic smirk. “Which is rude, considering we broke several traffic laws to get here.”
“I’m growling because you busted in here unannounced and spooked my mate,” Beau snaps.
The silence in the room is absolute.
All four hockey players stop. They stare at Beau. Then, slowly, simultaneously, they shift their gaze to look past his massive shoulder, spotting you tucked against his side.
“Your … what?” Dean chokes out.
Beau’s chest puffs out. The sheer pride radiating off him is almost blinding. He shifts slightly, pulling you forward so you are visible, but keeps one heavy, protective arm locked around your waist.
“My mate,” Beau announces smoothly, a smug grin spreading across his face. “Guys, this is Y/N. Y/N, these are the morons I’m friends with. Dean, Garrett, Logan, and Tucker.”
You offer a tiny, awkward wave. “Hi.”
Tucker, a guy with a calm demeanor and a thick Southern drawl, steps forward, his eyes narrowed as he looks at the blood on Beau, and then at the very clear, angry red bite mark on Beau’s neck.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Tucker mutters. “He actually got bit.”
“Wait, wait, wait,” Dean says, shaking his head like a wet dog. “I’m confused. Coach calls, says you’re dying. We get here, you’re covered in blood, but you’re chilling in a hospital bed with a gorgeous omega on your lap, and you’re saying you just got mated?”
“That’s exactly what happened,” Beau says, his grin turning incredibly cocky. “She found the wreck. I was bleeding out. My neck was broken. She claimed me and healed me.”
Garrett crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow. “Beau, bro, I love you, but you realize that’s biologically impossible, right?”
“Tell that to the doctors,” Beau scoffs. “They’re out there right now having a panic attack over my X-rays. Not a scratch on me. Because my omega,” he pauses, leaning down to press a loud, obnoxious kiss to your cheek, “is a literal miracle worker.”
You flush, burying your face in his shoulder. “Beau, stop, you’re embarrassing me.”
“I am praising you,” he corrects, his voice dripping with affection. “You saved my life.”
Logan lets out a low whistle. “So, let me get this straight. You get into a near-fatal car crash, and instead of dying like a normal person, you manage to score a soulmate?”
“I have excellent timing,” Beau says.
“You have a horseshoe shoved up your ass, is what you have,” Dean groans, though the sheer relief in his voice is palpable. He walks over, keeping his movements slow and deliberate to avoid triggering Beau’s newly-mated instincts, and claps a hand on Beau’s uninjured shoulder. “God, man. Don’t ever do that to us again. I almost threw up in Logan’s car.”
“Hey, if you puked on my upholstery, I would have left you on the side of the highway,” Logan points out.
“It’s true,” Garrett nods solemnly. “He loves that car more than he loves us.”
You can’t help it. A small laugh escapes your lips.
The sound draws the attention of all four alphas back to you. The intense scrutiny makes your cheeks heat up again, but it isn’t predatory. It’s curious. And welcoming.
“So, Y/N,” Garrett says, offering a charming, easy smile. “You really pulled this meathead out of a wrecked car?”
“I couldn’t get him out, actually,” you admit. “The door was stuck. I just … climbed in the window.”
“And bit him,” Tucker adds, looking impressed. “Takes a lot of guts. Especially with a feral alpha bleeding out.”
“I read a lot of fairytales growing up,” you shrug, feeling shy but incredibly safe with Beau’s arm wrapped around you like a shield. “I guess I just panicked and hoped the stories were right.”
“Well, thank God you did,” Dean says, his expression softening into something entirely genuine. He looks at you, really looks at you, and you can see the deep, brotherly love he has for Beau shining in his eyes. “Seriously, Y/N. If you saved him … you saved all of us. Thank you.”
“Yeah,” Garrett agrees softly. “Welcome to the family, Y/N.”
Beau’s chest rumbles with a purr. He is practically vibrating with happiness, his alpha instincts perfectly soothed by his pack accepting his mate. He rubs his chin against your hair.
“Alright, alright, that’s enough sentimental crap,” Logan claps his hands together, breaking the emotional tension. “Are they discharging you tonight, or do we need to smuggle you out in a laundry cart? Because we have a game on Saturday, and Coach is going to lose his mind if his star quarterback is trapped in a hospital.”
“They’re discharging me,” Beau says confidently. “There’s literally nothing wrong with me. As soon as the doctor gets back with the paperwork, we’re out of here.”
“Good,” Dean says, dropping into a plastic guest chair in the corner of the room. “Because my adrenaline is crashing, and I need a cheeseburger.”
“I want pizza,” you say automatically.
All five guys look at you.
“She wants pizza,” Beau announces to the room, as if you just decreed a new law of physics. He looks at Dean. “Go get my mate a pizza.”
Dean stares at him. “Are you serious? I just drove a hundred miles an hour down Route 2 to see if you were alive, and you’re treating me like Postmates?”
“Did you miss the part where she saved my life?” Beau demands, his eyebrows pulling together. “She asked for pizza, Dean. Get the girl a pizza.”
“I’ll get it,” Tucker laughs, turning toward the door. “Any specific toppings, sweetheart?”
“Don’t call her sweetheart,” Beau growls immediately.
Tucker raises his hands, backing out of the room. “Right. Sorry. Feral alpha. Got it. Pepperoni?”
“Pepperoni is perfect, thank you,” you say, glaring up at Beau. “And stop growling at your friends.”
“They need to know boundaries,” Beau grumbles, though he looks entirely unapologetic.
“They’re just trying to be nice,” you tell him, reaching up to run your fingers through his messy, dark hair. The simple touch is electric. It sends a wave of calm straight down the bond, and you can physically feel his muscles relaxing under your hand.
Garrett watches the exchange with a highly amused expression. “Whipped. He’s been mated for an hour, and he’s already completely whipped.”
“I’m not whipped,” Beau scoffs.
“You literally just barked at Dean to go buy her dinner,” Logan points out. “If she asked you to wear a leash, you’d probably ask what color.”
“I am an alpha,” Beau says, his voice dripping with offended dignity. “I command respect.”
You pull your hand out of his hair and poke him in the ribs. “Beau. Hush.”
“Yes, baby,” he says instantly.
The entire room bursts into laughter. Dean practically falls out of the plastic chair, and even Garrett has to lean against the wall, shaking his head.
“Oh, this is going to be the best semester ever,” Logan cackles. “The great Beau Maxwell, tamed.”
Beau glares at them, but there’s no real heat in it. He just pulls you closer, resting his head against yours. The chaos of his friends fills the small hospital room, loud and boisterous, turning a terrifying night into something surprisingly warm.
The door opens again, and Dr. Evans steps back in, holding a stack of discharge papers. He stops dead in his tracks, staring at the four massive athletes crowding the small room.
“Is there a problem here?” Dr. Evans asks nervously.
“No problem, Doc,” Beau says, holding his hand out for the papers. “Just waiting to get out of here so I can take my mate on a date.”
Dr. Evans sighs, handing over the clipboard. “Sign at the bottom. And please, Mr. Maxwell, take it easy for the next forty-eight hours. Miracles aside, your body has been through a trauma.”
“I feel better than ever,” Beau promises, signing the paperwork with a messy scrawl.
And as he looks down at you, his blue eyes soft and entirely devoted, you realize he isn’t lying. The bond hums between you, bright and unbroken, a fairytale come to life in the sterile lights of a hospital room.
***
The frosty Boston air hits your face the second the sliding doors of the emergency room part, but you barely feel the chill. You are currently tucked flush against Beau’s side, enveloped in the heavy, ruinous warmth of his ruined winter coat, which he has stubbornly draped over your shoulders despite the fact that he is currently shirtless in twenty-degree weather.
“Beau, you are going to catch pneumonia,” you tell him, trying to shrug the coat off to give it back to him.
His large hand clamps over the lapel, holding it firmly in place around your neck. “I’m an alpha. We run hot. Plus, I just regenerated a broken neck. I think my immune system can handle a little breeze. Keep the coat on.”
“He’s right, Y/N,” Garrett says, walking backward a few paces ahead of you. “Don’t try to fight a freshly mated alpha on temperature control. They get weirdly territorial about their omega’s body heat. My cousin mated last year, and he practically kept his poor omega wrapped in bubble wrap and heated blankets for a week.”
“I am not weird,” Beau grumbles, though his arm tightening around your waist completely contradicts his statement.
“You’re a little weird, man,” Logan calls out, clicking his keys to unlock a pickup truck parked illegally near the ambulance bay. “And hey, before you get in my car, I need to know you aren’t going to flake dried blood all over my upholstery.”
Beau glares at him. “I’m literally fine, Logan. But if you’re that worried, I’ll buy you a new car with my signing bonus next year.”
“I’m holding you to that,” Logan smirks, pulling the back door open. “Alright, kids. In you go. Tucker and Garrett are taking Garrett’s Jeep. Dean is riding shotgun with me so I can control the aux cord.”
“I have great taste in music!” Dean protests, rounding the hood.
“You listen to EDM remixes of country songs, Dean. You have zero taste,” Logan deadpans, climbing into the driver’s seat.
Beau practically lifts you into the spacious backseat of the truck, sliding in directly beside you. He doesn’t just sit next to you; he pulls you across the supple leather until you are practically sitting on his lap, your knees resting against his thigh. He exhales a long, deep breath, burying his face in your hair. The constant, thrumming hum of the bond — a sensation you are still trying to wrap your head around — settles into a peaceful, rhythmic vibration between the two of you.
As Logan pulls out of the hospital parking lot, the heater in the car kicks in, blasting warm air. It reminds you, with a sudden, jarring jolt, of the crashed Ford Explorer.
“Your dad,” you say, looking up at Beau quickly. “We left without saying goodbye to him. Is he-”
“He’s fine,” Beau soothes, rubbing a heavy thumb along your hip. “He texted me while the doctor was printing my discharge papers. He caught a cab back to the hotel. My mom is there, and he said she’s currently fussing over him and having a minor meltdown. He told me to go with my boys, take care of my mate, and that we’ll all get together for a proper breakfast tomorrow once everyone’s blood pressure drops.”
“Oh, thank God,” you breathe out, relieved.
The mention of parents, however, sends a cold spike of panic straight through your chest.
“Oh my god,” you gasp, sitting bolt upright.
Beau’s hands instantly tighten around you, his alpha instincts flaring as a low, rumbling growl vibrates in his throat. “What? What’s wrong? Are you hurt?”
Dean twists around in the passenger seat, looking alarmed. “Is it delayed shock? Do we need to turn around?”
“No, no, I’m not hurt,” you say, frantically digging through your pockets until you find your phone. “I hung up on my mom.”
“What?” Beau blinks, the protective tension instantly bleeding out of his broad shoulders, replaced by confusion.
“When I was driving,” you explain, staring at the terrifying 14 Missed Calls notification glowing on your lock screen. “I was on the phone with my mom right before I saw the tire tracks. I told her I had to go, and then I just … I never called her back. She knows I was pulling over for a crash. She’s probably out of her mind with worry.”
“Oh, shit,” Logan says from the front, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Yeah, you better call her right now. An omega mother’s panic is no joke.”
“Put it on speaker,” Beau says softly, his blue eyes warm and encouraging. “I’m right here.”
You swallow hard, your thumb hovering over her contact name. You press call and tap the speaker icon.
It doesn’t even ring once.
“Y/N?!” Your mom’s voice explodes through the car speakers, tight with tears and absolute terror. “Oh my god, honey! Are you okay? Where are you? I’ve been calling and calling! Your father was just about to call the state highway patrol!”
“Mom, Mom, breathe, I’m okay,” you say quickly, your own voice cracking a little at the sound of her panic. “I’m perfectly fine. I promise. Not a scratch on me.”
A loud, shuddering sob echoes through the phone. “You said there was a crash. You just vanished. I thought … I don’t even know what I thought.”
“I know, I’m so sorry I didn’t call you right back,” you say, leaning back against Beau’s solid chest. His hand slowly strokes your arm, grounding you. “It’s just … things got really chaotic, really fast.”
“What happened? Were there people in the car? The news said there was a severe accident on Route 2.”
“There was,” you say, taking a deep breath. You look up at Beau. He offers a slow, reassuring nod. “Mom, there was an alpha in the passenger seat. His dad was driving, and they hit black ice.”
“Oh, how awful,” your mom gasps. “Did the ambulance get there in time?”
“They did, but … Mom, he was really hurt. Like, really bad.” You bite your lip, trying to figure out how to say this without sounding completely insane. “And … well, when I got to the car, his scent hit me.”
There is a beat of dead silence on the line.
Then, your mom’s voice drops to a near whisper. “His scent?”
“Yeah.”
“Y/N,” she says, the syllables breathless. “Are you telling me …”
“He’s my mate, Mom,” you admit, the words feeling incredibly heavy and magical all at once. “He’s my mate.”
“Oh my god!” Your mom shrieked, the sound entirely different this time. “Y/F/N! Y/F/N, get in here! Our baby found her mate!” You can hear her pulling the phone away from her face, shouting to your dad in the background. She comes back on the line, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh, honey, I told you! I told you it would happen when you least expect it! Oh, this is wonderful! Is he okay? You said he was hurt!”
“He was dying, Mom,” you say, the trauma of the memory making your throat tight. “His neck was broken. He was bleeding out. His pulse was stopping.”
“What?” The joy vanishes, replaced by a horrified gasp. “But you just said-”
“I did the thing,” you blurts out.
“What thing?”
“The fairytale thing,” you say, your voice dropping in embarrassment, completely aware that there are three alphas listening to this conversation in dead silence. “The story dad used to read to me. About the omega princess who saved her knight. I panicked, Mom. I didn’t know what to do, and I could feel him slipping away, so I just … I bit him.”
Silence. Total, ringing silence.
“Mom?” You ask nervously.
“You bit him,” your mom repeats slowly, as if sounding out a foreign language.
“Through the claiming gland,” you confirm. “And Mom … it worked. It actually worked. The bleeding stopped. His neck healed. The doctors at the hospital just did X-rays, and he doesn’t even have a bruise.”
“That’s … that’s impossible,” your dad’s deep, steady voice finally comes through the speaker. He must have taken the phone. “Sweetheart, those are just bedtime stories. Biologically, a mating bite seals a bond, it doesn’t perform miracles.”
“I’m telling you, Dad, it happened,” you insist.
Beau leans forward slightly, his mouth coming closer to the microphone. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Y/L/N.”
Another stunned silence from your parents.
“Who is this?” Your dad asks, his tone instantly slipping into a protective, assessing alpha timber.
“I’m Beau,” Beau says smoothly, his chest rumbling with natural authority, though his tone is incredibly respectful. “Beau Maxwell. I’m your daughter’s mate. And I just wanted to tell you myself, sir, that she’s telling the truth. I was dead to rights in that car. She saved my life.”
“Beau Maxwell?” Your dad repeats. “Wait a minute. The Briar quarterback?”
Beau grins, a cocky little smirk playing on his lips. “That’s me, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” your dad laughs, a rich, booming sound. “My little girl bagged a D1 athlete.”
“Stop it!” Your mom scolds in the background, though she sounds elated. “Beau, sweetheart, it is so wonderful to meet you. I can’t believe this is happening. We are just so overwhelmed, but we are so, so happy for you both.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Beau says, his voice softening. “I promise you, I’m going to take very good care of her. I owe her my life, but even if I didn’t, I’d give her the world anyway.”
Your breath hitches. You look up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. He isn’t looking at the phone; he is looking right down at you, his blue eyes blazing with absolute sincerity.
From the front seat, Dean dramatically pretends to gag, making choking noises.
“Was that someone gagging?” Your mom asks, confused.
“Just my idiot friends, Mrs. Y/L/N,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you. “We’re heading back to my place now to get some food in her. It’s been a long night.”
“Of course, of course. Go eat, rest,” your mom says quickly. “We love you so much, Y/N. We will drive down to Boston this weekend to meet him. I want a full story. Every detail.”
“I love you guys too,” you smile, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
You hang up the phone, leaning back against the leather seat. You let out a long, exhausted breath. “Well. That went better than expected.”
“Your parents seem awesome,” Beau says, kissing the top of your head.
“They are,” you nod. “They’re just going to be incredibly overbearing for the next six months. My mom is a hopeless romantic, so she is going to want to plan a mating ceremony immediately.”
“Let her,” Beau says easily. “I’ll rent out a castle if she wants.”
“Okay, Rockefeller,” Dean snorts from the front. “Let’s stick to surviving the week before we book a castle.”
Logan pulls the car onto a quiet, tree-lined street about a mile off Briar’s main campus, pulling into the driveway of a massive, sprawling two-story colonial house. Garrett’s Jeep is already parked on the lawn, and Tucker is walking up the front steps balancing four large pizza boxes.
“Home sweet home,” Logan announces, putting the car in park.
The house is exactly what you would expect from a group of elite college athletes, yet surprisingly clean. The living room is gigantic, dominated by a massive, U-shaped sectional couch that looks like it could comfortably sleep eight people, a ridiculously large flat-screen TV, and an impressive sound system. There are hockey sticks leaning in the corner and a football resting on the coffee table, but the space smells comfortably like a mix of their scents — cedar, sandalwood, musk, and clean laundry.
“Kitchen’s to the right, bathroom is down the hall,” Dean says, kicking his shoes off by the door. “Make yourself at home, Y/N. You practically own the place now.”
You step out of your boots, hanging Beau’s ruined coat on a hook. Beau instantly wraps his arm around your waist again, guiding you toward the living room.
Tucker sets the pizza boxes down on the wide coffee table. “We got two pepperonis, a meat lovers, and a plain cheese for Logan because his palate is that of a fussy toddler.”
“Hey, respect the classics,” Logan defends, grabbing a slice of cheese.
You go to sit down on an empty cushion on the sectional, but Beau simply pulls you backward. He drops down onto the plush fabric and easily guides you right down onto his lap. You end up straddling his thighs sideways, your back resting against his arm.
“Beau, there’s plenty of room,” you laugh softly, though you don’t make any real effort to move. The truth is, the physical contact is addictive.
“I’m comfortable,” he states, resting his chin on your shoulder. He leans forward, his long arm reaching out to grab a massive slice of pepperoni pizza from the box.
He doesn’t take a bite. Instead, he folds it slightly and brings it directly to your mouth.
You blink at the slice, then look over your shoulder at him. “Are you serious right now?”
“You said you wanted pizza,” Beau says smoothly. “Eat.”
“I can feed myself, you weirdo,” you say, your face flushing hot.
“Humor me,” his voice drops, the vibration rumbling directly against your spine. “My instincts are screaming at me to make sure you’re provided for. Just take a bite, Y/N, before I lose my mind.”
You roll your eyes, but the heavy, intoxicating pull of the bond makes you part your lips. You take a bite of the pizza. It’s perfectly greasy and delicious, the exact kind of comfort food you need after a near-death experience.
Beau watches you chew, his eyes tracking the movement of your throat with dark, laser-focused intensity. A low, satisfied purr vibrates in his chest.
Across the coffee table, Dean groans loudly, dropping his face into his hands. “Oh my god. I can’t. I literally can’t watch this. It’s like watching a nature documentary about terrifyingly codependent wolves.”
“Shut up, Dean,” Garrett laughs around a mouthful of crust. “It’s cute.”
“It’s gross,” Dean argues, pointing a slice of meat lovers at Beau. “Can you not do the weird bird-feeding thing in the communal living space? Some of us are trying to eat.”
Beau doesn’t even look at him. He just waits for you to finish chewing before offering you the slice again. “I literally died an hour ago, Dean. You can put up with me being in love with my mate.”
The casual, effortless way he says it makes your breath catch. It’s insane. You’ve known him for roughly two hours. But as you look at his profile, the sharp line of his jaw, the gentle way he holds the food for you, it doesn’t feel insane at all. It feels like absolute truth.
“Fine, use the death card,” Dean grumbles, though he’s smiling. “But when you start baby-talking her, I’m moving out.”
“So,” Tucker says, leaning back against the couch and looking at you. “Y/N. We know you’re at Berklee. Vocal performance, you said?”
You nod, taking another bite of the pizza Beau is offering. “Yeah. My concentration is in classical crossover and contemporary theater.”
“Damn, so you’ve got pipes,” Logan says, looking impressed. “That’s intense. Berklee is no joke.”
“It’s a lot of work,” you admit, wiping your mouth with a napkin. “My professor currently thinks my vibrato is ‘too emotionally unrestrained.’”
Beau frowns, his brow furrowing. “Who is your professor? Give me their name.”
“Why?” You ask, amused. “Are you going to go beat up an eighty-year-old beta woman?”
“I’m going to go have a polite conversation with her about how my mate’s vibrato is perfect exactly the way it is,” Beau states matter-of-factly.
“Down boy,” Garrett chuckles. “So, theater? You want to be on Broadway?”
“That’s the dream,” you nod, a shy smile pulling at your lips. “Or doing session vocals for studio albums. I just love to sing. It’s the only thing that makes sense to me.”
“Can you sing for us?” Dean asks eagerly.
Beau’s arm tightens around you like a vice. A deep, territorial rumble starts in his chest. “No.”
Dean throws his hands up. “Bro! I just asked if she could sing!”
“No one is looking at my mate while she performs right now,” Beau snarls, his alpha brain clearly still in hyper-protective overdrive. “She’s mine.”
“Beau, relax,” you say gently, running your hand over his bare chest, right above his heart. His skin is blazing hot. “They just want to hear me sing.” You look at Dean. “I will sing for you guys eventually, I promise. But my throat is kind of raw right now from screaming at EMTs in the woods.”
“Fair enough,” Tucker nods in understanding. “We’ll hold you to that, though.”
“So, what about you guys?” You ask, leaning back completely against Beau, enjoying the feeling of his solid warmth enveloping you. “I know Beau is a quarterback. Are you all football players?”
“Hell no,” Logan scoffs. “We play a real sport. Ice hockey.”
“Hey,” Beau warns, though he chuckles.
“It’s true,” Dean says. “But yeah, we’re hockey players. Garrett is the captain. I’m just the good-looking one.”
“You’re the annoying one,” Logan corrects.
“Wait, so if you play football, and they play hockey, why do you live together?” You ask Beau, looking up at him.
Beau looks down, his eyes softening as he meets your gaze. “Because they’re my pack. Football is my team, but these guys … they’re my family away from Wisconsin. We look out for each other.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice makes something deep in your chest ache in the best way possible. You can see the bond these guys share. It’s written in the comfortable silence, the easy banter, the way they dropped everything and broke traffic laws just to make sure Beau was safe.
“He’s a softie,” Garrett stage-whispers to you, leaning across the table. “Don’t let the scary alpha act fool you. He cries during rom-coms.”
“I do not!” Beau barks indignantly.
“Dude, you literally bawled during 10 Things I Hate About You last week,” Logan points out. “You paused the movie to monologue about how Heath Ledger set unrealistic standards for modern romance.”
“It’s a cinematic masterpiece, Logan, and the stadium bleacher scene is emotionally devastating,” Beau argues, entirely serious.
You burst out laughing, clapping a hand over your mouth.
Beau looks at you, his offended expression melting away the second he hears your laugh. A slow, devastatingly handsome smile spreads across his face.
“You think that’s funny, huh?” He murmurs, trailing a finger down your cheek.
“I think it’s adorable,” you tease. “My big, bad, feral alpha cries over Heath Ledger.”
“Only for Heath,” Beau whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the boys’ bickering. “But I’d cry over you, too.”
The sudden intensity in his voice makes the air leave your lungs. You stare into his baby blue eyes, completely captivated by the raw, open adoration shining there. The hospital, the crash, the freezing snow — it all feels like a lifetime ago. Right now, in this messy living room filled with the smell of pizza and the loud, chaotic voices of his pack, everything is perfect.
“You won’t have to,” you whisper back, reaching up to trace the perfectly unblemished skin on his neck, right where your claiming mark rests, hidden beneath the collar of the coat. “I’m right here.”
Beau exhales a shaky breath, his eyes fluttering shut for a fraction of a second before he leans down, capturing your lips in a soft, reverent kiss. It tastes like pepperoni and salt, but underneath it is the undeniable, electric spark of a bond that is absolute and eternal.
“Okay, nope! No making out on the couch!” Dean yells, throwing a crumpled napkin at Beau’s head. “I’m drawing a line! Save it for the bedroom, lovers!”
Beau breaks the kiss, laughing against your mouth, his chest vibrating with pure, unadulterated joy. He catches the napkin out of mid-air and tosses it back at Dean, pulling you impossibly closer.
You smile into his chest, feeling the steady, powerful rhythm of his heart beating against yours. A heart that you kept beating. A heart that is now entirely, irreversibly yours.
***
The pizza boxes are half-empty and the chaotic banter of the hockey players is still echoing in the living room when Beau suddenly stands up. He doesn’t ask. He just scoops you up into his arms, right off his lap, supporting your thighs with ease.
“Hey, where are you going?” Dean protests from the armchair, a slice of pizza halfway to his mouth. “Tucker was just about to tell the story about the time Garrett got his tongue stuck to the goalpost.”
“I am stealing my mate,” Beau announces, his voice brokering absolutely no argument. “We’ve had a long night. You animals clean up the boxes.”
“Whipped!” Logan calls out, laughing.
“Shut up, Logan,” Beau says, but he’s smiling as he carries you toward the stairs.
“Goodnight, guys!” You call over his broad shoulder.
A chorus of “Night, Y/N” and “Welcome to the pack” follows you up the wooden staircase.
Beau carries you effortlessly down the hallway, kicking open the last door on the right and carrying you inside. He pushes the heavy wooden door shut with his foot. The lock clicks, and instantly, the noise from downstairs is muffled into a distant hum.
His room is exactly what you’d expect, yet entirely comforting. It’s large, with a massive king-sized bed dominating the center of the space. There are Briar University football posters on the walls, a massive flat-screen TV mounted across from the bed, and a desk cluttered with playbooks and protein powder shakers. But mostly, the room just smells like him. Cedar, pine, and the crisp bite of ozone. It’s overwhelming in the best way possible, wrapping around your senses and making your omega hum with pure satisfaction.
Beau doesn’t put you down immediately. He just holds you against his chest, standing in the middle of the room in the dim light of a bedside lamp. The cocky, playful alpha from downstairs fades, replaced by something much more intense. His baby blue eyes are dark, tracing every feature of your face.
“You okay?” You whisper, resting your hands on his bare, broad shoulders.
“Yeah,” he breathes out, his voice thick. “Just processing.”
“It’s a lot to process.”
“Not that,” he murmurs. He slowly lowers you down until your boots touch the hardwood floor, but he doesn’t step back. His hands slide up your waist, gripping your hips tightly. “I mean … you. Here. In my room. Mine.”
He reaches up, his thumb brushing against your neck, right over your claiming gland.
You let out a soft gasp. The spot is agonizingly sensitive. It has been throbbing ever since the ambulance ride, a dull, pulsing ache that you’ve been trying to ignore. But with his touch, the ache flares into a sharp, undeniable need.
Beau’s brow furrows. He can feel it.
“It’s one-sided,” he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough rumble.
“I know,” you say, your breath catching.
You saved him. You gave him your bite, pouring your soul and your omega energy into him to knit his body back together. But a bond is a two-way street. Right now, your mark is fully healed on his neck, but you remain unmarked. You can feel the echo of his emotions — his protectiveness, his overwhelming adoration — but he can’t fully feel yours. The connection is unbalanced, and your body is practically screaming for him to finish what you started on the side of that icy highway.
“You need my mark,” Beau says, his eyes darkening with primal instinct. “You need to be claimed.”
“I do,” you whisper, looking up at him. “I really do, Beau.”
That’s all it takes.
Beau lets out a ragged groan and crushes his mouth to yours. There is no hesitation, no gentle buildup. It is an explosion. His tongue sweeps into your mouth, tasting like pepperoni and pure alpha heat. You melt against him instantly, your hands tangling in his dark, messy hair.
He walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the mattress, and then he’s pushing you down, following you onto the soft duvet.
“You have no idea how badly I want you,” he growls against your lips, his hands already working the zipper of your jacket. He pushes the heavy winter coat off your shoulders, tossing it carelessly onto the floor. “I’ve wanted you since the second I opened my eyes in that wrecked car and saw you looking at me.”
“You were dying, Beau,” you laugh breathlessly, helping him pull your sweater over your head.
“And my first thought was still fuck, she’s gorgeous,” he replies, entirely serious.
He strips you down with an urgent, desperate efficiency that speaks of pure alpha focus. When you are lying on his bed in nothing but your matching lace bra and panties, Beau finally stops. He sits back on his heels at the edge of the bed, his chest heaving, his blue eyes raking over your body like he’s a starving man and you’re a feast.
“Fuck, Y/N,” he breathes, running a large, calloused hand up your thigh. “You are so beautiful. It’s actually insane.”
“Beau,” you whine, your hips tilting instinctively toward his touch. The ache in your neck is pulsing in time with the heavy, wet heat pooling between your legs. “Please.”
“I got you. I’m right here,” he soothes, the rough timber of his voice sending shivers down your spine.
He unhooks your bra, tossing it aside, before his large hands hook into the waistband of your panties, sliding them down your legs and throwing them to the floor.
You expect him to move up. You expect him to crawl over you, to press his heavy, warm body against yours and sink his teeth into your neck to finalize the bond.
Instead, Beau grabs your ankles, gently but firmly pulling you toward him until your hips are at the very edge of the bed. He drops to his knees on the floor between your spread thighs.
“Beau?” You ask, your voice trembling.
“Relax, baby,” he murmurs. He wraps his large hands around your thighs, his thumbs pressing into the soft skin. He leans in and presses an open-mouthed kiss to the inside of your knee, then another halfway up your thigh.
He inhales deeply, his chest expanding. “Fuck. You smell like vanilla and slick. You are so ready for me.”
“I need you to claim me,” you pant, your fingers gripping the duvet tightly.
“I will,” he promises, his hot breath ghosting right over your center. “But first, I’m going to take care of you. You saved my life today. Let me worship you a little.”
Before you can argue, Beau buries his face between your thighs.
A loud, startled moan rips from your throat. Your hips jerk up off the mattress, completely entirely of their own accord.
Beau is not tentative. He is an absolute menace. He laps at your core with a greedy, wet enthusiasm that makes your brain completely short-circuit. His broad hands grip your thighs like a vice, holding you perfectly in place as his tongue lashes over your sensitive bundle of nerves.
“Beau! Oh my god,” you gasp, your head throwing back against the pillows.
He hums in response, the deep vibration buzzing directly against your clit. It is the most intensely pleasurable sensation you have ever felt. He sucks you right into his mouth, his tongue swirling and flicking with a devastating rhythm. He is ravenous, slurping and eating you out like it’s his last meal on earth.
“So fucking sweet,” he groans against you, his voice muffled. “You taste so good, Y/N.”
“You’re—oh, God, Beau, please,” you stammer, your fingers tangling blindly in the bedsheets.
He doesn’t slow down. If anything, his enthusiasm ramps up. He slips two thick fingers inside of you, pumping deeply in time with the relentless assault of his tongue. He is a huge munch, completely and utterly obsessed with the taste of his omega. He drinks your slick like he’s dying of thirst, letting out low, feral growls of approval every time your hips twitch and stutter against his mouth.
It is dirty, and messy, and completely mind-blowing.
“That’s it, baby, give it to me,” he praises, his wet mouth sliding up to nip playfully at your inner thigh before diving right back to your center. “Let go for me.”
You are spiraling. The pleasure is building to an unbearable peak, a rushing tidal wave of sensation that leaves you completely breathless.
But beneath the blinding pleasure, the primal, driving ache in your neck is screaming. The bond is demanding to be completed. You can’t climax like this, not when the connection between your souls is still hanging by a single, one-sided thread.
“Beau,” you gasp, your voice cracking. You reach down, your fingers tangling in his dark, messy hair. You tug gently. “Beau, stop. Wait.”
He groans in protest, pulling back just an inch, his lips wet and shining in the dim light. “What? Did I hurt you?”
“No,” you pant, your chest heaving. “No, it feels incredible. But you … I need you up here. The bond. It hurts, Beau.”
His eyes snap up to yours. The haze of pure lust in his gaze clears instantly, replaced by that sharp, protective alpha instinct. He sees the desperate need in your eyes, the way your hand reaches up to cover the throbbing claiming gland on your neck.
“Fuck. I’m sorry,” he says quickly, his voice rough.
He stands up, ripping his ruined jeans and boxers down his legs in one smooth motion. He kicks them away.
You finally get a good look at him fully naked, and your breath simply stops. He is massive. His chest and arms are heavily muscled, completely unmarked thanks to your bite, and his thick, heavy cock is completely rigid, bobbing against his stomach.
He crawls up the bed, caging you beneath his heavy frame. His skin is blazing hot against yours. The friction of his chest rubbing against your bare breasts makes you whimper.
“I got you,” he whispers, his voice dropping to a gravelly timber. He presses his hips into yours, letting you feel the thick, heavy heat of him resting right against your entrance. “I’m right here, Y/N. I’m claiming you.”
He slides one large hand under your neck, tilting your head to the side, exposing the sensitive, unbroken skin of your claiming gland.
The anticipation is maddening.
“Do it,” you beg, your nails digging into his back. “Beau, please.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice.
Beau aligns his hips and pushes forward, burying himself deep inside of you in one smooth, powerful thrust.
You cry out, your eyes flying wide open. He is incredibly thick, stretching you completely full. The sensation of him finally inside you is overwhelming, a perfect, puzzle-piece fit.
But he doesn’t give you time to adjust. The second he is fully seated inside you, Beau opens his mouth and sinks his teeth directly into your claiming gland.
The pain is sharp, a split-second sting that vanishes almost instantly.
Because the second his teeth break the skin, the bond snaps shut.
It hits you like a freight train. It is a blinding, white-hot explosion of emotion and sensation. Suddenly, you aren’t just feeling your own pleasure, you are feeling his. You feel his overwhelming adoration for you, his sheer, terrifying relief that he survived to meet you, and the heavy, intoxicating possessiveness that courses through his veins. It floods your mind, a two-way street of unfiltered connection.
“Mine,” he roars directly against your neck, his voice tearing through the room.
“Yours,” you sob back, wrapping your legs tightly around his waist.
Beau starts to move. He pulls back and slams into you with devastating force. He isn’t gentle anymore; he is a feral alpha completely consumed by the need to mate. His hips snap forward with a wet, heavy slap of skin against skin, driving deep into your core over and over again.
You are completely unmoored. You meet his thrusts, your hips rocking up to take every inch of him.
“Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good,” he groans, his teeth grazing over the fresh, bleeding mark he just left on your neck. “So tight. So perfect.”
“Beau,” you gasp, your head thrashing against the pillows. The pleasure is building too fast, amplified a thousand times by the completed bond. You can feel how close he is, how the pressure is building at the base of his spine, and it pushes you right over the edge.
“Let go, baby. Come for me,” he commands, his thrusts turning brutal and erratic.
You scream his name as you shatter. A violent, full-body climax rips through you, your internal muscles clenching down hard around his thick length.
Beau lets out a harsh, guttural shout. He drives into you one last time, pinning your hips to the mattress as he spills inside of you, his entire massive body shuddering with the force of his release.
For a long time, the only sound in the room is the heavy, ragged sound of your combined breathing.
Beau stays buried inside you, his full weight pressing you down into the mattress. He turns his head, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his nose practically touching the fresh bite mark. He inhales deeply, the steady, rhythmic vibration of his purr rumbling against your chest.
“You okay?” He finally rasps, his voice completely wrecked.
“Mhmm,” you hum, too exhausted to form words. You let your hands fall limply to the bed, your entire body feeling like it has been melted down and poured into a puddle of pure bliss. The aching, unbalanced feeling in your chest is completely gone. In its place is a steady, warm hum of absolute security.
Beau finally pulls back, shifting his weight off you. He rolls onto his side, pulling you flush against his chest and tangling his legs with yours. He reaches up, his thumb gently wiping a smear of blood away from the fresh mark on your neck.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his blue eyes soft and full of awe. “You’re perfect.”
“You’re not so bad yourself,” you tease weakly, resting your hand over his heart. It’s beating strong and steady.
Beau chuckles, kissing your forehead. “I’m going to take you on a real date tomorrow. No ambulances, no feral teammates. Just you and me.”
“I’d like that,” you smile, your eyes drifting shut.
“Good.” He pulls the duvet up over both of you, tucking it securely around your shoulders. He kisses you one last time, a soft, lingering promise. “Go to sleep, omega. I’ve got you.”
And for the first time all night, wrapped in the arms of your alpha, you let yourself completely relax. The fairytale was real. And it was just beginning.
***
The roar of fifty thousand screaming fans is absolutely deafening, a physical wall of sound that shakes the cold aluminum bleachers of the stadium. The crisp, biting winter wind whips through your hair, but you barely feel the chill. You are currently sandwiched between Beau’s dad and Dean, buried beneath three different layers of Briar University merchandise, including Beau’s oversized spare game jersey pulled over your winter coat.
“I can’t look,” you say, burying your face in your gloved hands. “Tell me when it’s over.”
“You can’t not look, Y/N, it’s third and goal!” Dean shouts over the crowd, elbowing you gently in the ribs. “Look at your man! He’s about to do something crazy, I can smell it.”
“He better not do anything crazy,” Beau’s dad grumbles from your other side, his hands tightly gripping the railing of the front-row VIP section. “He just needs to hand it off to the fullback. Safe and steady.”
“Mr. Maxwell, with all due respect, your son doesn’t know the meaning of safe and steady,” Logan chimes in from behind you, leaning over the bleacher seat. “The guy is a feral alpha with a football. He’s going to run it himself.”
You peek through your fingers, your stomach tying itself into a series of complicated knots.
Down on the pristine turf, under the glaring stadium lights, the Briar University offense is lined up on the five-yard line. The championship game has been an absolute bloodbath. Briar is down by four points. There are exactly fourteen seconds left on the game clock. This is the final play. It is literally do or die.
And right in the center of the chaos, standing in the shotgun formation, is your mate.
Even from the stands, Beau looks massive. His broad shoulders fill out his shoulder pads, his dark visor obscuring his baby blue eyes, but you don’t need to see his face to know exactly what he’s feeling. The bond linking your souls together is humming with a frantic, electric intensity. You can feel his pure, unadulterated focus. There is no fear. There is only the predatory, overwhelming alpha drive to win.
You close your eyes for a split second, taking a deep breath, and push a wave of absolute belief down the bond. You’ve got this.
Down on the field, Beau’s head snaps up. He looks away from the defensive line, his helmet tilting directly toward the VIP section. He can’t see your face in the sea of screaming fans, but he feels you. He taps his chest twice, right over his heart, a silent, public acknowledgment that sends a thrill straight down your spine.
“Oh, you guys make me sick,” Garrett groans from the row behind you. “He’s literally about to play the most important snap of his college career and he’s flirting with you telepathically.”
“It’s not flirting, it’s anchoring,” you argue, a nervous smile breaking across your face. “And shut up, Garrett, or I’m not making you guys breakfast tomorrow.”
“I take it back. You are a queen, and Beau is lucky to have you,” Garrett backpedals instantly.
“Hike!” Beau’s deep, booming cadence echoes through the stadium speakers, cutting through the crowd noise.
The ball snaps. The stadium collectively holds its breath.
The defensive line instantly collapses the pocket, a terrifying rush of three-hundred-pound linebackers charging directly at Beau. For a terrifying second, you think he’s going to get sacked. The pocket completely dissolves.
But Beau doesn’t panic. He spins, dodging a massive defensive tackle with a fluidity that shouldn’t be possible for a guy his size. He tucks the football tightly against his ribs and scrambles out to the right.
“He’s running!” Dean screams, grabbing your shoulder and shaking you. “I told you! He’s running it!”
“Throw the ball, Beau!” His dad yells, practically climbing over the railing.
But there is no one to throw to. The endzone is completely locked down by the opposing team. Beau has no choice. He lowers his shoulder and charges toward the pylon.
Two defenders close in on him at the two-yard line. It looks like a car crash waiting to happen. Your breath catches in your throat, a flash of memory from that icy highway hitting you, but the bond radiates nothing but sheer, bulletproof confidence.
Beau doesn’t slide. He leaps.
He launches his massive frame into the air just as the defenders dive for his legs. He absorbs a brutal hit in mid-air, spinning from the impact, but he extends his right arm, stretching the football as far as his reach will go.
The tip of the football crosses the bright orange pylon of the endzone just a fraction of a second before Beau crashes into the turf out of bounds.
The referee throws his hands straight up into the air.
Touchdown.
The stadium absolutely erupts. The noise is no longer just a roar; it is a physical earthquake. Fireworks explode from the top of the scoreboard, painting the dark December sky in Briar’s colors. The game clock hits double zeros.
They won. He won.
“He did it!” You scream, jumping up and down.
Dean grabs you by the waist and completely lifts you off the ground, spinning you in a circle while screaming unintelligibly. Logan and Garrett are hugging each other and jumping like little kids. Beau’s dad has his face buried in his hands, completely overwhelmed with pride.
“Put me down, Dean!” You laugh, smacking his shoulder until he drops you back onto the aluminum bleachers.
Down on the field, pandemonium has broken loose. The entire Briar sideline empties, a massive wave of players rushing the endzone to dogpile on top of Beau. Coaches are hugging, Gatorade coolers are being dumped, and a swarm of sports reporters and cameramen are already sprinting onto the turf.
You grip the railing, leaning over as far as you can, your eyes desperately searching the chaotic sea of jerseys for him.
The heavy, suffocating weight of the crowd and the overwhelming mix of scents should be triggering your omega anxiety, but it doesn’t. The only thing you feel is the blinding, radiant joy pouring through the bond from your alpha. He is ecstatic. He is triumphant.
And he is looking for you.
The massive dogpile finally unweaves, and Beau emerges from the center of it. He rips his helmet off, his dark hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his face smeared with turf paint and dirt. He looks feral, wild, and incredibly beautiful.
A reporter shoves a microphone directly into his face, a cameraman practically tripping over Beau’s cleats. “Beau! Beau Maxwell! What a game-winning play! Can you tell us what was going through your mind during that final run?”
Beau doesn’t even look at the reporter. He gently but firmly pushes the microphone out of his face. “Excuse me.”
“Beau, just one question!” The reporter pleads, trailing after him.
Beau ignores him completely. He breaks into a jog, weaving through the celebrating players, the coaches, and the security guards. His baby blue eyes lock onto the VIP section. He locks onto you.
“Oh, boy,” Tucker laughs, leaning against the railing next to you. “Here comes the main character moment.”
“Shut up, Tucker,” you say, but your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
Beau reaches the bottom of the stands. The VIP section is separated from the field by a six-foot concrete wall, but that doesn’t even slow him down. He doesn’t look for the stairs. He steps up onto a medical cooler sitting on the sideline, grabs the top of the concrete barrier, and easily vaults his massive frame upward, his cleats catching the edge.
He ignores the security guards shouting. He ignores the flashing cameras.
He leans entirely over the railing, reaching into the stands.
You don’t even have to think. You step up onto the bottom bleacher seat, leaning over the railing to meet him.
Beau’s large, taped hands cup your face, his thumbs instantly pressing into your cheeks to tilt your head up. He smells like sweat, adrenaline, and that heavy, intoxicating scent of pine and ozone.
“You did it,” you breathe out, a massive smile taking over your face.
“We did it,” he corrects, his voice a low, rough rumble that vibrates straight to your core.
And then, he kisses you.
It isn’t a gentle, polite peck. It is a completely unrestrained, desperate, soul-consuming kiss. He crushes his mouth to yours, his tongue sweeping inside to taste you, claiming you all over again in front of fifty thousand people.
The crowd around you goes absolutely feral. Dean and the boys are whistling and howling like wolves. The sports cameras pivot, broadcasting the kiss to the jumbotrons towering over the stadium.
You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your fingers in his damp hair, kissing him back with everything you have. The bond flares so brightly it practically blinds you, a perfect, unbroken circle of love and devotion.
When he finally pulls back, you are both breathless.
He rests his forehead against yours, his blue eyes shining with an intensity that makes your knees weak. “I love you,” he whispers, the words meant only for you, entirely cutting through the chaos of the stadium.
“I love you too,” you whisper back, brushing a smudge of dirt off his cheek. “Now go celebrate with your team before your coach has a heart attack.”
“Let him,” Beau smirks, turning his head just enough to press a kiss directly over the claiming mark on your neck, right where your pulse is racing. “You’re my real prize anyway.”
“Gross!” Logan yells from three feet away. “Get a room! Or at least get off the wall, you’re ruining the structural integrity!”
Beau finally looks away from you, glaring playfully at his friends. “Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Logan.” He looks over at his dad, who has finally stopped crying and is grinning ear to ear. “Hey, old man. Did you see that?”
“I saw you ignore the play call and give your mother gray hairs all the way from Wisconsin,” his dad laughs, reaching over to grip Beau’s shoulder pad. “But it was a hell of a run, son. I’m proud of you.”
“Thanks, Dad.” Beau looks back at you, his thumb tracing your bottom lip. “I have to go do the trophy presentation and talk to the press. Go back to the locker room tunnel with the boys. I’ll meet you there in twenty.”
“Okay,” you smile. “Go be a hero.”
Beau drops back down onto the turf, his cleats hitting the ground with a heavy thud. He points a finger at Dean. “Keep an eye on her, or I’m ending your bloodline.”
“I got her, boss!” Dean salutes, though he completely ruins the serious moment by tripping over an empty popcorn bucket.
You watch Beau jog back toward the center of the field, instantly swarmed by his teammates who lift him onto their shoulders. It feels surreal. It has been exactly six months since the crash on Route 2. Six months since you pulled a dying alpha out of a wrecked car and completely derailed your entire life.
It was the best thing you ever did.
“Alright, Y/N, let’s move,” Garrett says, gently steering you by the shoulder. “The post-game crowd crush is going to be brutal. Let’s get down to the tunnels.”
The boys flank you perfectly, a massive, impenetrable wall of alpha hockey players shielding you from the chaotic crush of fans trying to rush the lower sections. They guide you down the concourse, flashing their VIP passes to security, and lead you into the quiet, concrete bowels of the stadium.
The hallway outside the Briar locker room is relatively quiet, a stark contrast to the absolute madness happening on the field above.
“So,” Tucker says, leaning against the cinderblock wall and crossing his arms. “Who had ‘Beau Maxwell becomes a hopelessly romantic sap’ on their yearly bingo card? Because I certainly didn’t.”
“I did,” Dean says smugly, stealing a half-eaten pretzel from Logan’s hand. “The guy has been a walking red flag for codependency since he made Y/N sit on his lap in the ambulance.”
“It’s not codependency, it’s called being a good mate,” you defend him, laughing.
“It’s called being whipped,” Logan grumbles, swatting Dean’s hand away. “He literally just paused the greatest moment of his athletic career to climb a wall and make out with you. If I ever do that, I want you guys to medically check my brain.”
“Don’t worry, Logan, you have to actually find someone willing to date you first,” Garrett deadpans.
You tune out their bickering, leaning your back against the cool concrete wall. You pull out your phone, sending a quick text to your mom.
We won! He’s safe. Call you tomorrow.
Her reply is instantaneous. Saw the kiss on ESPN! Your father is complaining about PDA but he’s smiling. So proud of him! Love you!
You smile, sliding the phone back into your pocket. The sound of heavy cleats clicking against the concrete floor echoes down the tunnel.
You look up.
Beau is walking down the hallway, completely alone. He’s ditched the reporters, the coaches, and the trophy. He has a towel draped over his neck, his jersey grass-stained and torn at the collar, but he walks with the swagger of a man who owns the entire world.
When he sees you, his entire posture softens. He doesn’t even acknowledge the boys. He walks straight up to you, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your neck.
“You smell so good,” he groans, inhaling deeply. “I’ve been surrounded by sweaty linebackers for four hours. My instincts were screaming at me to find you.”
“I’m right here,” you say softly, running your hands through his damp hair, scratching lightly at his scalp the way you know he loves.
“We’ll give you two a minute,” Garrett says, clapping his hands together. “We’re going to go raid the VIP buffet before the offensive line gets there and eats everything. Meet us at the car, Beau.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Beau dismisses them with a wave of his hand, not lifting his head from your neck.
The boys shuffle down the hallway, their voices fading into the distance, leaving the two of you alone in the quiet tunnel.
Beau finally pulls back, resting his hands on your hips. He looks down at you, really looks at you, his eyes searching your face.
“What?” You ask, feeling a flush creep up your cheeks under his intense stare.
“I’m just thinking,” he murmurs, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw. “About the drive back from the city that night. Before the crash. My dad asked me if I had any prospects, and I told him I didn’t have time for a mate. That football was my only priority.”
“Well, you were a little busy,” you tease.
“I was an idiot,” he corrects, his voice completely serious. “I thought this — the game, the championship, the draft — I thought this was the best feeling in the world.” He leans down, pressing his forehead against yours. “It doesn’t even come close, Y/N. Winning this game feels great, but coming to the sidelines and seeing you waiting for me? That’s everything.”
Your heart swells, the bond flooding with such overwhelming warmth it brings tears to your eyes. “Beau …”
“I mean it,” he says, his grip on your hips tightening. “You saved my life, Y/N. But you also gave me a reason to live it. I’m going to spend the rest of my life making sure you never regret climbing into that wrecked car.”
“I could never regret it,” you say, reaching up to cup his face. You stroke your thumb over his cheekbone, marveling at the fact that this incredible, fiercely devoted alpha belongs entirely to you. “You’re my knight, remember? It’s just like the fairytale.”
Beau smiles, a soft, incredibly tender expression that he only ever reserves for you. “Yeah. Just like the fairytale.”
He leans in, kissing you again. It’s slower this time, a deep, lingering promise of everything to come. The noise of the stadium above you is a distant rumble, completely entirely irrelevant.
In the quiet of the concrete tunnel, wrapped in the arms of the boy who owns your soul, you know exactly how the story ends.
Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives
Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries
The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.
Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.
Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.
Then you’re moving.
You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.
“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”
A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.
“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”
His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”
He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”
“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”
Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.
The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.
There’s so much blood.
“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”
Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.
“911, what’s your emergency?”
“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”
“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”
“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”
“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”
“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.
You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.
“Sir, I need you to sit down-”
“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”
“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”
He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.
You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.
“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”
But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.
You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.
Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.
“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”
“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”
“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”
“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”
You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.
“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”
Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.
The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.
You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.
You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.
Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.
“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”
You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.
Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.
You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.
“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”
His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.
“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.
Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-
No. You push the thoughts away.
“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”
“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”
“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”
You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.
“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”
You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.
Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.
Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.
“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”
“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.
Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.
You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.
“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”
Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.
The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.
“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”
But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.
“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”
You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.
“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.
Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”
The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”
“Med student. Second year.”
“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.
You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.
“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”
“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.
“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”
“But-”
“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”
You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.
Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.
Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.
“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”
“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”
But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.
The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.
“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”
You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?
The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.
Except it’s not.
As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.
You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.
Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.
Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.
You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.
Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.
The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.
You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.
You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.
“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”
Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.
All you can do is wait.
And hope.
And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.
***
The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”
“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.
“Fuck off, I was screened-”
“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”
Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.
He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.
“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.
Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.
At seven in the morning.
On a Saturday.
“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”
There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.
“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”
“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”
Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.
“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”
“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”
“I need you to sit down, son.”
The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.
“What happened?”
Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”
Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”
“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”
The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”
“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”
Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.
Beau.
Critical condition.
The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.
“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”
Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.
“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.
Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.
“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”
“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”
“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”
The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.
Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-
No. No, he’s not going there.
“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”
“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.
“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”
“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”
Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.
Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”
The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.
They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more.
Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.
Beau is his brother.
And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-
No. Stop. Don’t think it.
“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.
They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.
“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”
They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?
They round a corner, and Dean sees them.
The waiting room is full of Maxwells.
Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.
They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.
His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.
“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.
She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.
“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”
That’s what breaks him.
Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.
“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”
Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.
“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”
Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”
Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.
“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”
He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.
“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”
Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.
“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”
“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”
“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.
Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”
Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.
“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”
“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”
The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.
“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.
“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”
He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.
“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”
Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.
More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.
Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.
“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”
Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.
“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”
“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.
“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”
“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.
“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”
“Dean-” Garrett starts.
“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”
The doors to the surgical wing swing open.
The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.
Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.
“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.
“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”
The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.
“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”
He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.
“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”
“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.
“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”
“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”
The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”
“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”
The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”
“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”
“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”
The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”
“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”
“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”
After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.
Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.
Gratitude.
“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”
“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”
“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”
Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.
“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”
“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”
“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”
Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.
“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”
“Anything.”
“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”
Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.
“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”
“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”
Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”
“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”
Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.
His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.
They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.
Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.
Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.
“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”
He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.
His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.
Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.
Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.
But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.
Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.
“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.
Garrett looks over. “Who?”
“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”
“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”
“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”
Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.
And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.
***
The world comes back in pieces.
First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.
Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.
“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”
That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.
“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.
“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”
Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.
***
The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.
The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.
“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.
“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.
“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”
“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”
Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.
“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”
He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.
“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”
Footsteps. Fast.
Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.
“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”
“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.
“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”
That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.
“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”
“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.
“Good. Do you know where you are?”
“Hospital.” Duh.
“Do you remember what happened?”
Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”
His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”
“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.
The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”
After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.
“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.
Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”
“How long was I out?”
“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”
Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”
His parents exchange a look.
“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”
“A branch?”
“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”
Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”
“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”
A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.
“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.
“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”
“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.
“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”
A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.
“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”
“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”
“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”
Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.
“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”
Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”
Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.
“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”
“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.
It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.
“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.
“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”
The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.
Instead, a young woman steps in.
She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.
“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”
“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”
She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”
She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.
“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”
You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”
“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”
Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.
“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”
“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”
Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.
“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”
You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”
“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”
“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”
You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.
Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.
Because holy shit.
You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-
Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.
“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”
You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”
“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”
“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”
“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”
“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”
“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”
You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”
“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”
“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”
“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”
You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.
“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”
“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.
“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”
“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”
You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.
“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”
You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.
“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.
“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”
“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.
You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.
“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”
“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.
You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”
“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.
You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”
“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”
Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.
You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”
Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.
You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”
“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.
You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”
Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”
“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”
“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”
“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.
“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”
“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.
You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.
The room is silent for exactly three seconds.
“Dude,” Dean says.
“Not now,” Beau replies.
“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”
“Dean-”
“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”
“I was perfectly respectful-”
“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”
“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”
“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”
“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”
“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.
“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”
Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”
“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”
“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”
“Dean, I swear-”
“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”
“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.
“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”
“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.
After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.
“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”
“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”
“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”
“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”
“You believe in fate?”
“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”
Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.
“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.
“Probably,” Dean agrees.
“And I think I’m in love.”
Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”
“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.
“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”
“I’m serious.”
“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”
“I know what I feel.”
Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”
“I really mean it.”
“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”
“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”
“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”
“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”
“Something like that.”
“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”
“I’ll convert her.”
“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”
“She’s competitive. I like that.”
Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”
“Her name is Y/N.”
“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”
Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.
His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.
But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.
Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.
And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.
“Dean?” He says.
“Yeah?”
“Help me figure out what to text her.”
Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”
They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.
After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.
Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.
Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.
***
The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.
“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”
Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.
Now, he’s doing pull-ups.
“One,” he grunts.
“Good. Keep that form.”
“Two.”
“Breathe through it.”
“Three.”
“Two more. You’ve got it.”
“Four.” His arms are shaking.
“Last one. Make it count.”
Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.
“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”
“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.
“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”
It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.
After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.
And one from you.
Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?
Beau smiles, typing back quickly.
Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.
Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.
Beau: I did five pull-ups.
Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!
Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.
Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.
Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.
Y/N: You’re impossible.
Beau: You love it.
There’s a pause.
Y/N: Maybe a little.
Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.
You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.
The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.
He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.
Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”
But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.
His phone buzzes again.
Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.
Beau: What’s wrong?
Dean: Just get here. It’s important.
Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.
He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?
Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.
“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”
Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”
“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”
“I wasn’t dead.”
“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”
“Everyone?”
“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”
“Dean-”
“And Y/N.”
Beau freezes. “What?”
Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”
“You invited—without asking me-”
“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”
“By ambushing me?”
“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”
“It’s manipulative.”
“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”
***
The party is, objectively, insane.
By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.
Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.
“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”
“I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to throw up.”
“That’s just my face.”
“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”
Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”
“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.
“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.
“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”
“I don’t—we’re friends.”
“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”
“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.
“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”
“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”
“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”
“I’m not-”
“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”
Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.
“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.
“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”
Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.
And there you are.
You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.
“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.
“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.
You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.
“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.
“I am talking to her.”
“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”
Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.
“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”
“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”
“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”
Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”
“Just open it.”
He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.
Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”
“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”
“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”
You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.
Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”
The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.
“Oh no,” Beau mutters.
“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.
“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”
The crowd is silent, watching.
“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”
You look mortified. “Dean-”
“Stand up!”
Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.
“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”
Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.
“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”
He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”
“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.
You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.
“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.
“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”
Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.
“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.
“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”
“That’s not-”
“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.
You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”
“Rome didn’t have vodka.”
“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”
You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”
Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.
“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.
One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.
Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.
“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.
You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”
“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”
“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”
“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.
“You love me too!”
“Debatable!”
You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.
“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”
He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.
“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”
“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”
“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”
“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”
“I was just doing what anyone would do.”
“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”
You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”
“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”
You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”
“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”
“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”
“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”
“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.
“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”
Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”
“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”
“Really?” Your voice is soft.
“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”
“I always believed in you,” you whisper.
“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”
You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”
“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”
“You were on a lot of pain meds.”
“Doesn’t make it less true.”
You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”
“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”
“Okay.”
“Can I kiss you?”
Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.
“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”
Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.
The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.
Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.
You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.
Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”
Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.
“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.
“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.
“They’re cat-calling.”
“Still don’t care.”
You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.
“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”
“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”
“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”
Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”
“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.
“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”
From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.
“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.
“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.
You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.
“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”
You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.
Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”
“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.
“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”
“You’re the worst.”
“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”
“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.
Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.
“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”
Beau looks at you. You look back.
“It’s a thing,” you say.
“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.
“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”
“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.
The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.
Better than right.
Perfect.
Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.
“To second chances,” he says.
“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.
“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.
“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.
“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.
“To fate,” Beau agrees.
And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.
Life is short. Second chances are rare.
And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.
***
The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.
Well, mostly empty.
“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”
Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”
“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”
“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”
“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”
“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”
“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.
Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”
“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.
Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.
Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.
It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.
Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.
You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”
“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”
“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”
“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”
“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.
You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”
“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”
“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.
Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”
“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”
“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”
The effect is immediate and bizarre.
Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.
Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.
“Did you just say-” you start.
“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.
“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”
But it’s too late.
You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.
“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.
“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”
“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.
You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.
“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.
“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.
Dean stares. Just stares.
“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.
“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.
“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”
You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.
There’s a moment of silence.
Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.
“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”
“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”
“And when you said whipped into shape-”
“We just had to,” you finish together.
Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”
“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.
“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.
Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”
“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”
“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.
“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”
Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.
And Dean …
Dean has a moment.
He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.
It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.
It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.
And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.
The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.
Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.
It was fate.
It had to be.
Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?
The odds were astronomical.
And yet here you both are.
“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”
“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”
“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?
“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”
The question hangs in the air.
You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.
“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”
“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”
“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”
“I absolutely would,” you confirm.
“-but someday. Definitely someday.”
Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”
“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.
“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”
“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”
“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”
“That’s not-”
Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.
“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”
“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.
You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”
“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”
“I can live with that,” you say softly.
You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.
Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”
“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”
“Don’t,” Dean warns.
“We’ve got to-”
“No-”
“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.
“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.
“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.
“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.
“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”
“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.
“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not my doctor.”
“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”
“That sounds like innuendo.”
“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”
Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”
“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.
“You’re having them three feet away from me!”
“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.
The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.
Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.
And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.
He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.
He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.
And he’s going to tell them that he knew.
He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.
And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.
summary: when your fierce independence collides with hockey’s favorite playboy, a hidden reality forces you both to rewrite the rules of your future. (7.2k)
pairing: dean di laurentis x reader.
content: accidental pregnancy, pregnancy, generational trauma, feelings of loneliness, childbirth (implied), angst, language, initial lack of communication, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort.
author’s note: this is based on a request by @maellatargaryen (this request is from a long time ago i do apologise i didn’t forget). this is the first time i’ve wrote a fic that is heavily related to pregnancy i think so first time for everything i guess (hehehe).
you kept your eyes glued to the frayed cuff of your knitted sweater, deliberately avoiding the couple sitting three chairs down.
you had been staring at that loose thread for at least ten minutes, tracing the weave of the yarn just to keep your gaze from wandering.
but you could still see them in your periphery.
the man was gently rubbing the woman's lower back, his thumb making small, reassuring circles through the fabric of her shirt.
every few seconds, he would lean in, whispering something in her ear that made her laugh—a soft, tired sound. she looked exhausted, but she looked completely safe.
a heavy, suffocating lump formed in your throat, and you looked down, your fingers instinctively pressing lightly against the flat expanse of your stomach.
there was nothing there yet, not to the casual observer. just a secret wrapped in layers of wool and denim.
it was your choice, you reminded yourself, repeating the mantra that had kept you upright for the last twelve weeks. you chose to walk out of his room. you chose not to call.
"he's not your father," your roommate and best friend, trinity, had argued just the night before.
she had been pacing the worn linoleum floor of your shared campus apartment, her eyes tracking you with a mix of fierce worry and frustration while you sat on the bathroom floor, throwing up into a plastic trash can.
"dean is a lot of things. he's a flirt, he's loud, he's a massive distraction, and he lives in a house that smells like stale beer and hockey sweat. but he isn't a monster. you have to tell him, or i swear to god i'm going to find tucker at the rink and have him do it for you." she sighed as you shook your head.
you knew trinity meant well.
you really, truly did.
she was the one who bought you saltine crackers at two in the morning, the one who held your hair back, and the one who looked up single-mother grant programs on her laptop when you were too exhausted to think.
she wasn't trying to force your hand out of malice; she just hated seeing you carry an entire universe on your shoulders when there was a perfectly capable guy who helped put it there.
but trinity didn't have your history.
she hadn't grown up listening to the bitter, cautionary tales of a mother who got pregnant at a college party by a boy (your father) who vanished into thin air the second the test turned pink.
she hadn't seen the quiet, exhausting toll of a woman working two jobs just to buy school supplies, always reminding her daughter that boys with bright smiles and big reputations were nothing but a beautiful trap.
to you, dean di laurentis was the ultimate manifestation of that danger.
he was briar university's golden boy, a hockey legacy with a jawline carved by the gods and an easy, effortless charm that made everyone in his orbit feel like the center of the universe.
he possessed a reputation for a rotating door of admirers that preceded him everywhere he went, from the campus coffee shops to the crowded lecture halls.
you had been one of those quiet admirers for semesters, harboring a private, desperate crush from the safety of the upper student section at the arena.
you were a psychology major, someone who spent her days analyzing behavior and defense mechanisms, yet you couldn't analyze yourself out of the way your chest tightened every time he took the ice.
then came a party in early november.
emboldened by a little too much vodka and the sheer, infectious electricity of the team's victory, you had actually pursued him.
you hadn't just watched from the corner this time; you had walked right up to him at the kitchen island, matched his easy, arrogant banter with a sharp wit he hadn't expected, and when the chance arose to leave the noise behind and go up to his room, you took it.
and god, he had been wonderful.
that was the part that terrified you the most.
he wasn't the careless, selfish playboy you had braced yourself for; he was attentive and entirely intoxicating.
he had asked you questions, looked at you like he actually wanted to hear the answers, and held you like you were something fragile and precious.
but when you woke up the next morning wrapped in his sheets, the freezing weight of reality had set in.
the morning sun filtered through his blinds, illuminating the hockey trophies on his dresser and the stray red plastic cups on the floor.
you were just a tuesday night after a massive win.
to save yourself the humiliation of a polite, dismissive text three days later, you had gathered your clothes from the floor, slipped your shoes on, and walked out of his life before he even stirred.
three weeks later, the morning sickness had started.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
"patient 114?" a nurse called out, holding an electronic chart and looking around the waiting room with an expressionless, practiced gaze.
you swallowed the lump in your throat, stood up completely alone, and smoothed down the front of your sweater.
you walked past the couple, feeling the immense, crushing gravity of a secret that was growing bigger by the second.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the briar u campus was experiencing an unseasonably warm spring afternoon two months later.
winter had finally cracked, leaving the quad packed with students lounging on blankets, tossing frisbees, and desperately trying to absorb enough vitamin d to survive the final stretch of the semester.
you sat under the deep, cool shade of a massive oak tree near the psychology building. you were wearing a loose dress—a highly tactical choice. at five months, you couldn't hide the changes with just oversized hoodies and clever posture anymore. the dress camouflaged the distinct, rounded curve of your belly perfectly, as long as you remained sitting down with your knees pulled slightly toward your chest.
you opened your heavy developmental psychology textbook, trying to focus on a chapter about early childhood attachment styles, but the heat and the persistent, dull ache in your lower back were making your eyes heavy.
your mind kept wondering how you were going to afford a crib and how you were going to explain to a child one day why their father was just a face on a hockey trading card.
more than anything, you were determined to continue your studies.
you hadn't spent years maintaining a high gpa just to drop out.
you were going to graduate from briar, baby or no baby.
your due date was calculated for mid-august, right before the fall semester began.
it was going to be a logistical nightmare, juggling a newborn and upper-level psychology seminars, but you were already mapping out a rigid study schedule in your planner.
you would survive it.
you had to.
a loud, booming laugh echoed across the lawn, instantly making your chest tighten so fast you lost your breath.
you looked up from the pages.
a dozen yards away, the hockey team was walking back from an afternoon workout at the campus gym.
they were a loud, boisterous pack, trailing duffel bags over their shoulders and laughing at some inside joke.
at the very center of the group was dean.
his damp hair was pushed back from his forehead, his gray briar athletics t-shirt clinging to his chest, and that trademark, effortless smile was polished across his face as he joked with garrett graham.
your hand moved automatically to your stomach, protectively covering the life growing inside you.
you pulled your massive textbook higher up against your chest, freezing like a deer caught in the high beams of a semi-truck.
please don't look over here. please just keep walking to the dining hall.
dean was laughing, his shoulders shaking as garrett gestured wildly, but as his eyes scanned the quad, his gaze inadvertently drifted toward the shade of your tree.
you looked down instantly, staring so hard at a paragraph on cognitive dissonance that the black ink blurred into meaningless lines.
dean paused mid-stride.
his brow furrowed, his sneakers digging into the soft grass.
the easy, permanent smile faltered as a sharp, incredibly vivid memory flashed through his mind.
the specific, soft scent of your skin, the quiet, grounding confidence you had shown when you walked up to him at the party, and the sudden, confusing sting of disappointment he had
felt when he woke up to a cold, empty bed.
he had looked for you for weeks after that night.
he had asked around, looked through social media, but briar was a massive university, and you had intentionally made yourself a ghost.
"hey, dean, you coming or what? the burrito place fills up fast on thursdays," tucker called out, noticing his friend had suddenly dropped back from the group.
"yeah. go ahead, man. i'll catch up with you guys in a minute," dean muttered, his eyes locked entirely on the girl under the oak tree.
he started walking across the grass.
every step he took felt like a countdown to an explosion you couldn't prevent.
you saw his shadow fall over your open textbook, blocking out the filtered sunlight, before you finally forced yourself to look up.
"hey," dean said. his voice was softer than it usually was, completely stripped of the loud, easy bravado he carried around his teammates.
he rubbed the back of his neck, looking uncharacteristically nervous, his fingers twitching against his duffel bag strap. "it's... you. right? from my place, a few months ago? you kind of vanished into thin air."
"dean. hi," you managed to choke out. your heart was hammering against your ribs so violently you were certain he could see it through your clothes.
your palms were slick with sweat against the cardboard cover of your book. "yeah. i—i have a class to get to, actually—"
terrified of what he might see if he looked too closely at your posture, you scrambled to gather your things.
but your balance was off, your center of gravity completely shifted by the pregnancy.
your coordination failed, and the heavy psychology textbook slipped from your fingers, hitting the grass with a dull thud.
papers and highlighters tumbled out.
you instinctively reached down to grab it, but the physical restriction of your five-month belly made the movement clumsy.
as you bent over, the fabric of your dress pulled tight across your torso, outlining the unmistakable and beautifully rounded curve of your stomach.
dean bent down at the exact same time to grab the book for you, his large hand reaching for the cover, but his movements froze entirely.
from his angle, right at eye level with your lap, there was no hiding it.
the truth was standing between you, loud and undeniable.
dean's eyes widened, the blue of his irises bright with absolute shock.
his mind, usually so quick with a joke or a strategic play on the ice, ground to a screeching, chaotic halt.
he looked from your stomach, up to your terrified face, and back down again.
the timeline crashed into his head like a brutal body check against the boards. late fall. the championship party. five months ago. the night she left.
"is that..." dean's voice cracked, losing all of its usual suave composure. he dropped the textbook entirely back into the grass, his hands hovering in the air between you as if he were afraid to touch reality, his fingers trembling slightly. "wait. hold on. is that mine?"
panic, cold and sharp as ice water, flooded your veins.
the judgment of the campus, the ghost of your mother's past, the terrifying fear of him laughing or calling you a liar—it all hit you at once, blinding your senses.
you grabbed your tote bag, shoving the loose highlighters inside with trembling hands, and pushed past him, your boots skidding on the dirt.
"i have to go, dean. just leave it alone."
"hey, wait. please. stop." dean scrambled after you, his long, athletic strides easily catching up before you could even reach the paved pathway.
he didn't grab you roughly, but he placed a gentle, pleading hand on your forearm, just enough to anchor you, his grip warm and remarkably steady despite his shock.
when you spun around to face him, you had tears blurring your vision, the quad spinning around you.
dean looked entirely breathless, his chest heaving under his t-shirt as he stared at you. there was immense shock in his eyes, yes, but beneath it, moving in like a tidal wave, was an intense, unexpected expression of sheer protectiveness.
"please don't run away again," dean whispered, his gaze dropping down to the curve of your dress, then right back up into your tear-filled eyes. "just... talk to me. please. you don't have to run."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
an hour later, you were sitting in the farthest corner booth of a quiet, dim, off-campus diner that was usually empty between the lunch and dinner rushes.
the jukebox in the corner was dark, and the only sound was the low sizzle of the kitchen grill behind the counter.
dean had bought you a grilled cheese sandwich and a massive, condensation-covered glass of milk.
he hadn't forced you to say a word since he had guided you into his car. he just sat across from you, his large frame filling the vinyl booth, watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle, his hands clasped tightly on the table.
"why didn't you tell me?" he asked quietly, breaking the long silence.
his fingers traced the ring of water left by his glass on the tabletop. "i've been racking my brain for the last hour trying to figure out if i did something wrong that night. what did i do? did i hurt you? did i make you feel like i wouldn't care? did i say something stupid?"
"no," you said, your voice cracking as you looked out the window at the passing traffic.
your fingers tore off a tiny piece of the sandwich crust, though your stomach was too twisted to eat. "you were great, dean. it wasn't you. it was... everything else. it was me."
"it's obviously not just you," he said gently, leaning forward, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that demanded honesty. "help me understand. please. because waking up to an empty room was bad enough, but finding out you've been carrying this around for five months by yourself? that hurts."
and then, because the weight of the last twenty weeks was simply too heavy for your shoulders to bear anymore, the dam broke.
the psychological walls you had meticulously built up over years crumbled into dust.
you told him everything.
you told him about your mother.
you told him about growing up in a tiny house where every bill was a crisis, listening to the story of a popular college athlete who had promised your mother the world under the red solo cup lights of a fraternity house, only to pack his bags and transfer schools the second the word baby was spoken.
you told him about the terrifying statistics of single-parent households you read in your text books, the deep-seated fear of being a burden, and the agonizing weight of those clinic appointments where you sat alone in a sea of happy, supportive couples.
"i looked at them, dean," you whispered, a tear finally escaping and slipping down your nose. "i sat there every month, watching these guys hold their wives' hands, carrying their bags, looking at the sonogram photos like they'd just won the lottery. and i was just... patient 114. i didn't want to see the look on your face if you thought i was trying to trap you. i didn't want to see you walk away like he did."
dean listened to every single word, his body perfectly still.
his jaw clenched tighter and tighter with every sentence that left your mouth, not with anger directed at you, but with a profound, simmering fury at the ghost of the man who had raised you to believe that all men were cowards.
his chest rose and fell heavily.
when you finished, wiping your cheek with the back of your hand, dean didn't hesitate.
he reached across the table, his arm bridging the distance between your separate worlds, and took your hand in his.
his palm was rough from hockey sticks, warm, and incredibly solid.
"i am not him," dean said, his voice dropping an octave, completely fierce and steady. there was no hesitation in his eyes, no panic, no calculation. "i don't care about my reputation. i don't care that we're still in college. this is my kid, too. and more importantly, it's you. i'm not going anywhere. do you hear me? i am right here."
you looked down at his large hand covering yours, desperately wanting to believe the warmth of it, but the old survival instincts were hard to kill.
"dean, you don't have to pretend for my sake. you have a life. you have scouts coming to games, you have a professional career ahead of you, you have your friends—"
"hey," he interrupted gently, his thumb rubbing circles against the back of your hand, mimicking the gesture you had envied in the waiting room months ago. "let's make a deal. no pressure. i know i have a lot to prove to you. just let me be your friend. let me carry your bags. let me take you to the doctor. let me show you that you don't have to do this alone anymore."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
true to his word, dean shifted his entire universe within forty-eight hours.
the transformation was nothing short of a statistical anomaly to anyone who knew him.
the guy who used to sleep until noon on days off and survive on cold pizza and protein shakes was suddenly standing outside your dorm building at 9:00 am.
he would be waiting in his idling car, the passenger seat already stocked with saltine crackers and pre-packaged ginger ale because he had spent the previous night reading medical forums about morning sickness trends in the second and third trimesters.
at first, it was kind of awkward.
you were protective of your routine, used to relying only on yourself and trinity but dean was persistent in the most gentle way possible.
he became your shadow on campus.
he would meet you outside your difficult seminars, completely unbothered by the lingering stares and whispers of his teammates or the girls who used to follow him around the quad.
he would silently take your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulders, slinging it over his own massive arm alongside his hockey gear, and walk at your slower, deliberate pace without a single complaint.
"you know people are talking, right?" you asked him one afternoon as you walked toward the library, your hand resting on the small of your aching back.
"let them talk," dean said, shrug of his shoulders easy and unbothered. "they're just jealous i get to hang out with the smartest girl on campus. besides, tucker tried to ask me about it yesterday, and i told him if he didn't shut his mouth i would chuck him into the net during practice. he hasn't brought it up since."
you couldn't help the small laugh that escaped you, the sound surprising even yourself.
dean looked down at you, his eyes softening at the sound, a faint spark in his gaze that made your stomach do a completely different kind of flip.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the sixth month, your apartment had become a secondary storage unit. dean had told his parents. you had been terrified of that phone call, expecting high-society rejection, but his mother had apparently gone into full grandmother mode within thirty seconds.
huge boxes began arriving weekly—baby blankets, organic cotton onesies, a high-tech stroller, and specialized maternity pillows.
but the most significant change was inside dean's shared house. he had cleaned out the small spare room on the first floor, moving out old fitness equipment and broken hockey sticks.
in its place, he had moved in a massive, incredibly plush velvet rocking chair.
"what is this?" you asked, standing in the doorway of the room during a saturday visit where he had insisted on making you lunch.
"it's a glider," dean said proudly, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel as he stood behind you. "i read that the movement helps with lower back pain during the third trimester.
and, you know... just in case you ever want to visit and your back hurts, you have a place that's yours."
you looked at the chair, then at the hockey star who had bought it, feeling the cold, icy edges of your old trauma melting away a little bit more every day.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the true turning point came during the eighth-month ultrasound appointment.
the clinic waiting room looked exactly the same as it had during your first trimester—same low hum, same couples holding hands.
but this time, the space felt completely different. you weren't hiding under an oversized sweater, and you weren't staring at a frayed thread.
you were sitting next to dean. his large frame was crammed into the small plastic waiting room chair, his knees nearly touching his chin, but he didn't look impatient at all.
he was reading a pamphlet on newborn sleep cycles with a level of concentration usually reserved for analyzing a rival team's defensive plays.
"patient 114—sorry, i mean, by your last name?" the nurse called out, correcting herself with a warm smile as she recognized you.
you stood up, and before you could even reach for your purse, dean was already on his feet, grabbing your coat and slinging your tote bag over his shoulder.
he extended his free hand to you, his fingers open, waiting.
you hesitated for a fraction of a second before sliding your hand into his, letting his warmth steady you as you walked down the narrow hallway.
the ultrasound room was dim, the monitor glowing with a soft blue light.
you laid back on the paper-covered table, pulling up your shirt to expose the massive, high, tight curve of your eight-month belly.
dean sat in the chair right next to your head, his eyes wide as the technician squeezed the cold, clear gel onto your skin.
he didn't look away for a second, his grip on your hand tightening as the technician pressed the transducer against your stomach.
at first, there was only static—a rushing, hollow sound of fluids and movement. then, with a slight adjustment of the plastic wand, the audio cleared, and a loud, rhythmic sound filled the small room.
thump-thump, thump-thump.
"there we go," the technician said gently, pointing a finger at the grainy, gray-and-white screen. "there's a strong heartbeat. looks like baby is growing right on schedule."
you looked over at dean, expecting him to look overwhelmed by the sheer finality of the sound.
instead, you found him staring at the monitor with thick, silent tears streaming straight down his cheeks.
his jaw was slightly slack, a soft, breathless laugh escaping his lips as he stared at the little flickering shape on the screen.
"that's... that's our baby," he whispered, his voice thick and raspy with an emotion so raw it made your own eyes well up with tears.
he leaned over the edge of the table, completely unbothered by the technician's presence, and pressed a gentle, lingering kiss to the back of your knuckles, his forehead resting against your hand for a long moment. "look at that, sweetheart. we made a little athlete. listen to that pace."
in that exact moment, the final, stubborn, defensive walls around your heart—the ones built by your mother's warnings, the ones built by years of watching men walk away from hard things—completely crumbled into nothing.
you realized that trinity had been right from the very start. dean wasn't your father.
he was entirely, undeniably his own man.
and he was already a father.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by the time your ninth month arrived, the unseasonably warm spring had turned into the suffocating heat of late summer.
walking across the campus pavement felt like trekking through a desert, and your ankles had reached a level of swelling that made shoes feel like instruments of torture.
the platonic friendship dean had insisted on maintaining had grown desperately fragile over the last few weeks—not because it was failing, but because the sheer, undeniable gravity of the romantic tension between you had become too loud to ignore.
every touch lingered a second too long; every look held a weight that had nothing to do with doctor's appointments or crib instructions.
one evening, a thunderstorm was rolling in over the campus, the sky a bruised purple color that brought a temporary coolness to the air.
you were sitting on the plush sofa in dean's living room, surrounded by a mountain of freshly washed baby clothes that needed to be sorted into bins.
dean's teammates were away for the weekend, leaving the house uncharacteristically quiet, save for the low rumble of thunder outside.
dean was sitting on the hardwood floor right by your feet, a bottle of lavender lotion in his hand.
he had your bare, swollen left foot resting on his knee, his large, calloused thumbs working in slow, rhythmic circles across your arch with a level of focus that made your heart ache.
"dean?" you said softly, breaking the steady sound of the rain against the windowpane.
"yeah, sweetheart?" he murmured, his gaze remaining down on his hands, his thumbs never stopping their steady, soothing pressure.
"why are you doing all of this?" you asked. the question had been sitting on your tongue for weeks, a final, lingering piece of uncertainty that needed to be aired out. "the baby isn't even here yet. you've spent every weekend for months building furniture, reading parenting manuals, handling my moods, and taking care of me. you didn't have to go this far just to prove you're a good guy. you proved that a long time ago."
dean stopped his movements.
his hands remained cupped around your foot for a long, silent moment while the thunder rolled outside the house.
slowly, deliberately, he let go of your foot and shifted his weight, rising until he was kneeling on the floor right in front of you, his face level with yours.
he reached up, his hands large and incredibly warm as he placed them gently on either side of your face, his thumbs wiping away the sudden, familiar spike of anxiety in your eyes.
"you really are a psychology student, aren't you? always trying to find the hidden motive," he said, a soft, incredibly tender smile breaking across his lips—a smile that was completely devoid of his usual arrogance, leaving only the raw truth underneath. "i stopped doing this just for the baby a long time ago."
your breath hitched in your throat, your fingers tightening against the fabric of the baby blanket in your lap. "dean..."
"i love this kid, yeah. i would do anything for them," he confessed, his blue eyes burning into yours with absolute, unshakable certainty. "but i fell completely, totally in love with you. i love how fierce you are. i love how hard you tried to protect this baby from the world, even when you were terrified. i love the way you laugh when you think i'm being an idiot. i don't want to just be a great co-parent, and i don't want to just be the guy who carries your backpack. i want the whole thing. i want you."
your tears, warm and entirely relieving, spilled over your eyelashes, wetting his thumbs.
for the first time in your entire life, the ghost of your mother's past was entirely gone, vanished into the air like smoke.
there was no trap here.
there was only the beautiful, terrifying, certain reality of the man kneeling in front of you.
"took you long enough to finally say it," you whispered, a watery, breathless smile breaking through your tears.
dean let out a low, rough laugh as he leaned up the remaining few inches to press his lips against yours.
the kiss was sweet, slow, and full of a million quiet promises he had already spent the last four months keeping.
it tasted like rain and lavender lotion and home.
his fingers slid through your hair, holding you close, while his other hand moved down, flattening completely against the large, warm curve of your belly, feeling the faint, rhythmic kick of the life you had created together.
when he finally pulled away, just enough to breathe, he rested his forehead against yours, his thumbs tracing your cheekbones.
"we're going to be completely fine," dean whispered against your skin, his voice a fierce, unbreakable vow meant for both you and the little heartbeat inside you. "the three of us. i promise you. i'm right here."
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the rhythmic click of a ballpoint pen was the loudest sound in the massive, tiered lecture hall.
you sat in the middle row of your advanced cognitive psychology seminar, your notebook laid out flat on the folding desk, your hand flying across the page to copy down the professor's slides on memory retrieval mechanisms.
beside your desk, tucked safely into the wide aisle, sat a heavy car seat wrapped in a soft navy blanket.
inside, just thirteen weeks old, rowan di laurentis was dead to the world.
his tiny fists were curled up next to his cheeks, a soft, rhythmic whistle puffing past his parted lips with every breath.
when the professor paused to switch slides, you glanced down, your heart swelling with a fierce, possessive warmth.
rowan had been born right on schedule in mid-august, and while the rest of your class spent the last week of summer partying, you and dean had been operating on two-hour sleep cycles, mastering the art of the swaddle, and staring at this tiny boy like he held the secrets to the universe.
some of your classmates had looked surprised to see you walk in three months after college had began with a stroller, but you had just offered them a polite, unbothered smile.
you were going to be a psychologist and rowan wasn't a reason to stop—he was the reason to run faster.
you dipped your hand down, gently brushing your index finger against rowan's minuscule knuckles.
his tiny hand instinctively locked around your finger, holding on tight even in his sleep.
you smiled, unhooked your finger, and went right back to typing your notes.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
across campus, the atmosphere was entirely different.
coach jensen's whistle blew, a sharp, piercing sound that sent the players scattering toward the benches for a two-minute hydration break.
dean skated hard over to the boards, his chest heaving under his heavy briar jersey, his face flushed red from the intense cardio drill. but he didn't reach for his water bottle first.
instead, he skated right toward the end of the team bench where a familiar, high-tech stroller was parked just behind the safety plexiglass, safely out of the way of any stray pucks.
trinity was sitting on the bench next to it, typing on her phone, fulfilling her promised shift of baby duty while she studied for her own classes.
dean ripped his heavy padded gloves off with his teeth, dropping them onto the ice, and leaned over the boards.
rowan was awake now, wearing a miniature, custom-made briar hockey jersey over his onesie, his massive brown eyes staring up at the bright stadium lights.
"how's my little winger doing?" dean breathed, his voice dripping with an absurd, high-pitched softness that made garrett graham laugh from three feet away.
dean reached over the plexiglass, his hand gently resting against rowan's tiny chest, his thumb stroking the soft cotton of the jersey. "you being good for auntie trinity? you watching daddy's skating form?"
rowan let out a tiny, erratic gurgle, kicking one foot up.
"he's been perfect," trinity said, looking up from her phone with a smirk. "a lot better behaved than you usually are during practice, di laurentis. now drink some water before jensen screams at you."
"yeah, yeah," dean grinned, finally grabbing his water bottle and taking a long swig. he looked back down at his son, a fierce, determined spark in his blue eyes.
balancing division one hockey and fatherhood was the hardest thing he'd ever done, but he had never felt more alive.
he was going to give his kid the world, and he was going to do it right alongside you.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
later that evening, the summer heat finally broke as dusk settled over the town.
dean's black suv pulled into the gravel driveway of a small, neat house on the edge of the university district.
the porch light was already on, casting a warm, golden glow over the front steps.
dean hopped out of the driver's seat, walking around to your side to open the door before you could even reach for the handle.
he offered you his hand, pulling you up gently, his fingers lingering against your palm before he turned to unbuckle rowan's car seat from the back.
you walked up the steps together, the familiar scent of garlic and homemade pasta sauce drifting through the screen door long before you even knocked.
before your knuckles could even touch the wood, the door swung open.
your mother stood there, her apron tied around her waist, her eyes instantly bypassing the two of you to lock onto the plastic car seat in dean's hand.
a massive, radiant smile broke across her face, smoothing away the lines of a lifetime of hard work.
"there's my grandson," she beamed, her arms already reaching out as she stepped onto the porch.
dean smiled, handing the car seat over with a practiced ease that showed just how natural this had become for him.
"hi, mom. he slept the whole ride over." you smiled as your mother carried the seat inside, cooing at the sleeping baby.
you and dean stood on the porch for a quiet second.
dean looped his arm around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest, his chin resting comfortably on the top of your head as you both watched your mother unbuckle her grandson through the front window.
there was no ghost of the past in this house anymore.
there was no fear of a running man or a broken promise.
there was only the smell of a warm dinner, a grandmother's laughter, and the solid, heavy weight of the man who had promised to stay—and meant every single word.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
the dining room of your childhood home was small, but tonight it felt entirely full. the air was thick with the rich, comforting scent of your mother's signature marinara sauce, a recipe that had historically been reserved only for birthdays or the rare moments when a budget stretch allowed for a celebration.
dean was sitting at the worn wooden table, a space that had only ever known the quiet presence of two women.
his massive, athletic frame practically engulfed the modest chair, his broad shoulders casting a long shadow against the floral wallpaper.
yet, he looked completely at ease.
he had rolled up the sleeves of his cotton blue shirt, exposing his forearms as he expertly navigated a massive bowl of spaghetti, passing it to your mother with a respectful, easy smile.
"seriously, alisha, this is incredible," dean said, calling your mother by her first name just as she had insisted he do three visits ago. "if you ever want to open a restaurant near campus, the entire hockey team would probably fund it. tucker survives entirely on frozen burritos and sheer willpower. he would cry if he tasted this."
a sound of genuine, lighthearted laughter escaping her lips as she leaned over to scoop another portion onto his plate. "don't flatter a woman, dean. but please, eat up. god knows you burn enough calories on that ice rink."
you watched them from across the table, your fork twirling slowly in your pasta.
a strange, dizzying wave of emotion hit your chest.
for twenty-one years, this room had been a fortress of caution.
it was the place where you sat while your mother meticulously balanced checkbooks, reminding you that reliance on anyone else was a vulnerability.
it was where you learned to be fiercely independent, wrapped in the protective armor of her warnings.
and now, briar university's golden boy was sitting in the center of it, arguing playfully with her about whether garlic bread should be baked or broiled.
from the corner of the room, a soft, low grunt came from the portable bassinet.
rowan was waking up, his tiny limbs stretching beneath his blanket.
before you could even set your fork down, dean's hand was already moving.
he caught your eye across the table, offering a reassuring nod.
"i got him, sweetheart. finish your dinner," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, intimate tone he reserved just for you.
you watched as he stood up, his tall frame moving with a practiced, gentle fluidity as he navigated the tight space between the table and the bassinet.
he reached down, his hands completely cradling rowan's tiny torso as he lifted him out.
rowan let out a tiny, soft squeak, his little face puckering before he settled instantly against dean's chest, his small head tucking perfectly into the crook of his father's neck.
dean walked back to the table, shifting rowan effortlessly to one arm while he picked up his fork with the other, completely unfazed by the logistics of eating one-handed.
your mother stopped eating.
she watched dean—watched the way his thumb absentmindedly traced small circles on the back of rowan's custom jersey, the way his eyes constantly flicked down to check on the baby's breathing, the way he didn't even hesitate to put his own comfort second.
when she looked back at you, her eyes were bright with a quiet, profound sheen of tears.
she didn't say anything out loud but she didn't need to.
the unspoken apology and the sheer validation of your choices was entirely written in the soft smile she gave you across the table.
.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。.
by eleven o'clock, the drive back to the campus apartment was quiet, save for the hum of the car tires against the asphalt and the steady, rhythmic breathing of a fast-asleep baby in the backseat.
the apartment was dark when you unlocked the door.
trinity was out for the weekend, leaving the small living space peaceful.
dean carried rowan inside, the car seat clicking quietly as he set it on the floor, while you carried the diaper bag and the heavy tote containing your psychology textbooks.
you dropped the bags by the kitchen counter, a heavy, bone-deep exhaustion finally settling into your limbs.
finals week was creeping up, the stack of case studies you needed to analyze was growing, and your body was still recovering from the monumental task of bringing a human into the world.
you leaned against the counter, closing your eyes for just a second.
two warm hands slipped around your waist from behind, a familiar, solid chest pressing into your back.
dean buried his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
"hey," he whispered, his lips brushing against your jawline. "go take a hot shower. i'll handle the nighttime bath and get him down in his crib."
"dean, you have a 6:00 am video review session" you protested softly, turning around in his embrace to look up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. "you spent three hours on the ice today. let me do it."
"absolutely not," dean smiled, a faint, stubborn dimple appearing in his cheek.
"we're a team, remember? you aced your seminar quiz today, you took ten pages of notes, and you didn't complain once when rowan spit up on your favorite sweater earlier. let me take the night shift, sweetheart. go relax."
you stared at him, the old, defensive instinct to say 'i can do it myself' rising to your throat out of sheer habit. but looking at the absolute, unwavering certainty in his gaze, you let it go.
you let the breath out of your lungs, your forehead coming to rest against his chest, right over the steady, pounding rhythm of his heart.
"thank you," you breathed into his shirt.
"anytime," he murmured, pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head before stepping back and picking up the sleeping bundle from the floor.
half an hour later, you stepped out of the bathroom, wrapped in a plush robe, your skin warm and smelling of vanilla soap.
the apartment was silent.
you padded softly down the short hallway toward rowan's small nursery.
the dim, amber light of the moon-shaped nightlight illuminated the room.
dean was sitting in the massive velvet glider he had proudly bought months ago.
rowan was freshly changed, wrapped tightly in a swaddle blanket, fast asleep against his father's bare chest.
dean was rocking back and forth in a slow, hypnotic rhythm, his hand completely cupping the back of rowan's head.
he wasn't asleep.
he was staring down at his son, his expression so fierce, so intensely protective, it took your breath away.
in his lap, balanced precariously on the armrest of the chair, was his hockey playbook, his eyes flicking between the diagrams of defensive strategies and the tiny, perfect face of the boy in his arms.
he was balancing it all. the pressure of the scouts, the demanding expectations of his legacy, the exhaustion of college life—he was holding it all in his hands, and he wasn't letting a single piece drop.
you leaned your shoulder against the doorframe, a soft smile tugging at your lips.
dean looked up at the sound of your breathing, his eyes softening instantly as he caught sight of you. he didn't speak, not wanting to break the fragile silence of the nursery, but he extended his free hand toward you, his fingers open.
you walked across the small room, sliding your hand into his warm palm.
dean pulled you down gently until you were sitting on the wide armrest of the glider beside him.
he leaned his head against your hip, his grip on your hand tightening into a silent, unbreakable vow.
you looked down at the two of them.
the future was going to be chaotic.
there would be exams to study for while rocking a crying infant; there would be away games where you would have to manage the nighttime routine alone and there would be endless loops of exhaustion.
but as the glider rocked gently in the quiet apartment, the absolute certainty of his warmth against your skin told you everything you needed to know.
garrett doesn't want to be possessive. really, he doesn't. your soft edges bring out the worst in him.
tw: dumbification, dirty talk, fingering, oral, bondage, daddy kink, probably not a very healthy relationship, toxic!garrett....
wc: 733
an: mdni pls!!! unedited and posting from drafts!! really like this concept. lmk if you guys are into it and i will explore it more! tysm to everyone who has sent in requests. so grateful and excited to work on them. i will do my best to do your marvelous ideas justice! pinky promise. — berry
garrett hated the word possessive. it made him feel like some insecure loser harboring a complex bigger than his daddy issues.
it’s something he didn’t want to be. something he was working on. fuck, it was something he had gone to therapy for.
he’d spent countless hours processing why he felt insecure in his relationships. unpacking the destructive behaviors he was so prone to.
and then you showed up. little, unassuming you.
you — who styled your hair with lacy bows, smelled like a freshly baked lemon meringue pie, and smiled at him so sweetly your cheeks would turn bubblegum pink.
he was fucked.
had been since the first time he saw you on the quad. you’d been handing out flyers to join your volunteer group at the hastings animal shelter.
he knew there was no going back. he was irrevocably fucked.
that was months ago. now that he has you, old habits are bubbling up to the surface.
he really doesn’t mean to be like this. he knows he shouldn’t be caging you in. keeping you all to himself. shutting others out.
he shouldn’t always ‘forget’ to charge your phone when you’re over, or shove it between the couch cushions when you’re not looking.
shouldn’t delete the dinners you’d planned with friends from your calendar when you’re in the bathroom.
and he really shouldn’t have your wrists tied up to his bedframe when you’re supposed to be halfway across campus taking lecture notes on kafka’s the metamorphosis.
but he can’t help how pretty you look pouting down at him while he stuffs his tongue up your tight cunt. watching you bite down on your glossy bottom lip. he can’t find it in himself to care one fucking bit.
you’re rubbing your wrists together against the leather of his belt. wriggling against his grip to get more friction than he’s giving you.
“such a brat sometimes,” he mutters, only half-meaning it. really just meaning to rile you up.
he pulls his mouth away from your heat and you can see the pearly sheen of your last orgasm on his stubble. “sit pretty and take what i’m giving you, baby. know you can be a good girl f’me.”
“i am a good girl,” you huff. you jostle the makeshift cuffs, and garrett’s bedroom echoes with the sound of the buckle clattering against his bedframe.
garrett raises a brow, and your face goes pale. “not gonna tell you again, baby.”
he decides maybe you need a little more guidance today. he sprawls his palm against your warm belly and pushes lightly on the soft skin of it. “stay.”
you sigh contently at that, and garrett knows he’s won. he knows sometimes you just like to test his limits. make him prove that he should be in charge. that he knows best.
but when you melt under him so easily, what you’re really after is so obvious.
“like being told what to do, don’t you baby? just turn your brain off and be a good little fucktoy.”
he leaves a trail of kisses up your thigh, and inserts two fingers into your weeping cunt. your soft pink walls flutter as they open up for him.
“you like being used, huh? is that it? like it when i use this pretty cunt?”
he gets his mouth back on your clit, and sucks hard.
“yes! love it so much…wanna come so bad, daddy!”
you’re a squealing mess. heart beating out of your chest like a jackrabbit. pretty manicured hands balled up into little fists above you. he can see your brain whirring, trying to get a hold of yourself.
you know better than that, garrett thinks.
“tell me you love it when daddy uses you,” he hums, and the vibration of it shocks your eyes wide open. he looks up at you and marvels at how fucked out you look. pupils dilated, and drops of sweat dripping down the valley of your breasts.
your throat bobs as you gulp, wracking your brain. trying to find your voice
“c’mon, baby.”
“love it when you use my pussy, daddy.”
you look absolutely pathetic, hiccuping and whining as he inserts a third finger.
you’re usually all soft pleads and sweet moans in the bedroom. garrett never makes you talk dirty. but you want to make him happy. always such a good girl for him.
“such a perfect little fucktoy for me, aren’t you?”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
SYNOPSIS‧₊˚ After starting the day by reaching new heights and having a little bit of sweet fun and revenge in the Hot Girl Bakery Challenge, you and Rafe’s newly restored bond is tragically shattered
WARNING(S)‧₊˚ heavy swearing, angst, light sm*t, i'm going to post this and then pray (just remember i love you all)
˗ˏˋ series masterlist ˎˊ˗
YOU blinked against the bright glare of the sun, the humid island air already settling over your skin.
For a second, you just lay there, listening to the rhythm of his breathing against your neck. After the chaotic mess of movie night and the emotional rollercoaster of the last few days, being back in his arms felt like finally catching your breath after being underwater.
You shifted slightly, trying to turn around under the weight of the duvet, and that’s when you felt it— hard and unmistakable, pressing right against your hip.
You rolled over fully, propping yourself up on one elbow to look down at him. Rafe was still half-asleep, his eyelashes fluttering against the bright sun, his buzzcut slightly frizzed from the pillows as he hummed at your movements.
"Well," you whispered, voice holding a small morning rasp. "Someone’s happy to see me this morning. Do you always carry a weapon around, or are you just happy to wake up with me again?"
Rafe’s eyes blinked open then, a sleepy, deep chuckle leaving his lips. He didn't even look embarrassed. Instead, he reached up, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck to pull you down until your forehead rested against his, pecking your cheek softly.
"Shut up," he muttered, his voice deep and rough from sleep. He rolled his eyes, but the grin on his face gave him away. "You think you're so funny.” He scoffed. “I’ll have you know I had one the entire time we were sleeping out here before, and your oblivious ass never even noticed."
“No, you didn’t.” You deadpanned, tilting your head at him.
"Swear," he teased, hands sliding down to grip your waist, pulling you against his body. "You were sleeping like somebody’s dad, and I was just lying here, suffering in silence because I didn't want to wake you up. So don't act like this is a new development, baby."
You couldn't help the giggles that bubbled up, leaning down to plant a soft kiss on his lips. "You're a perv."
"Yeah, but only for you," he murmured against your mouth.
The playful banter dissolved into something much sweeter as Rafe’s hands moved up your back, fingers tracing the skin beneath your oversized t-shirt as he kissed you again and again—it was slow, lazy, and full of affection. He kissed your lips, your cheeks, the tip of your nose, and down the side of your jaw, making you squirm and laugh against him, just so incredibly happy to be back where you belonged.
Eventually, you pulled back slightly, clearing your throat with a grimace. "Okay, okay, wait,” you said, hands on his shoulders. “As much as I want to stay here, we need to go inside. I know for a fact I am overly crusty, right now."
Rafe scoffed, rolling his eyes as he sat up with you. "I don't care.” He shrugged. “You look fine to me." He smirked, leaning in again before you pushed him back by the forehead.
"I’m serious!" you laughed, scrambling out of his grip. "Let me go get ready!"
"Fine," Rafe said, bottom lip held between his teeth as, before you could even process what he was doing, he threw the sheets off his legs and scooped you up into his arms. You let out a squeal, wrapping your arms around his neck as he lifted you effortlessly into his arms.
As Rafe carried you into the main villa, the silence of the house hit you. When you were outside, the rustling palm trees, the warm air, and the sound of the ocean made it seem later than it was. But looking at the sky through the windows, the sun was only half way risen in the sky.
Rafe stopped right at the entranceway to the bedroom as you both peered inside—everyone was still knocked out.
JJ was sprawled out backwards on his bed with a pillow between himself and Haja, one leg hanging off the mattress. Pope had the covers pulled all the way up to his nose, Kaitlyn snoring next to him. Sarah was buried under a pile of pillows, looking like she was trying to hide, and the rest of the room was filled with the soft sound of heavy breathing and light snoring from everyone else.
"Geez," you whispered into Rafe’s ear, keeping your voice low. "I guess we could’ve stayed out there a bit longer." You shrugged in Rafe’s arms, hands clutched behind his neck as he held you in front of him, legs locked around his waist.
You looked up when he didn’t say anything, and the moment you saw the wicked smirk spreading across his face, you tilted your head innocently.
"What?" you whispered. "Why're you looking at me like that?"
But Rafe didn't say a word. Instead, he shifted his grip, quickly throwing you over his shoulder. You gasped, clapping a hand over your mouth to stifle a loud laugh as your head hung down past his back.
"Rafe!" you hissed, swatting at his lower back. "Where are we going? What are you doing?"
He just gripped the back of your thighs tighter, walking down the corridor away from the bedroom. "Keep your voice down unless you wanna wake up the whole house."
He pushed open the door to one of the bathrooms, stepping inside and locking the door behind him with a soft click. He lowered you down, letting your feet hit the cool tile floor. Before you could even question him, he turned around and reached to twist the knob behind the frosted glass of the shower, the sound of water filling the enclosed space, steam slowly starting to rise toward the ceiling.
Rafe turned back to you, a certain glint in his eyes. "No one's awake," he said, his voice low, shrugging with a lopsided, boyish grin on his lips. "And I wanna shower with you."
Your eyes drifted over his bare chest, the lines of his abs, watching as he reached down to untie his sweatpants, stepping out of them until he was standing there just in his grey boxer briefs, but when he looked up and noticed that you were still standing by the door, fully clothed and clutching the hem of your shirt, he stopped.
He arched an eyebrow, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You nervous or somethin’?"
You bit your lip, looking at the steaming shower and then back at him. "Lowkey... yeah, kind of."
Rafe softened then, and he stepped across the small distance between you, placing his hands on your waist. "You don't have anything to be nervous about with me. Ever.” He reassured. “And look, we don't have to if it makes you uncomfortable. I just thought it’d be fun, y'know?"
"No, I want to," you said, looking up into his eyes so he wouldn't think you were rejecting him. "I really want to. I’m just... I'm nervous.” You cringe. “You haven't actually seen me naked, I haven't seen you naked. It’s just…scary?"
Rafe let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head as he leaned in closer. "Baby, I literally had my hand down your pants last night, and you had my dick in your hands.” He deadpans with a small smile. “But showering together is what scares you?” He muses.
An embarrassed laugh leaves you, your cheeks burning as you hid your face in his bare chest. "Do you have to say it out loud like that?"
"I'm jus’ sayin’," he chuckled, his arms wrapping around your waist to hold you tight. He held you for a second, letting you get used to the feeling of your skin against his, before he gently pulled back. "C’mere, let me help you…"
His movements were gentle as his hands gripped the bottom of your t-shirt, slowly lifting it up as you lifted your arms, letting him slide the shirt off and discard it on the floor. When it came to your shorts, he knelt down slightly, sliding them down your legs along with your underwear until you were standing before him in just your bra. Rafe stepped closer, eyes boring into your own as he reached around, unclasping your bra with ease, letting it fall to the floor.
Your heart was pounding as you instinctively brought your hands up, crossing your arms over your chest as he stripped himself of his underwear and your eyes darted to anywhere else, not wanting to stare.
Rafe stood up, straightening as his eyes locked onto you. There wasn't any judgment or lust in his gaze—just awe.
"You’re beautiful," he said, voice serious, hand reaching out to softly cup your jaw. "Seriously. You're perfect."
You only gave him a tight, nervous smile, not knowing what to say.
To prove it to you, Rafe leaned down and captured your lips in a deep kiss, his mouth moving against yours as his hands slid down to your wrists, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your chest. He guided your arms up and around his neck, and you leaned into him, the remnants of your anxiety melting away under his touch.
His hands settled onto the skin of your waist, thumbs digging into your hips as he slowly walked you backward, stepping over the threshold into the shower.
The moment the water hit your skin, you both let out a gasps, followed by light laughter. The water was splashing everywhere, running down your faces. Rafe wiped his eyes, laughing quietly as he pulled you under the stream with him, chest pressed against yours. It was a sweet moment, the kind of domestic intimacy you hadn't realized you were craving so badly.
Things stayed calm and sweet for a little while.
You grabbed the bottle of body wash from the ledge, squeezing a dollop onto his loofah.
"Hey," you said, turning your back to him and tilting your head forward under the water. "Help me since you’re here?” You asked. “I can never reach the middle properly."
"My pleasure," Rafe murmured, his voice sounding a lot thicker than before.
You laughed. “Okay, Chick-fil-a,” you teased. “You gonna tell me to pull forward and pay at the first window, next?”
“Y’know,” Rafe started, “It’s times like these I really wish I could threaten to fuck the attitude out of you.” He says, sounding far too casual for the words that came out of his mouth. They caught you so off guard that you didn’t have anything clever to say, swallowing harshly as he smirked behind your head. “But I guess I don’t have to.” He says cockily.
“Fuck you.” You hiss playfully.
“Soon,” Rafe smirks, sighing. “Hopefully.”
You scoffed as you felt him spreading the soap across your skin in slow circles. But as the suds built up, Rafe’s touch quickly shifted from gentle to lingering. His hands didn't just stay on your upper back, they slid down to your waist, tracing the curve of your hips, before moving back up.
And then, he stepped closer, and as he pressed himself against your back, his dick settled right atop your ass, hard and warm. You let out a soft breath, fingers gripping the tiled wall in front of you as Rafe leaned down, pressing his lips against your wet shoulder blade.
He bit down softly, making a shiver run straight down your spine, before his lips traced a burning path right down the center of your back.
"Rafe..." you breathed out, your voice shaking slightly. It was meant to be a warning, a reminder that people could wake up at any minute, but it came out sounding like a plea.
He didn't care. He let out a low groan against your skin, his hands moving around to the front of your body as he abandoned the loofah, gripping your hips and pulling your back firmly against his chest. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he whispered, voice raspy against your ear, breath hot against your wet skin. "Just tell me."
But you didn't say a word. You couldn't.
And, taking your silence as a green light, Rafe spun you around in one swift movement, backing you against the tile of the shower. The water was cascading over his head, dripping down his nose and chin as he looked down at you with a gaze so dark, it made your knees weak. He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a kiss that was different from before—hungry, dirty, and desperate.
His hands ran down your body as his mouth left yours, burying his face in the crook of your neck, biting and sucking on the sensitive skin there until you were panting, head tilted back against the wall. His hands cupped your breasts, squeezing them firmly, thumbs rolling over your aching nipples until a high-pitched moan escaped your throat.
"Rafe, please," you whimpered, hands flying to grip his shoulders.
He smirked against your skin, loving the way his name rolled off your tongue as one of his hands slid down your stomach, moving past your waist until his fingers buried themselves between your thighs. He found your clit easily, his thumb circling it with a pressure that had you lifting one leg to wrap around his hip.
Out of arousal, you bit your lip as your own hand reached down, fingers wrapping around his length. He was so hard, throbbing and hot, poking right against your stomach as your fingers traced the most prominent vein underneath. The moment your palm made contact with his skin and you gave him one solid stroke, Rafe’s body shook.
His knees buckled slightly, a curse ripping out of his throat into the skin of your shoulder. "Fuck," he growled, his grip on your hip tightening until it was almost bruising.
His fingers between your legs started circling harder, faster, matching the rhythm of your hand stroking him, occasionally stopping to squeeze the tip which ripped a grunt from him every time. The sound of the rushing water mixed with the lewd noises was overwhelming your senses. You were slick, dripping wet from the water and your own arousal.
And without warning, and after a particularly satisfying tug, Rafe pushed two of his fingers straight into you, your eyes flying open as a loud, sharp moan ripped from your lips. Rafe’s fingers were thick, stretching you perfectly, hitting a spot deep inside that made your core pulse around him.
"Gotta keep quiet, angel," Rafe whispered, though his own breathing was shot. He moved his mouth back to your neck, sucking hard on a spot right beneath your jaw, fingers pumping in and out of you relentlessly.
You tried so hard to stay quiet, but you couldn't help the broken whimpers, the heavy panting, and the desperate chants of his name that kept slipping out. You were grinding your hips helplessly against his hand, your walls clenching tightly around his fingers as the tension in your stomach coiled tighter and tighter. You were so close.
And right as you felt yourself about to snap, Rafe suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, his dick sliding out of your hand right when he looked like he was about to finish himself.
"Rafe? What—" you panted, looking at him in confusion and desperation.
He didn't say anything, just dropped straight down to his knees on the wet shower floor. His hands grabbed your thighs, spreading them wide, hooking one of them over his shoulder, and before you could even process it, he buried his face between your legs, shoving his fingers back inside, pumping them while his tongue sucked your swollen, sensitive bud into his mouth.
You were biting your bottom lip so hard, you feared you might bite it off as your fingers buried themselves deep into his buzzcut, nails scratching against his scalp as your orgasm washed over you.
You cried out, whimpering, riding it out before you started to grow too sensitive, trying to push his head away, but he wouldn't budge. He held your hips in place, fingers gone now but his tongue was still working, the sound of his mouth on you filling the bathroom until your legs started to shake.
Only then did Rafe pull away, standing up slowly, a satisfied smirk plastered across his wet face. His blue eyes were practically glowing as he stepped close to you, one hand coming up to lie loosely around the base of your neck, thumb wiping a stray drop of water from your lip as you still panted softly before he leaned down and kissed you.
When he pulled away, you leaned your head against his chest, exhausted, trying to catch your breath, your heart still pounding. "You’re an ass, you know that?"
Rafe chuckled, his hand sliding down to squeeze your butt in both hands. "You—"
He was cut off by the sound of muffled voices and laughter, and your eyes went wide as saucers.
"Oh my God," you hissed, frantically pushing him away.
Rafe sighed and twisted the knob, the sudden silence in the bathroom making the sound of footsteps outside sound incredibly loud. “Shit,” he breathed out in a laugh as you both scrambled out of the shower, grabbing towels and drying yourselves off as fast as possible.
You threw your t-shirt back on, gathering the rest of your clothes in your hands as Rafe threw his sweats back on, looking equally disheveled.
"Okay," you whispered, gripping the doorknob. "Just...walk out, and don't look at anyone."
"I got it, I got it," Rafe muttered, looking amused and not in any kind of hurry at all.
You shot him a pointed look as you unlocked the door and stepped out into the hall only to run directly into JJ, of all people, who was standing there with his toothbrush in his hand.
He stopped dead in his tracks, tired eyes darting from you to Rafe, back and forth.
JJ slowly lowered his toothbrush, a knowing grin spreading across his face. "Looks like somebody took the early bird and the worm a little too literally." He jokes, amusing himself.
"Shut up," Rafe scoffed, his face turning slightly red as he pushed past him, his hand in yours as he dragged you with him.
"Hey, I won’t say nothin’!" JJ called out, laughing loudly as you both practically sprinted down the hallway.
BY the time you made it to the glam room to actually get dressed for the day, you realized JJ had already opened his mouth exactly like he said he wouldn’t. And, because word travels faster than the speed of light in the villa, the moment you pushed the door open, all the girls stopped what they were doing and turned to look at you.
"Oh, look who decided to join us," Cleo piped up from the corner, a smirk on her face.
You groaned, covering your face with your hands as you walked inside. "Please tell me JJ didn't."
"Oh, he did," Rima chuckled, shaking her head as she curled a strand of her hair.
Cleo walked over, grabbing your arm as you whined like a child, pulling you into the bathroom connected to the glam room. She nudged your shoulder with her own, her eyes full of mischief. "Alright. What happened? And I want details.”
You let out a breath, a small, helpless smile forming on your lips. "Nothing really happened…” You dragged out. “I think we're just...happy to be back together, you know?” You shrugged shyly. “After everything with Casa and Theo, it just feels like our hormones are completely out of whack or something."
You leaned closer, lowering your voice so only Cleo could hear in case any of the other girls may have been eavesdropping. "We were out on the daybeds and just, like, touching each other everywhere."
Cleo’s eyes went wide, a gasp leaving her mouth as she smacked your arm. "No!” She gasped. “Right out there in the open? Girl, you’re a freak." She leaned in closer, her eyes glittering. "...But I gotta ask. Is it... you know…big?"
You felt your cheeks heat up, but you couldn't suppress the proud, dirty little smirk that slipped onto your face as you bit the inside of her cheek. "I don’t wanna say too much out of respect, but…” you teased, rolling your eyes. “I don’t know how he hides that shit.”
Cleo burst out laughing, clapping her hands together. "I knew it!” She cracks herself up. “He got that energy about him. Good for you, girl."
The laughter died down into a softer, more comfortable silence as you grabbed your toothbrush. "Yeah... it just feels right." You shrugged one shoulder lazily. "I talked to Theo and ended things. We're back to normal, and I feel really, really good about us."
You paused, turning around to look at her fully. "But enough about me. What about you and your whole situation?" You asked, leaning against the sink, brushing your teeth.
Cleo’s playful expression softened, a sigh escaping her lips as she looked down at her nails. "I really want to pull Rima for a chat first.” She said firmly. “I don't want any drama between us at all. We’re all girls and I love every single one of you. And now that the day’s passed, I think my head is a bit clearer and I can kind of see where Rima was coming from. I just want to sit down and talk to her."
"I think that's really mature of you," you said softly, spitting into the sink and wiping your mouth, rinsing your hands. "But... where is your head at with Justin and Pope? Do you…know who you actually want?"
Cleo looked up, her expression certain. "Although I do really like Justin, and we had a good vibe... there’s just no point. Every single connection I’ve made after Pope, or every time I'm even tempted to make a connection, it doesn't matter. Pope is always in the back of my mind. I can't shake him...” Cleo shrugged as you washed your face and finished freshening up before moving to exit the bathroom with her by your side. “I feel like I'm just going to take it as a sign at this point to continue my connection with Pope and just see it through."
You opened your mouth to reply as you settled in front of your vanity, Cleo leaning on the table next to you, but before you could, the door to the glam room clicked open, drawing everyone’s attention.
Sarah walked in, and the moment she stepped into the light, your heart broke for her.
Her eyes were puffy, surrounded by dark circles, and her nose was red. It was obvious she hadn't slept a wink and had spent the entire night crying her eyes out. She looked fragile, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as she slumped onto one of the chairs.
You and Cleo dropped the topic of conversation, shooting each other pitiful glances, walking over to sit on either side of her.
"...Hey," you said softly, rubbing her back. "How you holdin’ up?"
Sarah blinked, a tear immediately rolling down her cheek as she shook her head, her voice cracking. "... I don’t know, I'm really heartbroken, you guys.” Her voice shook. “I just can't fathom the fact that me and John B were together for weeks. And within a matter of days, he showed some other girl every part of him... and then had the nerve to try and tell me that it ‘wasn't that serious’."
She let out a bitter laugh, wiping her face. "Like, if it wasn't serious, why did you lie to my face?"
"He knew he was wrong." Cleo squeezed her hand. "...Do you think you want to… try and continue things with him?"
"...No," Sarah whispered, looking up at both of you with honest eyes. "I don't. I can’t. I just feel so embarrassed and disrespected. Because, not only did he lie straight to my face when he walked back in, his lies came out in front of everybody. I was so blindsided...” She cries. “I don't think that's something I could ever put behind me in a relationship. The trust is just dead."
"We understand," you said, pulling her into a quick hug. "You don't deserve that, especially not after staying loyal."
Sarah sniffed, nodding as she pulled back. She quieted down for a second, her eyes darting over to you nervously. “Um,” She cleared her throat, shifting her weight. "I was planning on exploring…other people. And... I want to pull Theo for a chat, eventually." She took a deep breath, looking at you with a pleading expression. "Would you feel some kind of way if I did? Like, is that going to cause an issue between us?"
You smiled gently, shaking your head to reassure her. "Sarah, I ended things with Theo last night. I think everyone in here—including Theo—knew that my endgame was always Rafe. So please, go ahead. Feel free to talk to him." You paused, your expression turning a bit more serious as you placed a hand on her knee. "But... I do want to warn you, just because I care about you—There are definitely two sides to Theo. He can be super sweet, but he can also get very bitter and petty when things don't go his way, like we saw at movie night. So just... keep that in mind, okay?"
Sarah nodded, looking relieved. "Yeah, 'course."
Confessional: You
"I really, really just want Sarah to be happy. I think her ending things with John B is probably the best move, because honestly? What John B did at Casa, and the way he lied about it afterward, is unforgivable. Or, at the very least, it's unforgettable if you're trying to build a relationship.” You say, sighing in disappointment. “But... I’m not entirely sure how I feel about her pursuing Theo. It’s clear to me now that Theo is capable of putting on a persona of someone he’s not when he’s trying to win a girl over. I just hope that maybe things will be different between him and Sarah than they were with me. But I really do wish the best for her, she's been through it."
The conversation was then interrupted by a knock on the door, all of you turning as the door swung open, and the boys walked in, each holding plates of food and smoothies.
Rafe walked in first, and the moment his eyes found you, that soft smile returned to his face. He walked straight over to your vanity, waving you over as he set down a smoothie, and you couldn't help but snort as you came to a stop next to him, noticing he had cut a little slit into a strawberry and wedged it onto the rim of the cup. On the plate next to it were three small pancakes, but they weren't round—he had hacked them into the shape of hearts. Even the strawberries scattered around the plate were sliced into little hearts.
You looked up at him, arching an eyebrow, trying to conceal your own smile. "Oh, wow. Look at you, Chef Cameron.” You teased. “Did you accidentally walk into a Hallmark movie this morning?"
“Whatever,” Rafe’s face flushed, but he just smirked, leaning down to plant a quick kiss on your lips right in front of everyone. "Just eat your food. I spent like ten minutes trying to get those pancakes to not look like blobs."
"I love it," you laughed, picking up a heart-shaped strawberry and popping it into your mouth, perching yourself up on your tippy-toes to plant a wet kiss on his cheek. "It's sweet. Thank you."
Around the room, the other boys were handing out their plates. Pope walked over to Cleo, handing her a plate with a hopeful smile, which she accepted with a grateful nod. Justin, surprisingly, walked past Cleo and brought a plate over to Rima. Miles entered, carrying two plates—one for Sofia and one for Haja. Pope also made a plate for Kaitlyn, handing it to her with a friendly smile, which she smiled widely at.
Then, John B walked in.
He was holding a plate of eggs and toast, his expression cautious, meeting everyone’s lingering eyes as he walked straight toward where Sarah was sitting.
She avoided his gaze but he continued towards her anyway.
"...Hey," John B said, his voice quiet, tentative as he stood behind her chair now. "I know you're probably still mad, but I thought maybe you—"
Sarah didn't even let him finish the sentence. Before he could even place the plate down, she reached out behind herself, pushing her hand flat against the center of the plate, shoving it right into John B's chest.
The eggs smeared against his chest, and he had to awkwardly catch the plate to keep it from falling to the floor.
She didn’t say a word either, just started her skincare as he stood behind her and the rest of you looked at them with your jaws on the floor.
John B stood there, face turning red. He looked around the room, embarrassed. None of you girls offered him an ounce of sympathy, just stared at him with cold expressions. A couple of the guys winced though, feeling a bit bad, but they ultimately understood why Sarah was reacting that way.
So, defeated and humiliated, John B clutched the plate, turned around, and walked out of the dressing room.
"Well," Cleo muttered into the silence. "That went well."
BY the afternoon, the heat of the sun had driven most of you out to scatter the lawn. You and Rafe had claimed two of the loungers by the pool.
You were lying flat on your back, and Rafe was lying right next to you, his chair moved so that there was no space between you as his large body lay half-draped over yours. One of his hands was resting comfortably on your stomach, fingers stroking the skin beneath the edge of your bikini top while your fingers ran through the short, prickly hairs of his buzzcut.
It was quiet, peaceful.
"So," Rafe murmured, shifting his chin so he could look up at you. You couldn’t help but note how adorable he looked peering up at you. "What d’you think is gonna happen with Sarah and John B?"
You let out a soft sigh, shaking your head. "Well, Sarah’s done. Like, done.” You emphasized. “We were talking to her right before you guys walked in and I really don't think she's ever going to give him another chance, says the trust is dead."
Rafe sighed, his eyes drifting out toward the pool where John B was sitting by himself, kicking his feet in the water, looking miserable. "Damn. That sucks, man."
You fingers stilled in his hair, looking down at him with a slight frown. "Why do you say that?” You pressed. “Don't tell me you're about to defend him."
"No, no, I'm not," Rafe said quickly, shaking his head. "What he did was stupid as hell. I'm just sayin’... The guy’s been spiraling all morning, feels guilty about the whole thing. He’s just a mess.” He shrugs. “He’s thinkin’ of all these ways to try and make it up to her, talking about writing her letters ‘n shit."
You rolled your eyes, letting out a skeptical snort. "Well, he should feel bad.” You quip. “But he’s wasting his time. Sarah seems serious about moving on. She even asked me if it was okay for her to pull Theo."
Rafe’s body stiffened a bit at your words. He stopped stroking your stomach, head tilting up as his blue eyes locked onto yours. Even though everything between you two was resolved, Rafe was just a naturally jealous, possessive guy by nature.
"And what’d you say?" Rafe asked, his voice dropping an octave, trying to play it cool but failing miserably.
You couldn't help the amused smile that grew on your face. You reached down, cupping his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you. "Relax.” You rolled your eyes. “I told her to do whatever she wants. I reminded her—as I am reminding you right now—that I am completely over Theo.” You reassure him. “I chose you. I want you. You don’t have anything to worry about."
Rafe’s face softened, the notch between his eyebrows smoothing over as a relaxed smile graced his lips and he leaned up, pressing his lips to yours in a soft kiss.
Though, the kiss was broken when the familiar sound of a text notification echoed.
Everyone sat up straighter wherever they were, Cleo grabbing her phone from the edge of the daybed where she was sitting, reading the text out loud.
"Islanders, it's time to find out who can really handle the heat in the kitchen! Get dressed and head to the Glam room for the Hot Girl Bakery Challenge! #BunsInTheOven #GetTheBag"
WHEN you walked into the glam room, you found a rack of themed, sexy outfits waiting for you all.
And while you and the girls were pulling on tight, pastel colored corsets, thigh-high lace-trimmed socks, and little baker's hats, the guys were downstairs putting on matching baker's hats and matching pastel shorts.
You were standing in front of the mirror, Rima helping you lace up your corset when suddenly, the door of the glam room slowly creaked open.
You expected one of the guys or even Ariana but when they stepped into the room, all of your heads turning, waiting to see who it was, your jaw dropped and you damn near stopped breathing.
"Oh my God!" you shrieked, throwing your hands over your mouth, accidentally jumping out of Rima’s reach as the entire room fell into high-pitched screaming and squeals. The girls were jumping up and down, losing their minds.
It was Megan Thee Stallion.
Megan laughed loudly, her infectious laugh echoing through the room as she waved at all of you, equally as excited.
"What's up, hotties?!" She shouted, standing at the head of the vanity table with her hands on her hips, glowing. "Y'all look so cute!” She gushed, pointing at you all. “You know I had to come through the villa and check on my girls, because I've been watching the TV, and whew... y'all are going through it in here!"
You all laughed, still in awe as she fixed her face with a pointed look, going down the line of girls to address everything she’d been watching.
Her eyes landed on Cleo and Rima first, pointing a long, manicured nail at them. "First of all... I don’t know what is going on between y'all two over these men, but we got to figure it out real soon, ‘kay? Because hot girls stick together, we don't fight over no boys!"
Cleo and Rima both laughed, nodding quickly, the awkwardness between them still hovering.
Megan then turned her eyes to Haja, arching an eyebrow. "And Haja... girl, what are you doing sneaking around with that man? You ain't ever heard the saying 'exes for a reason'?"
Haja bit her lip, looking embarrassed.
Megan then moved down to Kaitlyn, softening. "Now Kaitlyn, you are like the damsel of the villa, right now. You are so unproblematic. I love you, girl." Kaitlyn blushed furiously, mouthing a sweet 'thank you.'
Then, Megan fixed her sights on Sofia, her expression turning stern, almost motherly. "Sofia, baby... we have to let things go, honey, because green eyes do not suit you." Sofia forced a tight, incredibly defensive smile, shrugging her shoulders.
Megan turned to Sarah, pouting and trotting over to wrap her arms around the girl. "Sarah, my baby,” She cooed. “Do not waste your tears on no man who don't know how to act.” She reprimanded, pulling back, holding the girl by her shoulders. “You are so beautiful, baby, you’ll find a man to shower with sooner or later!"
The entire room burst into laughter at that, Sarah cracking a genuine smile for the first time all day.
Finally, Megan stopped right in front of you, a hand on her hip. "Girl..."
"I know, I know," you laughed, covering your face.
"You had two men fighting for you!" Megan hyped you up, shaking her head. "But, like, you knew it was gonna be Rafe though…” She shrugs, rolling her eyes towards the ceiling. “We all knew it. The chemistry is crazy."
You grinned widely, feeling a flush of pride as she walked back towards the front of the room.
"Alright hotties," Megan said, heading toward the door. "I’m gonna go talk to these boys before the challenge starts. So, y’all get ready and get your minds right, because we are about to get down and dirty!"
You all said bye to Megan and the moment the door clicked shut behind her, all the girls lost it again—you, Sarah, Rima and Cleo grabbing each other's hands, fangirling.
"Oh my God, I can't believe she's actually here!" you squealed.
"Bro, I am obsessed!" Cleo expressed her excitement, cheesing hard. "I was literally about to start singing 'Body'!” She laughed.
And you all couldn't wipe the smiles from your faces as you added finishing touches when suddenly, Megan’s voice echoed from the hallway. "Alright hotties, let's go! Bring them buns downstairs!"
YOU all filed out into the challenge area, which had been turned into a giant, pastel-themed bakery. There were giant sacks of flour, a table of cakes, comically large rolling pins, and a square platform in front of it all.
You and the girls were sitting on a set of bleachers opposite the guys while Megan stood off to the side of the platform, holding a pair of large, silver cymbals.
"Islanders,” she started, a bright smile on her face. “Welcome…to the Hot Girl Bakery!" Megan announced excited. "The first part of today's challenge is something I like to call… Musical Hot Cakes! It's very simple—it’s musical chairs. But with cakes.” She shrugged cutely. “When the music plays, you better shake what ya mama gave you. But when I clap these cymbals together? You better find a cake to sit on.” She explained. “And anyone left standing is eliminated. And we’ll keep goin’ until we have a winner!"
You all cheered as she called the girls to come up first—you, Sarah, Cleo, Rima, Sofia, Haja, and Kaitlyn making your way down to the platform.
The minute the bass-heavy music started pumping through the speakers, you all started dancing around the cakes—twerking, twirling around each other, dropping—when suddenly, Megan smashed the cymbals together.
You were all squealing as you threw yourselves onto a cake, the feeling of icing on your skin not the best thing in the world. Kaitlyn was a second too slow and got eliminated in the first round.
In the second round, the competition got fierce, and a hell of a lot more slippery, and both Haja and Sofia were left standing and joined Kaitlyn on the bleachers.
By the final round, it was down to you, Sarah, Rima, and Cleo. The floor was slippery with icing and crumbs and the feeling of cake between your ass wasn’t exactly the most pleasant. The music started, and you danced around each other, stopping abruptly when the sound of the cymbals rang out, and the four of you started slipping, sliding, and shoving each other trying to get the last seat, looking like baby penguins on ice, in a fit of giggles before Cleo managed to throw herself onto the last cake.
"And Cleo takes the cake!" Megan shouted, everyone clapping for her as you and the girls all went to sit down, trying to scrape as much cake off of your bum as possible.
Though, next up were the boys—John B, JJ, Pope, Rafe, Miles, Theo, and Justin all getting up from their seats once the platform had been cleaned and set up for them.
And the moment their turn started, they were ridiculous—JJ immediately started doing a terrible, hilarious twerk, making all the girls double over with laughter. Rafe was standing near you, catching your eye and doing a goofy little shoulder shimmy that had you giggling as you told him to ‘shake that ass’ and he flipped you off with a smile just before the cymbals smashed.
In the first round, John B missed a seat, getting eliminated.
In the second round, both Justin and Miles were knocked out after a slippery wrestle for a seat.
By the third round, it came down to JJ, Pope, Theo, and Rafe, and though all three of those men were much larger than him, JJ utilized his lankiness to slide between the triangle of men as they wrested for the seat and quite literally take the cake, winning the round for the boys as everyone cheered.
As the boys took their seats and the platform was cleared once again, Megan stepped forward. "Now, JJ won for the boys, and Cleo won for the girls.” She pointed to each of them. “But as the official judge of the Hot Girl Bakery, I gotta decide which side was actually more entertaining to watch…” She pretended to think, her eyes narrowed. “And... because my girls know how to twerk and actually get down, the point for this round goes to the girls!"
You all cheered, the boys clapping with smirks on their faces, still entertained despite the loss.
"But now,” Megan’s voice broke through. “It's time for part two." She smirked, pointing to a large structure that had been wheeled out. It looked like a giant, pink cake, but it had seven holes cut out of the top, exactly like a whack-a-mole game. “This is called Sweet Revenge.” She told you all dramatically. “Girls, go ahead and climb inside the cake!"
You all walked behind the structure, climbing inside, poking your heads through the holes. Only your heads were showing, the rest of your bodies trapped inside the pink wooden cake contraption.
A few feet away was a small, circular, raised podium. "Boys,” Megan began. “One by one, you’re gonna grab yourself a cake, pick a girl, and let her know what’s been pissing you off, and serve it...with a cake to the face.” She told them.
The boys all clapped as you and the girls exchanged weary looks and eye-rolls, knowing not much good could really come out of this.
“Don’t look like that, ladies,” Megan started, looking at you girls. “‘Cause y’all are gonna get y’all's time for y’all's sweet revenge.” She comforted, and you started nodding, smiling, concealed hands clapping.
“Hell, yeah!”
“Boys,” Megan turned back. “First up…is Justin.”
And Justin stepped onto the podium as the guys all cheered, a small cake balanced in his hand. As he took his place, he didn't even hesitate, locking his eyes onto Cleo. "I’ve chosen this girl,” He started, shifting on the spot. “Because I'm still pissed off at her for having to find out she kissed someone else behind my back through Movie Night, and it just made me feel like she was just playing with my feelings this whole time." He says honestly. “So, the girl I’m choosing is Cleo.”
“C’mon, then.” Cleo taunted, holding her head high.
He scoffed and took aim, launching the cake. It hit Cleo's hole in the structure, splattering across her neck and chin.
Megan winced, looking at Cleo. "Cleo, how do you feel about that?"
Cleo looked unbothered, stretching her tongue out and licking a dollop of the sweet frosting off the side of her mouth before looking at Justin. "I get why he's upset.” She took it on the chin. “But I also remember that Justin did the exact same thing. So, I guess we’ll call it even." She gave him a deadpan look, looking unaffected.
Next was John B, and it was incredibly tense as he stepped up the podium, looking straight at Sarah.
Everyone made a face, whispering to each other.
"I'm choosing this girl," John B said, his hands shaking slightly as he held the cake. "Because she’s super mad at me right now, and she won't even speak to me or look at me. So, honestly, I'm hoping a cake to the face will make her mad enough to at least curse me out or something. Because right now, something is better than nothing." He shrugged, biting the inside of his cheek.
And you all winced, curling your lips and squeezing your eyes shut as he threw the cake, and it hit Sarah dead in the face, icing covering her eyes, nose, and mouth.
Megan looked shocked, tentatively asking her question. "...Sarah... how you feelin’ about that?"
Sarah stood still, wiggling a hand through the hole to wipe the cream from her eyes so she could look John B right in the face. "...You know what? I was actually going to curse him out.” She says honestly. “But just because that's exactly what he wants me to do... I'm not going to." She stared at him, a bitter smile on her lips. "Sit down."
The entire villa went "Ooooooh," and Megan even stepped in, shaking her head at John B. "A cake to the face is definitely not the way to get a girl to talk to you." She reprimanded, shaking her head.
Then it was Theo, all of you watching as he stepped to the stand, looking directly at you. You arched an eyebrow in skepticism.
"Even though this girl and I talked it out, I still believe it’s only right," Theo said, shrugging his shoulders. "So, the girl I’m choosing is..." He declared, calling out your name, reeling his arm back before tossing the cake in your direction.
But you saw it coming, pulling your head back slightly as the cake splattered against the wooden border, missing most of your face.
Megan cringed, a hand on her hip. "That's the first one for you! How you feelin’?"
You shrugged, rolling your eyes. "I don't know if he was trying to throw shade by saying 'it's only right,' because it literally makes no sense.” You threw out. “We already agreed that I was honest with him from day one. But it’s whatever." You smirked, looking at Theo as he returned to his seat. "He missed anyway."
Pope was up next, walking up, looking serious with his eyes focused on Haja. “I feel like this girl played with the feelings of one of the guys I’m closest to in here, and seeing him actually get out of his old ways and try to form a genuine, real connection with someone, only for her to take advantage of that and sneak around is something I can’t respect. So," Pope shrugged. “Sorry, Haja.”
He launched the cake, hitting Haja right on the cheek as she turned her head to the side.
And when Megan asked Haja for her reaction, she just scoffed, rolling her eyes as she wiped her face. "I just feel like this is Cry Baby Island or something. I’m so sick of everyone acting like we are these married, real-world couples.” She snarls. “JJ isn't a baby, he's a grown-ass man, and he'll be fine." She dismissed his feelings, causing a few of the guys and girls to murmur in disapproval.
Then, it was JJ's turn. He walked up to the podium, his expression dropping into something mischievous.
"I’m choosing to cake this girl because, I don’t think it’s any secret that Y/N’s my girl in here, we came in together, and I hate seeing someone talk down on her when I know how much of a genuinely good person she really is." He offers, making you smile softly, mouthing a ‘thank you’. “Maybe this’ll sweeten up this girl’s bitter soul.”
And without another word, he tossed the cake forward, watching as it hit the side of Sofia's face, splattering into her hair.
"Sofia, how you feeling about JJ choosing you?" Megan asked.
Sofia just shrugged, her face twisting into a bitter, tight expression. "I'm used to everyone in here fighting Y/N’s battles for her, so it's really nothing new."
You didn't even bother giving her words life, just rolled your eyes, looking away.
Then it was Miles. He stepped onto the podium, a smug grin on his face.
"During movie night, I feel like this girl got super rowdy and loud for someone who jumped partners the first second she got.” He taunts. “In my opinion, she's not nearly as innocent as she likes to come off in here." He shrugs. “Sorry, Y/N.” He said, but the wink at the end of his words said otherwise as he threw the cake, but his aim was terrible. It sailed past your head, hitting the table behind all of your heads, knocking over a few of the other cakes.
"Second person to target you!” Megan threw out, surprised. “What’s tea?"
You glared at Miles, your voice dripping with venom. "Miles is the last person in this entire villa to talk about someone not being as innocent as they come off.” You shoot back. “He just needs to be quiet and sit his ass down. Maybe work on his aim while he’s at it."
"I've never tried to hide the fact that I'm not a perfect person." Miles tried to defend, acting unbothered.
Before you could even say anything back, the rest of the girls jumped in. Cleo, Rima, and Sarah all started taunting him.
"Buddy, that's literally all you do." Cleo laughed in his face.
The small shouting match had the whole villa rippling, and Megan had to step in, laughing as she ushered Miles off the podium. "Alright, alright, sit down." She calmed, holding her head down as she laughed and walked back to her spot.
Finally, Rafe stepped up, gripping his mini cake and he took his place, bouncing the small dessert in his palm.
"I feel like this girl has been consistently trying to ruin something good that I have going on for myself.” He started, chewing the inside of his cheek. “And I just want her to get a taste of her own medicine for once, considering she’s been tormenting a girl who never deserved it since she got here. This one’s for you." Rafe teased, pointing at you like a celebrity at a concert as the other girls giggled before he threw the cake, the small dessert hitting Sofia right in the middle of her face, icing covering all of her features.
Your jaw dropped as you watched, along with the other girls, Rima trying not to laugh as Sofia wiggled a hand free to wipe the sugary cream from her face.
“Sofia, how you feelin’ about that?”
And the girl just took a deep breath, a tight smile on her lips. “I’m not surprised.” She bit out, not saying much more.
And since Rafe was the end of the line, you and the girls were allowed to climb out of the cake and wipe yourselves off a bit as the platform was cleaned and set up for the boys.
"Alright, switch it up!" Megan shouted once everything was reset. "Boys, get inside the cake!”
The boys took their places, poking their heads through the holes and getting comfortable.
Megan then turned her gaze to the girls’ bleachers. “Girls, it's your turn for some sweet revenge!” She smiled. “And don’t worry," she starts, grabbing the comically large piping bag she had behind her, holding it up. “I brought backup.” She winks.
You all clapped and cheered at the sight of the bakery themed weapon. Sure, the guys had their fun, but this would make it a hell of a lot easier to aim. You could dodge a cake, you couldn’t dodge this.
Cleo was up first and she was all too happy as she marched up to the podium, lifting the heavy object in her arms.
"I feel like I was as honest as possible with this guy. I apologized for lying, but at the end of the day, he went ahead and kissed someone out of pure spite, and I don't respect that.” Cleo shrugged, aiming the gun straight at Justin.
She squeezed the trigger, and a thick stream of buttercream shot out, blasting Justin in the face as he turned his head to try and dodge it but failed.
“Damn,” Megan hissed. “Justin! How’re you holdin’ up?”
But he just sat there with buttercream dripping off his nose, saying nothing as he wiped his mouth and Cleo took her seat.
Sarah was up next. She walked up to the podium with a purpose, her jaw set as she lifted the piping gun, her grip steady.
"I’m choosing this boy because he is the biggest liar I have ever met,” She starts, eyes locked on a certain brunette. “And clearly, his attraction to me was nothing but superficial. I want nothing to do with him anymore, and this is my get-back for him throwing a cake at my face." She smiled bitterly, lifting the gun and pointing it straight at John B’s face. “Say ‘ah’.” She snarked, pulling the trigger and blasting John B with a mountain of buttercream.
He sputtered as the stream kept going, trying to move his head to escape the line of fire. And as the stream of icing died out, Sarah lowered the piping bag, a satisfied smirk on her face as she stepped down from the podium. "Have fun showering that off.” She quipped. “Alone."
You and the girls, as well as some of the boys, struggled to hold in your laughs and sounds of amusement as Sarah took her seat, high fiving all of you.
“John B,” Megan dragged out, her tone somewhat disapproving as she shook her head at the boy. “Tell us how you’re feelin’ after that one.”
John B wiped the cream from his eyes, looking miserable. "I mean, I won't make excuses for what I did. But I don't get why you're saying my attraction was superficial.” He looked to Sarah. “I don’t think that’s fair."
Megan suddenly stepped in, adding her input before Sarah could. "Well, when your head gets turned by the first girl that looks exactly like her in less than a week, I think it’s understandable for her to assume your attraction was only at a surface level, boo."
John B tried to defend himself, stuttering, "It—it wasn't just the way she looked that attracted me to Delaney, it was—"
Megan and all you girls cut him off in unison, faces twisted. "But that's what you said." You all laughed, amused and somewhat mocking his lies.
“Don’t lie, now!” Megan shouted, pointing at him with a sharp look. "’Cause I watched you say it on the screen! I saw it!"
John B sighed, mouth slamming shut, admitting defeat as he hung his head.
Then, it was your turn. You walked up to the podium, a grin on your face as you lifted the piping bag. You decided to play with them a little bit, eyes going across the board, pointing the barrel at different boys.
You pointed it at Miles first. "I could cream Miles, since he tried to throw a cake at me and missed terribly... and honestly, I have more than enough reasons." Miles shifted uncomfortably.
You slid the barrel over to John B. "Or... I could cream him, since he likes to play with people's feelings."
Then you let the barrel drift to Rafe, a dark look in your eyes as he stared right back at you. “Or I could cream you just to have an excuse to lick it off later,” you teased, everyone making various noises of amusement as Rafe’s face flushed and he let his head hang to try and hide it.
But finally, you swung the barrel around, pointing it straight at Theo and he just sighed, knowing what was coming. "I thought we put everything behind us, but clearly, someone’s still feeling a little bit bitter.” You taunted, shifting the piping bag to hold it correctly. “I think you need a little bit of sugar to even things out." You smiled, not wasting a second as you pulled the trigger, blasting Theo in the face with a thick stream of off-white frosting.
“Theo!” Megan called out, laughing. “Any words?”
He just wiped his eyes, shrugging calmly. "No hard feelings, I guess.” He said casually. “We're even now."
Then it was Kaitlyn’s turn, and she surprised everyone when she walked up, took aim, and pointed the gun straight at John B.
"Being his ex from the outside world, I really thought this boy was actually changing in here.” She said, shaking her head, disappointed, “He had everyone fooled, including me, and this is the least he deserves." She snapped, pulling the trigger, blasting him a second time.
John B just sighed through the frosting, speaking before Megan even had the chance to ask her signature question. "I'm just gonna keep my mouth shut."
All the girls, in sync, shouted as Kaitlyn returned to her spot, "Good choice!"
Haja went next. Surprisingly, she walked up and chose to cream JJ, her reasoning completely nonsensical, trying to paint JJ as the villain of their situation instead of herself or Miles.
As she prepared to shoot, you, the girls, and the guys started shouting at JJ from the side.
"Just turn your head to the side and take that shit, bro! It’s alright!" Pope called out, annoyed.
Haja shot him, and JJ just stood there perfectly calm, eyes squeezed shut and lips curled in as he let the frosting hit him without moving a muscle, Megan asking him how he felt afterwards.
JJ wiped his face calmly, looking at Haja. "I’m not bothered.” He shrugged, licking icing from his lips. “I know the truth. Every single person here does. But if you want to blame me so you can feel better about yourself, then feel free." You all clapped, applauding JJ’s words while Haja returned to her seat, looking furious that she didn't get a rise out of him.
Then it was Sofia. She walked up to the stand, that same irritating smirk on her face.
"I'm choosing this boy because I think he needs to come to his senses.” She said simply, hiking the piping bag up and aiming it at Rafe. “And... maybe this will remind him of just how sweet things used to be between us." She snarked, pulling the trigger, letting buttercream splatter against Rafe’s features as he just nodded through it, turning his head to the side near the end.
Confessional: You
"Like... are you serious right now?" You deadpanned, scoffing. “This corny ass bitch…She’s actually so exhausting."
Megan turned to Rafe as he shook the frosting from his face, using one hand to pinch the sticky sweet substance from his eyes. "Rafe, how you feelin’ after that sweet reminder?" She teased.
He wiped a piece of cream from his chin, looking at Megan. "I think she’s a bit too bitter to be talking about sweet shit."
A chorus of chuckles and laughs rang out softly, the line shutting Sofia down as her face turned a bright, embarrassed red, and she stomped off the podium to take her seat.
Finally, Rima walked up. She aimed her gun straight at John B, making it his third time getting blasted. "Out of everyone, this guy really deserves it.” She says, a smirk on her face. “Seeing Sarah walk around looking miserable is heartbreaking. That girl is always so bubbly and lively, and she never deserved what he did. I really hate John B for taking the spark out of a girl who did nothing but give him the chance that he literally begged her for." She sighed. “So, the guy I’m choosing is John Booker.” She snarked, various reactions ringing out as she winked at him. “Open wide.” She teased, pulling the trigger, blasting him.
Megan didn't even bother asking John B how he felt this time, muttering, "Yeah, I ain't even gonna ask him, because I don't think that boy wants to open his mouth anymore." She giggled to herself as Rima handed her the piping bag and took her seat.
Once the guys were semi-clean and sat, and the platform was cleared, Megan stood in the middle to announce the final results.
"The girls got down, they got dirty, and they did their big one on these boys today!” She hyped you all up. “And while you did your thing, boys, I gotta give the win to my ladies!" Everyone cheered—you and the girls celebrating while the guys clapped respectfully. “And, while it’s been fun, my time in the villa has come to an end.” Megan pouted.
“All my girls, keep turnin' up, keep putting on, keep being hot girls doin’ hot girl things.” She pointed to you all as you blew kisses towards her, waving as she turned to the boys. “All the boys, y’all can step up the gentleman a little bit more.” She threw out, still lighthearted. “But keep havin’ a motherfucking hot boy summer turning it up!” She added, all of the boys clapping and cheering. “...And I’m gone.” Megan posed, throwing up two peace signs.
You all stood up, clapping as she made her exit, shouting after her, chanting ‘Megan’ as she did a little polite twerk and sauntered out of the villa. “Bye, yall!” She called over her shoulder, laughing.
You were all laughing, hopping down from the bleachers as you all started walking back inside the villa to clean yourselves up. As you and Rafe walked toward the stairs, covered in frosting and sticky buttercream, a few of the guys and girls started nudging you both, laughing.
"You gonna shower it off together?" JJ called out with a wink.
"Shut up!" you and Rafe both shouted back playfully, laughing as you headed to separate bathrooms to get clean.
BY the late afternoon, everyone was showered, fresh, and relaxing around the villa.
You and Rafe were sitting on the daybeds, comfortably people-watching.
"So," Rafe said, shifting closer to you, resting his arm behind your head. "Update me," He inquired, fingertips brushing your shoulders. “What’s ‘tea’?” He mocked, the words sounding funny coming from him.
You giggled, settling closer into him. “You sound like someone’s dad trying to use slang.” You teased, looking up at him as he rolled his eyes at you despite the small smile on his lips. "But nothing much, to be honest.” You shrugged. “Well, actually, I talked to Cleo after I showered. She got a chance to talk with Rima, and they cleared the air. Rima admitted that she thinks she might still be in love with Justin, and she apologized to Cleo for the kiss. And Cleo apologized for her part, too, and finally admitted that her feelings for Pope are way stronger than her ones for Justin."
“So, what now?” Rafe chuckles. “They’re just gonna swap guys?” He mused. “That’s funny.”
You shrugged, a small giggle on your tongue. “I guess,” You told him, pointing across the garden toward the kitchen. "Look,"
Rafe leaned forward, following your gaze to where Cleo and Justin were standing by the kitchen counter having a chat. Even from a distance, the body language was tense—Justin had his arms crossed tightly, and Cleo was speaking calmly but firmly, clearly letting him down.
"You think he's takin’ it well?" Rafe asked, rubbing his chin.
"Doesn’t seem like it," you sighed. "But I don't know Justin very well. Though, I really hope he does.” You told him. “Is it bad that I want Cleo and Pope back together? I think they were meant for each other, they've just had a really rocky road in here."
Rafe hummed in agreement, sitting back as you leaned against him.
You shifted, looking up at him. "Has JJ said anything to you guys about Haja?” You ask, concerned. “I haven't had a chance to talk to him."
Rafe’s expression turned a bit more serious, nodding slowly. "Yeah, he did actually.” He shifted beneath you. “He was pretty beat up about it last night. When we were getting ready for bed, he looked upset, like he could have cried right there.” Rafe explains, shaking his head. “But after the challenge today, he told us that he’s just gonna tell Haja that things aren’t gonna work out between ‘em, says he wants to explore other people."
Rafe shook his head, scratching his chin. "He just felt really disrespected and toyed with, you know? Says he doesn't want to be stuck in the middle of 'whatever weird shit she and Miles have goin’ on'."
"Good for him," you said, nodding in approval. "But who does he even plan on exploring? Because there really aren't many options in here right now. Cleo and Pope are obviously about to get back on track. Rima and Justin are probably gonna start a connection. Kaitlyn really doesn't seem like his type at all, and he obviously would never go for Sofia."
Rafe looked around the garden, lowering his voice. "...If I tell you, you gotta promise me you won't say a word...to anyone."
Your eyes widened with curiosity, sitting up straighter as you craned to look at him. "Okay,” you said. “I promise."
Rafe leaned in closer. "When he was talking to me and Pope earlier, he said he wants to try and explore other people, and he’s hoping a new bombshell comes in. But... he said he’s had an interest in someone in here..."
Rafe hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly dodging the topic.
You groaned, nudging him hard. "Rafe!” You scolded. “Who is it?"
Rafe let out a breath, looking at you. "He wants to try and see if there’s anything there with Sarah."
Your jaw literally dropped. "Sarah?!"
"Yeah," Rafe nodded. "He said ever since they kissed during that workplace challenge thingy, it’s been stuck in the back of his mind. He felt somethin’ after it, but he never felt like he had the right to explore it because he and John B were so close. But now? He feels like John B blew his chance, and Sarah is open to exploring other people now, so he thinks he should take his shot."
You sat there in shock, wrinkling your nose as you processed it. "...I don’t know,” You made a face of uncertainty. “I love them both, but I cannot see JJ and Sarah working out, at all. Like... they look like they could be related!” You laugh. “It’s just really weird to picture. And getting with someone who is that close to John B might not be the best for Sarah right now. But... at the end of the day, they’ve both been through so much shit in here. I just want them both to be happy. So, if it works out, it works out. I'll be happy for them either way."
Before Rafe could reply, footsteps approached the daybed. You both looked up to see Theo standing there, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking slightly uncomfortable.
"Hey," Theo said, his eyes darting between the two of you before locking onto Rafe. "Um... can I pull you for a conversation real quick?"
You felt your heart tighten slightly, but to your surprise, Rafe didn't hesitate or resist. There was no aggressiveness, no tension in his shoulders. He just nodded calmly, sliding from behind you and off the daybed.
"Yeah, ‘course man," Rafe said easily.
Before he walked away, he leaned down, planting a soft kiss on your lips. "I'll be right back," he murmured.
You watched them walk across the lawn, heading toward a spot near the edge of the pool. It was private enough, but still out in the open where you could see them. And, if you strained your ears against the quiet afternoon wind, you could catch pieces of their conversation, though you tried your best to pretend like you were just casually looking at your phone.
Theo cleared his throat, sitting down across from Rafe. "Look, I know things have been pretty...tense between us.” He started. “I don't expect us to be the best of friends or anything, but I also think there's no point in us being enemies."
Rafe nodded, leaning back, his expression open. "Agreed."
"I also wanted to apologize," Theo said, looking down before meeting Rafe's eyes. "For movie night, and some of the things I said to Y/N and to you. Honestly, I think I was just in my feelings about the whole situation.” He nods. “And... I'll admit, the second you walked back into the villa from Casa and I saw her face when she saw you were alone, I could just feel it in my heart that she was still with you.” He says honestly. “Whether it was emotionally or physically, I just had this gut feeling that you two weren't done with each other just yet. I think…I just buried that feeling down for those few days, and it reached a boiling point and just spilled over."
Theo took a breath, his voice sincere. "But I need you to know... she was honest with me the entire time. She stayed one hundred percent loyal to you up until they got that video.” He clarifies, retracting his statements from that night. “You have a really good girl on your hands, man. She really likes you, and I can see how much you care about her. I just wanted to let you know that I'm not here to get in the middle of that. Not anymore."
Rafe listened, his expression softening. He let out a breath, rubbing his hands together. "I appreciate that, man. Seriously.” He offers. “To be honest with you, I never planned on coming back into this villa with any animosity toward you. Even when I walked in and saw her standing there next to you... yeah, I was pissed. As hell.” He chuckles deeply. “But I never wanted to have an issue with you over it. Because at the end of the day, especially during that time... if you were going to be the one to actually make her happy, then I wanted to try my best to accept that. Because her happiness was all I ever wanted." He says. “Still is.”
Rafe looked back over at you on the daybed before looking back at Theo. "She made her choice. Whether it was me or you, at the end of the day, I was never gonna hold that against you. I’ve made a lot of enemies in my past over a lot of stupid bullshit, man, and I’m trying to done with shit like that.” He smiles tightly, though it is genuine. “We're cool. We're good."
Theo smirked, looking relieved as he stood up, extending a hand as Rafe stood up too, wrapping him into a quick bro-hug, patting his back.
Right as Rafe broke away from the hug and started walking back toward you, the afternoon silence was shattered by another loud text sound echoing out.
Everyone froze as you grabbed your phone, your heart suddenly dropping into your stomach as you stood on the daybed and read the words on the screen.
"Islanders, please drop whatever you are doing, get dressed into your best evening wear, and gather at the fire pit immediately for a surprise. #NoTimeToSend #ExpectTheUnexpected"
"A surprise?" JJ shouted from where he was swimming in the pool. "What the hell does that mean?”
“Maybe it’s a recoupling?”
“Or a dumping…”
“Or it could be another challenge?"
"We've never gotten a text this vague before," Cleo muttered, her face fallen as everyone looked nervous.
THE atmosphere in the glam room was chaotic, full of speculation. Everyone was silently panicking, applying lipstick with shaking hands, trying to guess what was in store.
When everyone was finally ready, the girls filed down the steps in stunning dresses, the guys already waiting at the bottom.
Rafe stepped forward as your feet hit the grass, eyes widening as he took in your appearance, grabbing your hand tightly. His grip was firm, as if he was unconsciously afraid to let you go.
Before heading to the fire pit, everyone gathered around the table in the middle of the garden for the usual evening toast. JJ was the one to raise his glass, clearing his throat.
"Alright," JJ said, his voice a mix of humor and genuine emotion. Everyone had this weird feeling about tonight, that much was clear. "I know everyone is really fuckin’ nervous right now.” He admits, light chuckles going around the table. “We don't know what the hell’s ‘bout to happen tonight. There’s been a mountain of drama in this villa over the past few days, but at the end of the day, we’re a family, man. And I'm really glad to be here with every single one of you tonight, despite everything.” He smiles. “Cheers."
"Cheers!" Everyone clinked their glasses together, taking a sip.
But right as you lowered your glass, you spotted a figure walking into the villa and the silhouette of Ariana appeared, all of you watching as she rounded the corner in a jaw-dropping evening gown.
"Hi Islanders," She said, her voice echoing through the quiet garden as you all greeted her back. "Will everyone please join me at the fire pit?"
Everyone exchanged weary, nervous glances as you all filed into the circular seating of the fire pit, the flames crackling in the center. You sat close to Rafe, his arm wrapped tightly around your shoulders, your fingers laced together.
Ariana stood at the front, looking at all of you with her hands clasped.
"Islanders," Ariana began, her voice sending a chill down your spine. "I know you got a text today. And I know it was very vague, and you're probably wondering exactly what is happening tonight.” She started, meeting each of your eyes. “I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Tonight…one of you will be leaving the villa for good."
A collective murmur of shock broke out, you glanced up at Rafe, eyes wide with worry.
"Over the past twenty-four hours, the public has been voting," Ariana continued. "While Casa Amor was the ultimate test for everyone in this villa, the public believes that one boy failed that test the worst.” She drags out, face falling.
“Boys,” Ariana’s eyes scanned the crowd. "Can all who were present at Casa Amor please come stand next to me?"
Rafe, John B, JJ, Pope, and Miles all slowly stood up from the couch, Rafe giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze as he and the others walked over to line up next to Ariana. Rafe cast one quick look back at you, but you could see the slight tension in his jaw.
Your heart was beating out of your chest.
"Boys, before I reveal who the public has voted as the ultimate failure of Casa Amor," Ariana said, her voice dripping with suspense, "I want to go down the line and ask each of you... where are your heads at standing up there right now? And looking back, how do you truly believe you did during the test of Casa Amor?"
Ariana eyes scanned the line, stopping directly on Rafe. "Rafe, let’s start with you."
Rafe shifted his weight, his blue eyes flashing over to you for a split second before he looked at Ariana. He swallowed hard, adjusting the collar of his shirt.
"I'm not gonna lie and say it was perfect," Rafe said, his deep voice carrying across the silent fire pit. "I definitely had some ups and downs while I was there. But, I do believe that I stayed down. I believe I moved respectfully, as respectfully as possible given the environment. And look, I know there were some... misunderstandings that happened because of other people," he muttered, throwing a subtle, dark glance toward Sofia, "but I know in my heart that I was on my best behavior. I did right by my girl, and I'm just really hoping that the public sees that."
You let out a tiny breath, your fingers twisting in your lap as you offered him a small, encouraging nod.
Ariana nodded slowly, shifting her gaze to the next boy. "Pope, how are you feeling?"
Pope rubbed the back of his neck, looking serious. "Casa Amor was... it was a fun experience on paper, I guess. But for me personally? I only had my mind on one person the entire time. Because of that, it wasn't even really that fun for me. Every time I looked at another girl, I was just wishing I was back here. But I also believe that I moved with respect—not just for myself, but for the people who were here. I didn't do anything to jeopardize what I want, and I feel good about that."
Cleo bit her lip from the couch, her eyes softening as she watched him speak.
"JJ?" Ariana said, turning toward him.
The blonde let out a heavy sigh, looking down at his shoes for a moment before he met Ariana's gaze.
"I obviously have some regrets about how I handled Casa," JJ admitted, his voice rough. "My biggest regret in here is the fact that I wasn't able to sit down and have a real talk with Kiara before she left. I’ll forever regret being part of the reason that she's gone. And... yeah, I do regret moving so fast with Haja. Obviously, everything that happened with her and Miles afterward just came full circle right back around to me, and I believe that everything that went down was just straight-up karma for how I moved."
JJ shook his head, but his jaw set. "But even though it hurts, I’m still grateful for the experience. Because I definitely learned a lesson from it, and I can promise you, I will not be making those same mistakes again."
Ariana held his gaze, offering a small smile for a moment before moving down to John B. "John B,” She called out. “How do you feel about your performance at Casa Amor?"
John B cleared his throat, his eyes darting over to Sarah, who refused to even look in his direction.
"I mean... it's complicated," John B stammered, gripping his hands tightly behind his back. "In some ways, I felt like I did go about Casa the right way... but then in a lot of other ways, I know I went about it the wrong way. I feel like I made some really stupid mistakes, and standing here now, I realize that some of the damage that’s been done between me and Sarah is irreversible. But... I’m just really hoping that I’ll have another chance to show who I really am." He paused, taking a shaky breath. "I do regret my actions at Casa. Or... at the very least, I regret the way they came out in front of everybody."
From the couch, Sarah let out a quiet, unimpressed scoff under her breath, keeping her stare locked firmly on the fire.
Finally, Ariana looked at Miles. "And lastly... Miles?"
Unlike the other four boys, who looked like they were facing a firing squad, Miles had a relaxed smug smirk plastered across his face. He casually shrugged his shoulders, looking unbothered.
"Casa Amor was fun for me," Miles said, his tone casual. "I don’t have any regrets about anything I did there, to be completely real with you. I think that since I’ve been in this villa, I’ve done exactly what we are all supposed to do. You're supposed to follow your heart, you're supposed to make decisions for yourself, and you're supposed to find what’s best for you at the end of the day. That's exactly what I did."
The contrast between Miles's arrogant attitude and the emotional weight of the other guys made the tension at the fire pit spike.
"Thank you for your honesty, boys," Ariana said, her voice dropping into that formal tone. "The public has made their choice. And soon, one of you will be dumped from the island."
You gripped the fabric of your dress, air trapped in your lungs as you waited. You knew the chance of it being Rafe was low, or at least hoped it was.
Ariana let the silence hang before speaking. "The boy who has been voted the ultimate failure of Casa Amor, and as a result, has been dumped from the villa immediately…” She pauses.
“...is Miles."
The fire pit fell into a chorus of soft murmurs as Miles stood there, his hands shoved behind his back. Surprisingly, he took it on the chin, nodding slowly with an unfazed expression on his face, as if he had already expected it.
Ariana looked at him. "Miles, do you have anything you want to say?"
Miles let out a sharp chuckle, shaking his head as he looked at the rest of the boys. "I think I was definitely not the worst person to come out of Casa.” He snaps. “I think a lot of the other guys up here did way worse shit than me. You got JJ over here, who had sex with somebody while he had a whole girl waiting on him back here, leading her on when he wasn't even that into her.” He fires. “And then you got John B, who was leading Sarah on while showering with a whole other girl. So... yeah, I'm definitely confused about the public's vote, but,” He shrugs. “There isn't anything I can do about it now."
Ariana nodded slowly, turning her eyes to the couch. "Girls... do you agree with the public's vote tonight?"
Ariana looked directly at Sarah, letting her speak first.
Sarah started, her voice steady. "I do.” She nodded. “Although there were definitely other guys up there who did things and hurt people deeply... comparing everything from a...less personal standpoint, and not as someone who was directly hurt by one of them…” She shoots a pointed glance at John B. “I think Miles not only failed the test of Casa Amor, but I think he has failed Love Island entirely.” She muses. “He came into this villa manipulating people from day one, and he hasn't made a single true, genuine connection since he’s been here. Casa Amor didn't test his loyalty—it just showed his true colors, which is that he has loyalty to absolutely no one but himself."
All the girls on the couch nodded in agreement, murmuring their support.
"Thank you, Sarah," Ariana said. She turned back to Miles. "Miles,” She began. “As the boy with the most votes, you are now dumped from the island.” She says with a tight smile. “You may pack your bags, and get ready to say your goodbyes."
Miles just nodded, turning around and walking back toward the villa without a single word to anyone.
At that, the boys began to walk away and you girls began to stand.
"But Islanders," Ariana’s voice boomed, stopping everyone from moving. "There is…one more thing before we go tonight."
A collective groan of terror erupted from the couch.
"Oh my God, what now?" Cleo whispered, letting her head fall.
"On top of tonight being a surprise dumping," Ariana revealed with a slight smile, "there will also be a surprise recoupling. And tonight... it is the boys' choice."
The girls all let out a breath, a wave of relief hitting you. Since it was boys' choice, you knew Rafe was going to choose you, meaning you were not only safe, but you’d also be back with him. Officially.
You let out a small sigh, leaning back against the cushions.
"Girls, please come stand next to me," Ariana instructed. “Guys, you may have a seat.”
You, Sarah, Cleo, Rima, Sofia, Haja, and Kaitlyn all stood up, forming a line in front of the now seated men.
"One by one, the boys will tell us who they are choosing to couple up with and why." Ariana said, smiling. "Pope, you're up first. Please, tell us who you’re choosing and why."
Pope stepped forward, clearing his throat as he looked down the line of girls.. "I'm choosing to couple up with this girl because... I've done my fair share of exploring in here. I think we both have. But at the end of the day, no matter who I talked to, I always knew deep down that it was always going to be her.” He shrugged shyly. “She's the only one for me in here, and I'm really hoping that we can finally just get it right this time. So, the girl I want to couple up with... is Cleo."
Cleo grinned widely as you all clapped, walking over to wrap him in a tight hug as they sat down together on the couch.
“Congratulations, Cleo and Pope. You may take a seat.” Ariana prompted. “Cleo, what are your thoughts?”
“I'm happy,” she smiles. “I really am. I feel like I haven't been coupled up with Pope in a very long time, and I'm glad that I'm able to let my feelings, my true feelings, roam free, instead of laying dormant.” She laughed as Ariana called for the next boy.
“Theo, please stand.” He stepped forward, looking down the line. “Please, tell us who you would like to couple up with.”
"I'm choosing this girl because... she caught my eye the first day I walked into this villa. I feel like our journey together might have been a little delayed because of our different situations, but I am incredibly glad that I'm finally getting the chance to explore a connection with her now. Despite us only having a few chats, as of today, I believe that this girl has a lot of layers. She deserves the world, and I hope things go well between us. So, the girl I'm coupling up with... is Sarah."
Sarah smiled warmly, walking over and taking his hand as they sat down, looking genuinely happy.
“Congratulations, Sarah and Theo.” Ariana congratulated them. “Sarah, how’re you feeling?”
“I'm excited, definitely still a bit guarded because of everything that's happened in here with everyone, not just myself. Theo seems like a really good guy and I'm excited to be exploring someone else and be moving on.” She says calmly before Ariana calls for the next boy.
“Justin?”
Justin stepped forward, looking nervous. "I'm choosing this girl because... I actually met her in the real world before this experience, and I'm happy that I get another chance to be with her here. I'm really hoping that maybe this is our chance at another chance, and hopefully, our way of figuring out the kinks of our relationship in the right way this time around. So…I choose Rima."
Rima walked over, joining him on the couch with a relieved smile.
“Congrats, you two,” Ariana smiled with her hands clasped. “Rima?”
“I'm happy. You know, me and Justin aren't strangers, so it's kind of a feeling of nostalgia, but at the same time, it does feel like something new. It does feel like another chance at another chance, like Justin said.”
Ariana smiled, telling the couple that “that’s beautiful” before calling for the next boy. “JJ, please stand.”
Then, JJ stepped forward. His expression was significantly less heartfelt, his speech lacking any romantic warmth. "I’m choosing this girl because... honestly, I was trying to explore other connections in here. And although a real romantic connection with this girl is no longer an option for me, and is completely off the table... I don't really have another choice of anyone else to couple up with tonight. But... I'm hoping that maybe we can be friends in here. So, I’m choosing to couple up with Haja."
Haja walked over awkwardly, the vibe between them icy as they sat down without even looking at each other.
“Haja,” Ariana called. “How do you feel about what JJ said?”
“I mean, I get he’s hurt, but I did what you're supposed to do in here. I explored and I never meant to hurt his feelings, but” She shrugged. “It is what it is. But I will say I'm grateful that he still chose me.”
Next was John B. “John B, please stand.” He stepped forward, looking defeated as he looked down the line.
"...I'm choosing to couple up with this girl because... although I do have a connection that I desperately want to fix in here... that girl isn't open to giving me another chance right now, and I have to respect that for the time being.” He sighs. “But I’m choosing to couple with this girl because, even though we didn't work out romantically, she's a great person, and I want to keep her here so that way she can hopefully find the real connection that she came here for. So, because of that, I choose Kaitlyn."
Kaitlyn gave him a friendly, appreciative smile, walking over to sit with him, Ariana asking for her thoughts.
“I mean, I'm grateful…yeah, definitely grateful. I can't wait to hopefully see the day that I'm in a real romantic coupling,” She laughed. “But, hopefully, I can use this time to help John B do some much needed self-reflection.”
Finally, it was down to Rafe.
And the only girls left standing were you and Sofia.
“Rafe, please stand and tell us who you would like to couple up with and why.”
Rafe stepped forward, and the moment he did, a proud smile broke across his face. His blue eyes locked onto yours, completely ignoring Sofia, who already had her head down, looking defeated.
"I think my choice tonight is a no-brainer," Rafe said as he looked straight at you. "I think every single person here, and everyone watching, knows exactly who I'm choosing. I’ve just been so incredibly grateful for this girl, and for her patience and understanding with me.” He nods, chewing his cheek. “Even when things looked bad and weren't as they seemed... it took a while, but she still gave me the chance to actually sit down and explain myself. I’ll be forever grateful that we were able to jump over the hurdles together. Honestly, I think that with the way that we persevered through all the bullshit in here... it’s gonna be a breeze for us out in the real world. So, the girl I am coupling up with is... Y/N."
You let out a breath, a wide smile breaking across your face as you walked over to him. Rafe wrapped his arms tightly around your waist, lifting you slightly off the ground, planting a passionate kiss on your lips. “Congratulations,” Ariana threw out as everyone cheered as you both walked over to take your seats on the couch, wrapped up in each other.
That left Sofia standing all by herself in front of the fire pit.
Ariana looked over at her. "Sofia... you are now single and vulnerable." Ariana paused, a sharp look entering her eyes. "But tonight... there is a twist."
Everyone on the couch froze.
You looked at Rafe, a horrible knot forming in your stomach.
"When we opened the voting to the public," Ariana explained, "the viewers weren't just voting on which boy failed Casa Amor the worst.” She says. “We also prompted the viewers to vote on who they thought would be left single at the end of tonight's re-coupling.” She explains, her face solemn.
“What we didn't tell the viewers, however, is that if they guessed correctly... that single Islander would be given an advantage."
All of you seated started whispering, confused.
"What?"
“What advantage?”
“When did they start doing that?”
“This is some bullshit…”
"Tonight,” Ariana continued. “Fifty-one percent of viewers—just over half, taking the majority—guessed that Sofia would be left single. Because the public guessed correctly, Sofia, you now have a choice.” She led on, turning towards the girl standing alone. “Tonight, you can either choose to accept your fate, pack your bags, and leave the island... or, you can choose to steal one of the coupled-up boys tonight, keep your spot in the villa, and send his current partner home."
The entire fire pit went dead silent and you felt the air physically leave your lungs. Rafe’s grip on your hand tightened so hard it hurt, his entire body going rigid next to you.
"Sofia," Ariana said. "Now’s the time to decide. Has your time in the villa come to an end…or will you decide to swap fates?”
Sofia slowly raised her head. The defeated expression entirely gone, replaced by a heart-crushing smirk.
She looked directly at you, her eyes full of malice.
"...I feel like everyone came into this villa to find real love, and everyone should be able to do that. And even though I've had people left and right telling me to 'leave things in the past' and 'let things go'... I am always going to follow my heart, regardless of what anyone else thinks."
“I told you,” Her eyes narrowing on you, her smirk widening. "I’ll do whatever I have to.” She reminds you, voice low and steady. “I've decided…and I believe that I'm not done in this villa just yet. And so, I would like to swap fates…and the guy I want to couple up with…” She dragged out, mean and smug, her words sharp as if no one knew what she was about to say, the name that was bound to leave her lips.
“...is Rafe."
"Are you fucking kidding me?" Rafe hissed, leaning forward until his head hung between his knees, head in his head. Everyone on the couch turned to the two of you, watching Rafe spiral while you sat, staring at nothing, hands clasped in your lap as you chewed the inside of your cheek.
"Sofia, you have made your choice to swap fates with Y/N…and couple up with Rafe.” She informs. “Please, go sit next to Rafe.” Ariana said calmly but firmly, calling your name, pulling you out of your own thoughts as you slowly lifted your head”... Please, come join me."
Your legs felt like lead as you slowly stood up, the girls reaching out for your hand but you couldn’t even find the strength to reach back as tears blurred your vision as you walked to stand next to Ariana. Rafe was sitting there, his hands clamped over his face, chest heaving as he tried to hold back tears of pure rage and heartbreak.
Sofia stepped over, sliding to sit right next to him with a triumphant grin. Some of the guys tried to reach over and pat Rafe’s shoulder, telling him that it would ‘be okay’, but he simply scoffed, trying to hold back his own tears, telling them, “no it's not fucking okay”.
Ariana looked at you, her voice full of genuine pity as she called your name. "... How are you feeling right now?"
A tear broke free, running down your cheek as your voice shook violently. "Um…” You struggled for words, still looking as if your mind was ten-thousand miles away from where you stood. “I... I came into this villa not knowing what to expect at all.” You spoke slowly, almost as if your thoughts were forming as you spoke, looking down at the fire the entire time you spoke. “And... I ended up finding one of the greatest connections of my entire life.” Your voice shook as your gaze slowly trailed up to find Rafe’s own burning one. “I think... I think every single person in here has made this journey worth it, from the girls to the guys... and down to Rafe himself." You spoke, voice wavering as you looked at everyone—finding tears building in everyone’s eyes, from JJ to Rima to Cleo to Sarah, even Pope and John B.
You choked back a sob, looking over at him. "I will never, ever forget the memories that I made here. I’ve tried my absolute best to be level-headed and mature in the face of everything that has happened.” You broke, sniffing. “And... yeah, I do wish some people would just leave things in the past and let people grow and move on, but I understand that not everyone is the same."
You turned your eyes to Sofia, your voice hardening through the tears. "I’m not gonna stand here and lie. I don’t wish the best for Sofia, I can’t…because I truly think she’s only here to bring Rafe down and ruin his happiness. But... I wish Rafe the absolute best in anything and everything he does. And um…" Your voice cracked, a heavy sob escaping your throat. "Fuck, I’m sorry— I can’t... I don’t have anything else to say, I’m sorry."
“Don’t cry, baby, it’s okay,” You heard Rima’s voice travel from the couch, shooting her a quick smile.
"Y/N," Ariana said softly, her own eyes shining with sadness as you cursed lowly under your breath, all of your friends head’s dropping as well. "You are now single…vulnerable…and dumped from the villa." You just nodded numbly, biting your bottom lip as the tears came rushing, even as you tilted your head back to the sky, trying to focus on the stars. “It was amazing to meet you,” Ariana stepped forward, pulling you into a small hug before stepping back. “You may now pack your bags and get ready to leave the villa.” She smiles sadly. “As for the rest of you, I will see you soon.”
Ariana exited the villa, and the fire pit crumbled into emotional warfare, you still standing in your spot, putting your head down as you started openly crying. The girls wasted no time, Cleo, Sarah, and Rima, and even Kaitlyn, flew out of their seats, sprinting to you in their heels, throwing their arms around you. They wrapped you into a tight group hug, all of them sobbing into your shoulders.
"This is so fucked" Cleo whispered hoarsely, her own tears soaking your dress.
"You don't deserve this, babe, I’m so sorry,” Rima sobbed.
"I can’t believe this," Sarah sobbed, holding you tight as you got choked up on your own tears.
There was so much going on at once and, through your own emotions and the mess of your friends' emotions, your mind still went to Rafe, but your body couldn't catch up as the girls escorted you up the stairs, surrounding you like a human shield as they walked you straight inside so you could pack your things.
You couldn't even turn around to see the mess of Rafe being comforted by all of the guys as he tried his best not to cry, failing miserably.
THE dressing room was the saddest it’s ever been.
You were standing by your suitcase, tears streaming down your face as you tried to throw your clothes inside, but your hands were shaking too hard.
Cleo was sitting at a vanity, her face buried in her hands, trying to stop crying as she wiped every tear that fell. Sarah was leaning against the mirror, fresh tears ruining her makeup, while Rima was helping you fold your bikinis along with Kaitlyn, her own eyes rimmed red.
"I actually can't believe this bro," Cleo cried out, her voice broken. "You've been here since day one!” She cried. “Even though you came in as a bombshell, you've been here since the start. Seeing you go over something so stupid is actually pissing me off."
"It's okay," you tried to say, your voice cracking as you wiped your face. "Please don't cry. It's gonna be okay, I promise." But even as you said it, a fresh wave of sobs tore through your chest, and you sank down onto the floor next to your suitcase, overwhelmed by the mess of emotions.
MEANWHILE, downstairs, Miles had already packed his bags. The only people who walked out to the front driveway to say goodbye to him being Sofia and Haja.
Goodbye Confessional: Miles
"Honestly, I'm not too bothered about leaving. I think the public just wanted an excuse to get me out of the villa because I actually tell it like it is.” He clapped his hands together, his tone very matter-of-factly. “I'll be fine on the outside. Had a good life before this and I'll have a great one comin’ out."
Confessional: Sofia
"Even though mine and Miles's coupling was... you know, means to an end... I’ll always be grateful to him for that. I definitely see him as a real friend."
Confessional : Haja
"Me and Miles always have our ups and downs, honestly. I think that’s just how our relationship is gonna be for the rest of our lives.” She laughed. “ I’m sad to see him go, but I know I’ll see him on the outside."
BACK by the firepit, Rafe was losing his mind. He was pacing back and forth across the deck, his face a deep, burning red, chest heaving as he tried with everything inside his soul to hold back his tears.
He was completely heartbroken, overly devastated, and utterly destroyed.
The guys were surrounding him, trying to pat his back and comfort him, get him to sit down and breathe but he wasn’t listening.
"Bro, it’s gonna be okay," Pope said softly, reaching out. "Just breathe, man."
"Just—stop touching me," Rafe suddenly snapped, moving away from Pope’s touch as he turned his back, burying his face in one of his hands. "You think I wanna hear that shit, right now? That jus’ because you say 'it’s okay' that it’s actually gonna be okay?"
He was inconsolable, face bright red, eyes puffy and swimming with tears. He raised his hand, pinching the skin between his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he let out a choked breath. He had his head down, refusing to let anyone see him break.
Slowly, JJ stepped forward. He didn't say a word. He just walked up behind Rafe, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and pulling him into a hug.
To everyone's surprise, Rafe didn't fight it. He turned around, letting out a shaky sigh, burying his face right into JJ's shoulder, letting out a broken sob as he slumped in the blonde’s hold. JJ was the only person Rafe really let comfort him, mostly because over the past few weeks, they had grown incredibly close—almost vicariously through you.
JJ was crying too, giant tears rolling down his cheeks as he held Rafe, patting his back. JJ was devastated about you leaving—you were his rock in this villa, and losing you felt like losing a piece of himself.
UPSTAIRS, you had finally finished throwing the last of your things into your suitcase when the door to the room pushed open…and Rafe walked in.
The moment your eyes met his, the girls quietly looked between you two before stepping out of the room, giving you space.
Rafe looked wrecked. His blue eyes were bloodshot and swollen, his face flushed red, looking vulnerable in a way he never showed anyone else.
He walked straight over to you, grabbing your hand tightly.
“Rafe—”
"Come with me," he whispered, his voice shaky and broken. "Please."
He led you out of the makeup room and up the small staircase onto the terrace overlooking the dark ocean. The moment you reached the top and turned to face each other, you both just fell into each other's arms, bawling.
"I hate her," Rafe sobbed openly, burying his face deep into your hair as he held you so tight you could barely breathe. "I hate her so much. I am so fuckin’ sorry for putting you in this situation. I'm so sorry that all my unresolved shit came in here and ruined this for you—"
"Rafe," you cried, pulling back slightly to cup his flushed face, your own tears spilling over. "Rafe, listen to me. You did not put me in any situation. This isn’t your fault, and I don't blame you for anything that she’s done.” You told him firmly, though your voice was still watery. “I can tell that she is still the same bitter person she was back then, even though I didn’t know her... but you aren't. Yes, you made mistakes and they came at the cost of hurting people like her, but you don’t have to let her confine you to them. You’ve made up for it, you’re still making up for it. You've grown so much, Rafe. I didn’t know you then, but I know you now. And even just looking back on the guy you were coming in here, you aren’t the same guy you were on that first night. Okay?” You told him, thumbs stroking his cheeks. “Don't let her take that away from you."
Rafe swallowed hard, his eyes glassy as he stared down at you. His large hands were trembling where they rested on your hips, and he let out a broken breath, leaning his head into the warmth of your palms.
"I won't," he choked out, his voice cracking as a fresh wave of tears spilled over his eyelashes. He shook his head, his jaw clenching. "I won't let her take that away from me. I don't give a fuck about her, or what she wants, or any of the history she keeps trying to drag up. But... but it doesn't even matter, baby. It doesn't matter because she already took you away from me. That's what she wanted, and she got it—"
"No, Rafe, look at me," you pressed, your own voice cracking as you desperately used your thumbs to wipe the hot moisture from his cheeks. You needed him to hear you, to really understand that this wasn't over. "This isn’t the end of the world,” You smiled through your own tears. “I promise you it's not. It feels like it right now because we're in this crazy place, but I promise you, it’s not."
"How d’you know that?" Rafe mumbled, his blue eyes searching yours with despair. He reached up, wrapping his fingers tightly around your wrists, holding your hands against his face like he was terrified you would vanish into thin air if he let go. "How can you promise something like that? This is…a bubble. The second you walk out those doors, you're back in the real world, and I'm stuck inside this house. You can't promise me we're gonna survive that."
A soft, bittersweet smile broke through your tears, and you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his.
"I can," you whispered. "Rafe, we knew each other before all of this, and we didn't even really remember it when we first saw each other. But somehow... out of all the people in the world that could’ve been here, out of all the people that are here, and out of all the paths we could have taken, we still found our way right back here."
You squeezed his wrists back, your heart swelling even through the ache in your chest. "Something like that? A connection like that is unbeatable. It’s a once in a lifetime thing. We are a once in a lifetime thing. If the universe could bring us back together, this isn't gonna be the thing that breaks us."
Hearing your words shattered whatever tiny shred of composure Rafe had left. He let out a heavy, shuddering sob, his head dropping forward onto your shoulder. He buried his face deep into the crook of your neck, his arms locking around your waist so tightly it stole the air from your lungs, holding you like you were his lifeline in a storm.
"I'm so sorry," he mumbled repeatedly against your wet skin, his voice muffled and entirely ruined by his tears. He was just rambling now, the words tumbling out of him. "I'm so fuckin’ sorry, baby. Just... please don't go."
You wrapped your arms around his shoulders, burying your face in his neck as you both stood there on the dark terrace, holding onto each other and letting the tears fall.
You choked on a sob. "I don't want to go, Rafe...but I have to.” You cried softly. “I'm gonna miss you so much."
He was in shock, mind unable to process the reality of the situation. Without another word, Rafe sat down on the nearest couch, still crying, pulling you down into his lap. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face into the crook of your neck as you wrapped your arms around his head, both of you just holding onto each other in the dark, crying until your chests ached, unable to accept that your time together in the villa was over.
Confessional: JJ
"Y/N... man, she is just... she was one of the only people in here who would actually hold my ass accountable for the stupid mistakes I made, no matter what, but she still stuck by my side through everything.” He sniffs, wiping the tears that were rolling. “We came in together... I’m always gonna have a spot in my heart for her.."
Confessional: Sarah
She was sobbing, a damp tissue in her hands. "She helped me through everything in here... literally everything. She was always that shoulder to cry on when I felt like everything was going wrong. I knew that if I had absolutely no one else to go to, I could always go to her. I’m just... I'm so upset she's actually leaving."
Confessional: Cleo
"That was my girl, man!” She sniffed, shaking her head. "My actual sister in here. She deserved nothing but the best, and seeing her get ripped away because of something so...” She trails off, angry, before her face softens. “I've never met anyone like her before, and honestly, I don't think I ever will again."
Confessional: Rima
"I remember the day I came in as a bombshell, and even though I was just doing my job and being a little bit bitchy... she never once made me feel unwelcome or excluded.” Her voice shakes, a tear escaping. “I admired that about her so much. And just... even watching her grow with Rafe, I was rooting for them so hard. And I am so sad that this is where their story ends.” She cries, looking down. “Honestly... I’m surprised Rafe isn’t walking out behind her tonight. But... I'm not throwing that out the window yet.” She says openly. “I just think he hasn't fully processed it all. Rafe hasn't made a single other connection in this villa besides her... so honestly? I think by tomorrow morning, Rafe is gonna be packing his bags and trying to leave… because he has no reason to stay here anymore."
Confessional: Rafe
"I just…” He wheezed, looking exhausted. “I blame myself. I feel like I just dragged her into a situation full of my own bullshit, and I tried my best to keep her away from it.” His voice shook, eyes growing glassy again. "I kept trying to reassure her that nothing would ever come between us... and I just fuckin’ hate myself right now because I wasn't in a position to even do anything to stop it."
The loud sound of a car horn honked from the front driveway of the villa, signaling that your time was officially up.
Rafe cursed, slowly standing up, his hand tightly holding yours as he walked you back down to grab your bags and helped you carry your heavy suitcases down the stairs where everyone was waiting. The entire villa was waiting by the front door, even Sofia lingering near the back, though she looked significantly less upset than the others.
The heavy, awful silence was suffocating. You could hear the distant idle of the car engine waiting outside, a brutal reminder that your minutes were ticking down.
Suddenly, Cleo blinked through her fresh tears.
"Wait," Cleo choked out, wiping her damp cheeks with the back of her hand as she looked at Sarah and Rima. "Oh my God, no. We cannot let you leave this house without taking photos."
Before you could even protest, Cleo, Sarah, and Rima scrambled forward, grabbing your arms and dragging you away from your suitcases and towards the photobooth next to the Speakeasy as the others followed.
They all piled into the small, curtained booth, crowding around you so tightly you could barely move. The camera started counting down, and the three of them threw their arms around your neck, squeezing you into a messy group hug.
The flash blinked, capturing the tear-stained smiles on your faces.
Right before the next countdown started, Sarah poked her head out of the curtain, scanning the crowd near the door. "Kaitlyn! Get in!"
Kaitlyn’s eyes widened in surprise, but a grateful, soft smile broke through her nervous expression. Out of all the new girls who had walked in from Casa, Kaitlyn had been by far the most welcoming, sweet, and respectful. She hurried over, squeezing herself into the back of the booth and throwing up a peace sign as the shutter clicked, cementing one last memory with you.
Once the girls filed out, sniffing and wiping their eyes, they practically shoved the guys toward the booth. "Go!" Cleo yelled softly.
JJ, John B, Rafe and Pope didn't hesitate. They crowded into the frame around you. JJ threw a protective arm over your shoulder, pulling your head against his chest as he gave a sad, goofy half-smile. Pope squeezed in on your other side, while John B stood slightly in the back.
The booth flashed twice, capturing a perfect, bittersweet goodbye with the boys who had your back since day one.
"Alright, clear out before the man kills us," JJ muttered, his voice cracking slightly as he patted your shoulder. "Let them have their turn."
The boys stepped out, drawing the curtain closed behind them, leaving just you and Rafe alone in the small, enclosed space.
The glowing screen in front of you reset, flashing a notification—New Session. Four Photos Remaining.
You looked up at Rafe, eyes still bloodshot, face still flushed from crying. The sight of him looking so broken made your heart ache. You wanted to give him something happy to look back on, something that wasn't just pure misery.
"Hey," you whispered, your voice watery as you reached up to weakly nudge his arm. "Let's do a couple of silly ones first.” Your voice was soft as you tapped the screen. “Don't look so serious."
Rafe let out a breathless, watery chuckle, nodding as he sniffled. "Okay. Whatever you want, angel."
Three... Two... One...
For the first photo, you both threw your hands up, sticking your tongues out and tossing up peace signs at the lens. But the fresh, wet tears still drying on both of your cheeks made the silly pose look beautifully tragic.
Three... Two... One...
For the second one, Rafe tried to match your energy to make you smile. He puffed his cheeks out completely and crossed his eyes, making a ridiculous, goofy face right as you used your fingers to pull down the corners of your mouth into a dramatic frown. A tiny, genuine burst of laughter escaped your lips right as the camera clicked, a fleeting moment of normalcy.
But as the timer started ticking down for the third photo, the silly energy evaporated, the reality crashing down as you realized that once this was done…you’d be gone.
Three... Two... One...
Rafe pulled you in, his massive arms wrapping around your waist and pulling your back against his chest. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his eyes closed tight, while you covered his forearms with your hands. You looked straight into the camera lens with a soft, incredibly sad, and longing smile, the intimacy of how he held you speaking volumes through the screen.
Then, the final countdown began.
Three... Two...
Before the final number could hit, Rafe spun you around in his arms, facing you fully. His large hand came up, his fingers burying deep into the hair at the base of your neck while his palm cradled your cheek, thumb gently catching a stray tear that was falling down your nose.
Your hand flew straight to his chest, flattening over his shirt right above his heart, feeling it thudding beneath your palm.
One...
He leaned down and captured your lips in a heart shattering kiss. It was desperate, heavy, and raw—both of your faces wet with tears, mouths pressing together with all the unsaid promises and love you had left for each other but never got the chance to say. The bright white flash illuminated the booth, freezing your heartbreak and devotion in time forever.
He pulled back slowly, both of you opening your sad eyes as he took your hand and let you out of the booth where everyone was waiting.
Rafe wanted you to keep the photos of you and him but you told him to keep them. So he wouldn’t forget your face.
Rafe and the others walked you to the entrance, his eyes fixed on yours. He didn't care about the cameras, or the other Islanders watching. He lunged forward, capturing your lips in one last, hard, desperate, passionate kiss, hands gripping you, holding you against him as if he was trying to imprint the feeling of you into his memory forever.
"I'll see you soon, angel," he whispered against your lips, voice trembling.
"Soon," you cried back softly, nodding.
You turned around, grabbing the handle of your suitcase. The remaining Islanders filed out, lining up to see you off.
You stopped right in front of the ‘Love Me Not’ sign, turning back to look at the crowd of faces that had become your family over the past month. Your voice was shaking so hard you could barely form the words.
"I... I just want to say that I love every single one of you," you said out loud, tears streaming down your face. "I love you all for exactly who you are... no matter what mistakes we've made in here, or what stupid arguments we've gotten into. I am just so incredibly grateful. And... I truly can't wait to see you all on the outside."
They all waved back, the girls blowing kisses, everyone crying as you turned and walked away.
Goodbye Confessional : You
"I... I definitely didn't see my night ending this way. I really thought I had so much more time left in here... I was really hoping I’d make it all the way to the final with him. But... I guess sometimes, the forces of evil are just greater than the forces of good.” You joked, though it was sad. “...She got exactly what she wanted... and all I can do now is..." You stopped, fresh emotion overtaking you. You covered your face with your hands, leaning forward as you started breaking down, unable to even finish the sentence. You quickly wiped your eyes, looking into the camera one last time with a broken, watery smile. "I just... I love everyone in there. I really do." You choked out, making a heart at the camera. “Don’t forget about me.”
next chapter>
BEFORE YOU SEND THE MILITIA AFTER ME, PLEASE KNOW THAT THIS IS NOT THE END (also peep the TADC reference— oh not the time? okay, gotcha...)
SUMMARY: The five times Dean realizes you're more than just his childhood best friend, and the one time he finally does something about it.
WARNINGS: Friends to eventual lovers, idiots in love, slow burn romance, psychology!student, fluff, slight angst, non-graphic descriptions of an injury, cursing, jealousy, sexual innuendos, domestic bliss (Dean is down bad), rushed ending sorry!
A/N: Happy Fourth of July!! 🇺🇸 I’ve ALWAYS wanted to write one of these fics and inspiration finally struck! Let me know what you guys think, and if you want to see more! Hope y’all enjoy!! Divider by @dividers-are-us <3
➩ main masterlist
➩ dean di laurentis masterlist
1. Garrett’s not so secret feelings
After a brutal Friday in the weight room with Beau, Dean wanted nothing more than to demolish whatever leftovers Tucker had most likely abandoned in the fridge, scrub the sweat and soreness off his skin, and disappear in his room until Monday. The workout had been relentless. His shoulders ached, his legs felt like concrete, and he was fairly certain Beau got some sick enjoyment out of making him suffer.
As he pushed through the front door of the hockey house, the familiar scent of stale pizza, laundry detergent, and whatever Tucker had cooked earlier greeted him. He kicked off his shoes near the entrance and rolled his neck, already mentally planning his evening. That's when he noticed you and Garrett sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at the kitchen island, textbooks spread across the countertop.
Dean slowed, not because Garrett was studying, that wasn't unusual lately, but because Garrett looked utterly miserable. "Jesus," Garrett groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Remind me again why you want to pursue a career in this?" His eyes narrowed at the open psychology textbook like it had personally offended him. "Not memorizing the difference between operant conditioning and classical conditioning isn't the end of the world, G."
Dean couldn't help smiling. Somehow, whenever you were around, the house felt lighter. Before either of you could react, he crossed the room and made a beeline toward the kitchen island. Garrett spotted him first, a knowing smirk immediately tugged at his mouth, one which Dean blatantly ignored it. You barely had enough time to look up before all six-foot-two of him folded himself around you.
One arm slid around your shoulders, the other wrapped around your waist as his face buried itself in your hair as he let out a long, exhausted groan. "If you're having trouble distinguishing classical and operant conditioning, just make flash cards," You advised Garrett, as though you weren't currently trapped beneath an oversized hockey player. "Handwritten ones. They always helped me."
Without even thinking about it, your fingers slipped between Dean's where his hand rested against your stomach. The gesture was entirely unconscious. Dean's tired brain barely registered it, but Garrett's definitely did. "Are we not going to address the overgrown golden retriever currently hanging off your shoulder?" Garrett questioned, motioning toward Dean.
In response, Dean didn't move, in fact, his hold only tightened around your waist. You rolled your eyes at both their antics. "Are we not going to address the fact that you're here 'studying' on a Friday night because you refuse to admit your feelings for Hannah and couldn't stand the thought of her going out with Justin tonight?" The reaction was immediate, Garrett immediately went red, really red.
His jaw clenched as he snapped his attention back to his notes with exaggerated concentration. "Your girl is disturbingly insightful, Di Laurentis." He muttered which made you scoff as you playfully nudged his shin with your foot from across the table. “Damn straight she is.” Dean’s answer came instantly, low and smug, with a kiss pressed to your forehead that you unconsciously leaned into which made Dean's stomach do something profoundly embarrassing.
For a few moments, only the rustle of paper and the hum of the refrigerator filled the kitchen. Then you reached across the counter and squeezed Garrett's hand, your expression softening. "Hey, G," You muttered softly as Garrett's eyes slowly lifted to meet yours. "For what it's worth, I don't think Hannah likes Justin nearly as much as you think she does." Garrett squeezed your hand back, hope flashing across his face before he could hide it.
Dean watched the exchange quietly, body still wrapped around you. He didn't notice the way his thumb kept tracing small absent minded circles against your waist. He did notice that when you smiled at Garrett, he felt oddly jealous of his best friend for getting that look. And for the first time in a very long time, Dean couldn't help but wonder if maybe his attachment to his childhood "friend" wasn't quite as platonic as he'd always pretended it was.
2. Self-Care Day with Summer
Safe to say Dean had a shitty day.
All he wanted now was you. He wanted to kick off his shoes, collapse onto his bed, and bury himself in your arms while your fingers lazily carded through his messy hair. He wanted your soft voice filling the silence, your hand rubbing slow circles across his back until the tension seeped from every tight muscle in his body. The guys would never let him live it down if they knew, but Dean really couldn't bring himself to care.
As he pushed open the front door of the hockey house, the familiar sounds of shouting commentators and button mashing greeted him. Logan and Tucker were planted on opposite ends of the couch, controllers gripped tightly in their hands as they battled it out on the TV. An empty pizza box sat abandoned on the coffee table, surrounded by half-empty Gatorade bottles and crumpled napkins.
Dean barely spared them a glance, his eyes immediately sweeping areas where you'd probably be. The kitchen, empty. The dining room, nothing. No backpack tossed over one of the chairs. No oversized sweatshirt draped over the counter. No mug of tea you'd inevitably forget to finish. "Looking for your girl?" Logan's amused voice pulled him from his search. Without taking his eyes off the television, a knowing smirk spread across his face.
Dean didn't even bother correcting him anymore. "You seen her?" He asked, already craning his neck toward the hallway as if you might magically appear. Logan shrugged one shoulder. "She was here with Wellsy earlier. Upstairs probably." That was all Dean needed. He took the stairs two at a time, each step creaking beneath his weight. His exhaustion momentarily forgotten, as he headed straight for his bedroom.
"Y/N?" He called, knocking lightly before twisting the doorknob. The room was empty, bed neatly made, and the hoodie you'd stolen from him last week was nowhere to be found. Dean frowned. Without even realizing what he was doing, his phone was already in his hand, your contact pulled up from muscle memory. His thumb hit the call button before he had a chance to even think twice.
The phone rang twice before: "Hi, Dicky!" Dean physically recoiled. "What the hell— Summer?" His eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "What are you doing with Y/N's phone?" An exaggerated scoff crackled through the speaker, he could practically see Summer rolling her eyes. "Contrary to popular belief, Dicky," Summer huffed. "She doesn't belong to you. She was my friend first."
Dean pinched the bridge of his nose, a fresh headache blooming almost instantly. "Just give her the phone, Summer." He heard muffled voices, the sound of the phone changing hands, and then: "Hi, Dean." It was amazing what two simple words could do. The knot between his shoulder blades loosened. His jaw unclenched. The lingering frustration in his body eased just from hearing your voice. A smile tugged at his lips before he could stop it.
"Babydoll," He murmured, unable to hide the relief in his voice. "Where are you? And why on earth are you with my hellion of a sister?" Your soft laugh drifted through the speaker, warm enough to make him wish you were standing beside him instead. Somewhere in the background, Summer barked an offended, "Dick." You laughed harder before finally answering. "She called me this morning after my eight a.m. class. She was having a bad day, so I drove into Manhattan to spend the day with her."
"You drove all the way to Manhattan?" Dean blinked. "Of course I did, Summer needed me." His heart did that stupid thing it always seemed to do around you. You hadn't hesitated. Summer needed someone, and you'd simply gone. No complaints. Just packed your things and made the drive because someone you cared about asked. There was another shuffle on the other end before Summer snatched the phone back. "Retail therapy works wonders, Dicky," She announced proudly.
"She'll be all yours tomorrow, but today?" Summer continued, smug satisfaction dripping from every word. "Today she's mine. Love you. Bye!" Seconds later, the line went suddenly dead. Dean stared down at his phone for several long seconds before letting out a disbelieving laugh. Of course Summer would steal your phone. Of course she'd hang up before he could get another word in.
But none of that was what stuck with him. What lingered was the realization that the second his sister admitted she was struggling, you'd dropped everything and driven nearly four hours just to make sure Summer didn't have to be alone. No hesitation. No expectation of anything in return. Just because that's who you were. Dean had always known you had the biggest heart of anyone he'd ever met. Today, though...
Today, he caught himself wishing he was more than just a friend.
3. The Injury
"Let her through! She's with the team!" Garrett's authoritative voice cut cleanly through the chaos surrounding the arena tunnel, commanding enough that even over the frantic chatter, blaring arena speakers, and the lingering roar of thousands of fans filing toward the exits, everyone nearby turned their heads. However, you barely heard him. Your heartbeat thundered so loudly in your ears it drowned out almost everything else.
"I'm the captain of this team," Garrett interrupted sharply, stepping between you and security. "She's family." The guard hesitated only a second before stepping aside. The moment the path cleared, your feet carried you forward before your brain had a chance to catch up. Garrett fell into step beside you, one steady hand settling against the middle of your back as if he could feel the way your entire body trembled.
"How is he?" Your voice barely sounded like your own. Garrett's jaw tightened. "The medic thinks he'll be out at least two weeks." His expression darkened. "Mild concussion and a fractured ankle." Hot fury ignited beneath your ribs. Not at Dean, but at the player who had recklessly swept his stick between Dean's legs. You'd watched it happen. There'd been no attempt to play the puck. It was just a cheap shot.
A dangerous one.
Your hands curled into fists as the replay flashed through your mind all over again. "He keeps asking for you," Garrett continued, his tone softening. "Won't let anyone get a word in." Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched. "He's being more annoying than usual," Garrett added with a tired sigh. "Logan and Tucker are about five minutes away from knocking him unconscious themselves."
That definitely sounded like Dean. "I should probably go micromanage before they make good on that threat." Garrett chuckled under his breath and pulled open the door to the medical room. The sight waiting on the other side nearly made your knees buckle. Dean sat propped awkwardly on the examination chair, his hockey pants and jersey still on, shoulder pads discarded in a heap beside him.
His normally perfect blond curls were damp with sweat and flattened where his helmet had been, several loose strands sticking out in every direction. A medic knelt beside him, carefully supporting his injured ankle while a PT intern shined a light into his eyes, checking his pupils. Logan and Tucker both stood on each side of him, still wearing their jerseys, neither looking remotely interested in getting changed until they knew Dean was okay.
"Garrett went to get her, just wait." Logan reminded him patiently, keeping a firm hand planted on Dean's shoulder the second he tried to stand again. "Let the medic finish checking you out, man." Tucker coaxed like the mother hen he was. Dean opened his mouth, ready to argue then his eyes found yours. It was almost eerie, like he'd sensed you before you'd even stepped through the doorway.
The tension visibly drained from his shoulders. Relief flooded his features so quickly it made your chest ache. "Babydoll..." He breathed, every ounce of stubbornness disappearing. "Thank fuck." He sank back into the chair, extending both hands toward you without an ounce of hesitation. "C'mere... please." There wasn't a universe where you wouldn't. You crossed the room in two quick strides.
The second your fingers slipped between his, Dean gripped them like a lifeline. Like he'd been holding himself together by sheer force of will until you walked through that door. Your eyes immediately began searching him. A faint scrape along his cheekbone. Fresh bruising already blooming beneath one eye. A split lip. The ugly swelling around his ankle. "You scared the hell out of me, Dean." You whispered, your voice catching despite your best efforts to keep it steady.
Dean's thumb swept absentminded circles across the back of your hand. Whatever pain medication they'd given him had softened the hard edges around his eyes, leaving him wearing a crooked, hopelessly boyish smile that somehow made him look younger. "How's your head?" You asked gently, your free hand lifted almost on its own, brushing one stubborn blond curl away from his forehead before tucking it back into place.
Your fingertips lingered there for a heartbeat longer than necessary, wanting the reassurance that he was really here. Dean leaned unconsciously into your touch. "Never had any complaints, babydoll." He punctuated the line with an exaggerated wink. An audible chorus of groans filled the room. "Oh my fucking God." Logan muttered, eyes rolling. "He's concussed and still flirting." Tucker complained, rubbing both hands down his face.
You felt heat instantly flood your cheeks, but ultimately chose to ignore it. "Oh, you're absolutely fine." You huffed, rolling your eyes as you tried to tug your hand free. Only Dean wasn't having it. His fingers tightened around yours and with one gentle pull, he drew you closer until you stood between his knees, your bodies only inches apart. The teasing grin he'd been wearing slowly faded.
Something quieter settled over his features, something almost fragile. His thumb continued tracing slow circles across your knuckles, grounding himself in the simple fact that you were here. That he could still hold your hand. "Thanks for being here." The words came quietly. Without the usual confidence. Without a joke to soften them. Just plain, raw honesty. You didn't even have to think about your answer.
Your other hand rose to cup his cheek, brushing over the rough stubble beginning to grow along his jaw. "There's nowhere else I'd be." Dean's breath caught. Those five simple words landed somewhere deep inside his chest, slipping past every wall he'd spent years carefully building. He'd spent so long convincing himself that what he felt for you was just harmless, a silly crush that would eventually go away.
But watching you burst through security with tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. Feeling your hands check every bruise like you could somehow erase the pain. Hearing you tell him there was nowhere else you'd rather be. It unraveled him. The feeling he'd been trying so desperately to bury came rushing back all at once, stronger than ever. Because for one terrifying moment on that ice, he'd thought he might open his eyes and not get to see you looking at him like he was the only person in the room.
4. Tucker’s Deathbed
Dean: Might wanna stay away tonight, Tuck’s got one hell of a cold.
Respectfully, there was no way in hell you were listening to that text. Your psychology paper on stress sat half-finished on your laptop, several journal articles scattered across your desk, but they could wait another night. Tucker couldn't. Besides, you knew exactly why Dean had texted you. He wasn't trying to be controlling, far from it.
He knew how often you caught whatever bug was going around campus, and the last thing he wanted was for you to spend the next week sniffling and miserable. It was sweet, but it was also completely futile seeing as your mind was already made up. You quickly shoved your laptop shut, gathered your keys, slipped your feet into your sneakers, and headed out the door before you had the chance to think twice about it.
Ten minutes later, you were pulling into the familiar driveway of the hockey house. The porch light cast a warm glow over the worn wooden steps, and the second you let yourself inside, the usual atmosphere felt...off. There was no music blasting from Logan's room. No laughter echoing through the halls. No Tucker humming while experimenting with whatever recipe had caught his attention that week.
Closing the front door behind you, your gaze immediately landed on the couch. "Oh, sweet Tuck." Your voice softened into something almost maternal. Tucker looked absolutely miserable. He was cocooned beneath two thick blankets despite the thermostat being turned up, curly hair sticking out in every direction, cheeks flushed an unhealthy shade of pink. A mountain of crumpled tissues littered the coffee table beside half-empty glasses of water and an abandoned mug of tea that had long since gone cold.
Setting your purse onto the nearest chair, you crossed the room quietly until you stood beside the couch. Your hand found his forehead with featherlight pressure, careful not to startle him awake. The warmth beneath your palm made you hiss. His skin was damp with sweat, far warmer than it should've been. He cracked one sleepy eye open before lazily batting your hand away with all the strength of a disgruntled toddler. "You're gonna get sick, Y/N." He mumbled, voice rough from congestion.
"Have you taken anything? Eaten?" You asked, purposely ignoring him. A weak shake of his head made you frown as he burrowed farther beneath the blanket until all you could really see was the top of his head. Without another word, you disappeared into the kitchen. Opening cabinet after cabinet, you smiled when everything was exactly where you'd expected. If there was one thing Tucker took almost as seriously as hockey, it was cooking.
Rolling up your sleeves, you got to work. Butter melted with a quiet sizzle before onions, carrots, and celery joined the pot, filling the kitchen with the comforting aroma of sautéing vegetables. Garlic followed moments later, its rich scent curling through the house. You shredded leftover rotisserie chicken Tucker had prepared earlier in the week, added handfuls of fresh herbs from the windowsill, poured in the homemade stock, and let everything simmer low and slow.
Nearly twenty minutes later, the soup bubbled gently on the stove, filling every room with warmth. Which was probably why the front door swung open. Logan stepped inside first, Garrett followed, and Dean came in last. All three stopped dead in the entryway as the unmistakable scent of homemade chicken noodle soup drifted toward them. Dean's gaze found you almost instantly, it was second nature nowadays.
You stood at the stove in one of Tucker's aprons, sleeves pushed to your elbows as you stirred the soup with practiced ease. Something deep in his chest squeezed painfully the more he looked at you. God, you looked like you belonged there. Like you'd always belonged there. His stomach flipped at the domestic image. The thought came so naturally it almost scared him. He could picture this years from now: Coming home after practice. Finding you in a kitchen making dinner, scolding one of the guys for skipping lunch.
It was such a simple fantasy, one he had absolutely no business imagining. "I thought I told you to stay home." Dean's voice carried equal parts exasperation and concern as he crossed his arms against his chest. "Last I checked, none of you know how to cook," You replied matter-of-factly while ladling soup into bowls. "Tuck needs homemade soup not whatever sodium-packed excuse for soup you three would've heated up from a can." Their silence spoke volumes.
Oh how you loved being right.
You slid two steaming bowls across the island toward Garrett and Logan who were openly salivating. "Sit and eat." Both men obeyed immediately, neither needed to be told twice. "You're my favorite person ever." Logan declared, already reaching for a spoon. "I've been saying that for years," Garrett chimed in, grinning as he accepted the bowl. "Thanks, sweetheart."
Dean watched the exchange in silence, eyes never leaving you as he watched you carry another bowl into the living room. You crouched beside Tucker, placing the soup carefully on the coffee table before setting cold medicine and a bottle of water beside it. "There we go." Your fingers brushed his forehead once more. "A little less warm." Tucker managed the weakest smile imaginable before taking a tentative bite.
Within minutes he looked noticeably more alive. Color slowly returned to his face as warmth spread through him. Dean, however, couldn't stop watching you. Couldn't stop noticing how naturally you slipped into caretaker mode. You remembered everyone's favorite meals. You always noticed when one of them skipped breakfast. You always looked after them without ever expecting anything in return.
It was simply woven into who you were.
"Serious question." Logan's voice pulled everyone's attention back toward the dining table. You looked up, brows furrowing and mentally preparing for what Logan was about to say. He pointed his spoon toward you. "Why has literally nobody wifed you up yet?" Your eyes widened, heat creeping up into your cheeks as you blinked at him processing his words. A nervous laugh escaped as you simply shrugged one shoulder instead of answering.
Thankfully, Logan accepted your non-answer. "Wild." He muttered before returning his full attention to the soup in front of him. You let out a quiet breath of relief, completely missing what happened across the room. Tucker slowly lifted his gaze as Garrett did the same, both men turning towards Dean in perfect synchronization. Dean was already glaring at them, if looks could kill both hockey players would already be six-feet under.
Garrett bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself from smiling and Tucker looked seconds away from bursting out laughing despite the gruesome cold. Because they both knew. They'd watched Dean stare at you from the second he'd walked through the front door. Watched his eyes follow every movement you made. Watched the way his expression softened whenever you smiled his way.
Logan, blissfully unaware of the silent conversation unfolding beside him, happily shoveled another spoonful of soup into his mouth. Dean barely noticed, because despite his two smartass friends smirking at his obliviousness, his attention had drifted back to you. Back to the way you tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear as you rinsed dishes. Back to the quiet hum you made under your breath while cleaning Tucker's kitchen.
Back to how effortlessly you took care of people you loved.
You were a catch. Dean had always known that. He'd known it long before anyone else started noticing. Long before Logan blurted it out over dinner. The problem was, other people were starting to realize it too. And someday, someone was going to look at you the way Dean already did. They'd flirt with you. Take you out. Learn your coffee order. Memorize the little wrinkle that appeared beside your nose whenever you laughed.
Most importantly, they'd get to call you theirs. The thought alone lodged itself beneath his ribs like a skate blade carving into fresh ice. It shouldn't have bothered him as much as it did. You were his childhood best friend. He should've been thrilled if someone made you happy. Instead, all he could think was: I hope they don't. And that terrified him far more than any hockey game ever could.
5. The Male Gaze
"Hey, Y/N, is it true that Archer Beckett asked you out?" The question left Beau's mouth so casually you'd think he was asking you about the weather. Dean, on the other hand, nearly inhaled his beer. He coughed violently, setting the bottle down with a little more force than intended as carbonation burned the back of his throat. Beside him, Garrett didn't even attempt to hide his grin, his shoulders already beginning to shake with silent laughter.
Across the table, you took another leisurely sip of your piña colada, completely oblivious to the internal crisis unfolding three feet away. "He did." You confirmed, shrugging nonchalantly. Dean's entire body went rigid, his jaw locked so tightly he could feel his molars grinding together. Archer Beckett, of course it had to be Archer fucking Beckett. The lacrosse captain had been circling you for weeks like a damn shark.
Every time Dean turned around, Archer was "coincidentally" showing up wherever you happened to be, outside the psych building, in line at the campus coffee shop, even at Malone's after games. Dean had noticed, he noticed everything when it came to you. "What'd you tell him?" Hannah wondered from across the table, tucked comfortably beneath Garrett's arm.
Dean sat a little straighter without realizing it, every muscle in his body tensed as he waited for your answer. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Garrett and Beau exchanging identical shit-eating grins. Again. Lately they'd been doing that a lot. Assholes. You swirled the straw around your drink absentmindedly before answering as though the conversation couldn't possibly be less important. "I told him I wasn't interested."
Dean forgot how to breathe. Relief washed over him so suddenly it nearly made him dizzy. It came in one overwhelming wave, loosening the knot in his chest before he'd even processed why. His shoulders relaxed and the death grip he'd had on his beer bottle eased. A part of him, a part he'd spent months trying very hard to ignore, felt absurdly, ridiculously happy.
"The guy's relentless," Garrett observed, lifting his beer toward his lips. "I'm honestly surprised he backed off that easily." Dean caught the smug smirk Garrett aimed directly at him over the rim of his bottle. The silent message couldn't have been clearer: You hear that, Di Laurentis? She turned him down. Make your move, idiot. Dean responded by silently mouthing, I'm going to kill you to which Garrett's grin only widened.
Thankfully, you remained blissfully unaware of the silent death threats being exchanged across the table. "I need another drink." You stood, gathering your empty glass before pointing toward the bar. "Anyone want a refill?" Everyone but Hannah declined. Dean opened his mouth to offer to go with you, but the opportunity disappeared before the words reached his tongue because you were already weaving through the various crowds of people toward the bar.
His eyes followed instinctively as they always did. He watched as you smiled at Allie the second you reached the bar, leaning comfortably against the polished wood as the short brunette reached over the counter to squeeze your hand before beginning your drink. Dean couldn't help smiling too. "Dude, you're so whipped." Beau's voice yanked him back to reality. Dean managed to drag his gaze away from you just long enough to glare murderously at his best friend.
"At least pretend you're listening to us instead of staring at her like she hung the moon. You've watched her walk to the bar like four times already, man." Garrett interrupted, amusement dancing across his face. Dean scoffed at Garrett's words, opening his mouth to rebuttal before Hannah held her hand up stopping him. "Dean, at least try to hide it better." Hannah teased, smiling far too knowingly.
"Wellsy, don't encourage them." Dean groaned dramatically. "I'm not encouraging anything." Hannah's smile only grew. "I'm just observing." Dean rolled his eyes dramatically before looking back toward the televisions mounted behind the bar. Or at least, that was his intention. Instead, his attention landed on you again, watching as your eyes were fixated on Shane Hollander as he carried the puck through the neutral zone while Ilya Rozanov shadowed him stride for stride on the television screen.
Dean smiled despite himself, only you would get distracted by hockey while ordering drinks. Then he noticed them. Three guys at the opposite end of the bar. One of them glanced your way, then another. A fourth turned completely around in his stool. Dean's smile vanished instantly. They weren't watching the game, they were watching you. His grip tightened around his beer bottle until his knuckles turned white.
One of them, a tall brunette with an easy grin and far too much confidence nudged his friend before climbing off his stool. Dean's pulse immediately picked up as he watched the guy walk straight toward you. "I just love it when he gets territorial." Beau snickered as Hannah immediately elbowed Garrett in the ribs hard enough to earn an exaggerated grunt, though the smile she was unsuccessfully trying to suppress betrayed her.
They'd all noticed. Of course they did.
Dean didn't bother with them, his gaze was solely on you, stomach twisting unpleasantly. He had absolutely no right to feel possessive. You weren't his girlfriend. Hell, you weren't even remotely close to being his. You could flirt with whoever you wanted. Accept drinks from whoever you wanted. Go on dates with whoever you wanted. The thought alone made something ugly twist low in his stomach.
Jealousy.
Because it wasn't just that he didn't want Archer Beckett asking you out anymore. He didn't want anyone asking you out. He didn't want another guy making you laugh. Didn't want someone else memorizing your coffee order. Didn't want someone else bringing you flowers during finals week because they knew you were stressed. Didn't want someone else being the person you instinctively reached for.
He didn't want to be just your best friend anymore. He wanted to be the man sitting beside you. The one whose hand you'd reach for beneath the table. The one you'd kiss goodnight. The one you'd introduce as yours. Thankfully, after a few gruesome minutes which really seemed like decades, he watched as the brunette returned to his friends a few moments later. Empty-handed; no longer smiling and head hung low. Only then did Dean realize he'd been holding his breath.
You followed shortly after, balancing two frozen piña coladas with practiced ease, once again, completely oblivious to the emotional crisis currently unfolding inside Dean's head. "What'd he want?" The question escaped before Dean could stop it. You slid Hannah's drink across the table before answering. "Oh," You shrugged, hand waving dismissively as if it was no big deal. "He wanted to buy me a drink, but I told him my boyfriend was waiting for me."
Silence.
Dean stared, his brain stopped functioning altogether.
"Boyfriend?" He echoed weakly. You looked at him as though the answer was obvious, a tiny smile tugged at your lips. "I knew he wouldn't question it if I pointed at you." Dean's heart slammed against his ribs. You'd said it so naturally, so effortlessly. As if pretending Dean was yours had come as easily as breathing. You reached across the table without thinking, your fingers wrapping gently around his forearm, the simple touch nearly undid him.
"You don't mind, do you, Dean?" You looked almost worried, like the possibility of upsetting him genuinely bothered you. Across the table, Garrett looked ready to burst into laughter. Beau had outright stopped pretending to hide his grin. Even Hannah pressed her lips together to keep from smiling. Yet, Dean barely noticed. He was too busy imagining what it would've felt like if your words had actually been true. My boyfriend. God, he wanted to hear you say that again.
Not as an excuse, not to get rid of some random guy at a bar, but because you meant it. The realization settled over him with startling certainty. He wasn't just protective. He wasn't just attached because you'd been friends forever. He wasn't just comfortable around you. He was hopelessly, irrevocably in love with his best friend. And judging by the three idiots trying and failing not to laugh across the table, everyone seemed to know it before he did.
He swallowed hard, giving your hand a gentle squeeze before forcing himself to smile. "Course not, babydoll." You smiled back, satisfied with his answer, completely unaware that the tiny lie had just shattered what was left of his resolve. Because the truth was, Dean minded more than he could ever admit. Not because you'd called him your boyfriend, but because he wasn't. God, he wanted to be. More than his next championship. More than hockey. More than anything.
+1 The Hat Trick
The sharp November air nipped at your cheeks the second you stepped out of the car, your breath curling into soft white clouds as you made your way toward the entrance of the Briar arena. Even after countless games, countless Friday nights spent wrapped in Briar blue, there was still something magical about hockey nights.
The bright arena lights reflected against the freshly resurfaced sheet of ice, music boomed through the speakers as students flooded into the stands. Your eyes immediately searched for one player in particular. Dean, it was always Dean. The knot that had lived in your stomach for the past two weeks loosened the moment you spotted number sixty-six gliding effortless laps around center ice during warmups.
He was back. After the concussion and the fractured ankle. After countless days of sitting beside his bed while he complained about being benched, insisting he was "perfectly fine," and begged you to sneak him out of physical therapy. The team medic had finally cleared him that morning. Watching him skate again should've filled you with relief. Instead, your traitorous brain decided to notice how his practice jersey stretched across his shoulders every time he leaned into a stride.
How the muscles in his thighs flexed beneath his hockey pants as he dug his edges into the ice. How one damp blond curl escaped beneath his helmet while he stretched against the boards. You tore your eyes away with an embarrassed cough. Absolutely not. There was a hockey game to watch, not Dean Di Laurentis looking unfairly attractive while doing literally anything. Beside you, Hannah caught the direction of your gaze, hiding a knowing smile behind her cup of hot chocolate.
Thankfully, the referee's whistle echoed through the arena, signaling the start of the game before she could say anything. The opening puck drop snapped your attention back where it belonged. The first period against Harvard flew by in a blur of hard checks and blistering speed. Dean looked like he'd never left the lineup. He was everywhere. Breaking up passes through the neutral zone. Winning puck battles along the boards. Setting crushing screens in front of Harvard's goalie.
Even when he wasn't scoring, he dictated the pace every time his line hopped over the boards. Midway through the first period, Garrett intercepted a sloppy pass just inside Briar's blue line.Without hesitation, he banked the puck off the boards toward Logan, who exploded down the right wing with Tucker keeping pace on the opposite side. The three connected like they shared one brain.
Logan faked a slapshot which allowed for Tucker to intercept, cleanly sliding the puck into the goal. The red light flashed, the goal horn erupted, and the arena exploded. You shot to your feet along with Hannah and everyone else, cheering until your throat burned. Dean was the first one to reach Tucker, wrapping an arm around his shoulders before shoving his helmet affectionately.
By the middle of the second period, Logan buried one of his own after Dean fought through two defenders behind the net to feed him a perfect no-look pass. A few minutes later Tucker struck again on the power play after Garrett rifled a shot from the point that bounced straight onto Tucker's stick. Everything Briar touched seemed to turn into goals tonight. The chemistry between the four upperclassmen was almost unfair to watch.
Every pass landed tape-to-tape. Every line change happened seamlessly. Every player seemed to know exactly where the others would be before they even got there. At the end of the second period, Briar held a comfortable 3-1 lead against Harvard. "Dean is going to lose his mind when he sees you in his jersey tonight." Hannah leaned closer with an unmistakably mischievous smile, which made a blush climb up your neck as you instinctively glanced down.
Dean's navy blue jersey hung almost to the middle of your thighs, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely. You'd borrowed it from Beau after he'd insisted Dean deserved a little 'extra motivation'. "He hasn't even noticed." Hannah smiled knowingly, eyes twinkling with mischief. "Trust me babe, he'll notice." Before you could ask what that cryptic statement meant, the buzzer sounded meaning that the third period had officially began.
Harvard came out desperate. Every shift became increasingly physical as the numbers of the clock counted down. Bodies slammed into the glass hard enough to make the boards rattle. Unfortunately, the referees' whistles remained suspiciously quiet. You hated when games turned like this, knowing that the desperation made players reckless. Halfway through the period, Dean carried the puck through the neutral zone with impossible speed.
One defender challenged him, luckily Dean was able to effortlessly slip around him effortlessly only for a second to step up. Dean toe-dragged the puck between the man's skates. The crowd collectively rose to its feet, only before he could shoot, a Harvard defenseman drove him shoulder-first into the plexiglass. Your breath caught as the impact thundered through the arena. Dean, however, bounced off the boards, somehow maintaining possession before spinning away from another defender.
He never even looked shaken, instead he cut toward the slot. Garrett anticipated the play perfectly. One crisp pass was all it took for Dean to snap a wrist shot through the two defenders. The net rippled as the goal horn blared yet again. You were already on your feet before you realized you'd moved. Dean pointed toward the student section as his teammates swarmed him in congratulatory helmet bumps. For one irrational second, you could've sworn he was looking directly at you.
When you finally sat back down, Hannah's grin could've powered the entire arena. "Told you." You shoved her shoulder, which only made her grin widen. "Oh, shut up." Only, you were smiling too hard to sound annoyed. Barely ninety seconds later, Dean struck again. Logan forced a turnover at center ice and immediately passed to Garrett. In response, Garrett threaded a pass between two Harvard sticks that had absolutely no business making it through.
Dean picked it up in stride, one fake forehand made the goalie drop in anticipation to which Dean calmly pulled the puck back to his backhand and slid it between the goalie's pads before anyone could react. Another goal and another explosion from the crowd. Your hands hurt from clapping, voice embarrassingly hoarse yet you couldn't find youself to care. The scoreboard now read 5-1 which in turn made Harvard's frustration boil over.
With just over two minutes remaining in the third period, one of their forwards blindsided Logan long after he'd dumped the puck in the net. Gasps echoed around the arena as Logan crashed awkwardly into the boards. Dean was halfway across the ice before Logan even climbed back to his skates, Garrett and Tucker followed immediately after seeing Dean shove the Harvard player backward with enough force to send him stumbling several feet.
Luckily, the freshmen on Briar's bench dragged the upperclassmen away before punches started flying. One minute remained. The arena buzzed with nervous anticipation despite Briar's lead, your lip was caught between your teeth watching as Garrett and Dean wordlessly communicated with one another. No words were exchanged. Years of playing together had made communication almost instinctive.
Garrett stole the puck near Briar's blue line and Dean was there in an instant, already alert. Garrett feathered a perfect stretch pass through the neutral zone. Dean caught it in stride without breaking rhythm. One defender remained, shifting left as the the defenseman followed. Dean snapped the puck back right through his own skates, slipping around him with breathtaking ease. The goalie lunged. Dean, however, waited until the last possible second lifting the puck cleanly beneath the crossbar.
The red light flashed and the horn sounded. For a heartbeat, the arena went completely silent, then every single person inside exploded. "A HAT TRICK BY #66, DEAN DI LAURENTIS!" The announcer's voice echoed through the building. Without thinking you threw your arms around Hannah, the two of you laughed as you nearly toppled into the row in front of you, hugging each other while the entire team tackled Dean beneath an avalanche of helmets and gloves.
Six-two. Final. Dean Di Laurentis. Hat trick.
You'd never been prouder. By the time you and Hannah reached the tunnel, your heart was still racing, body buzzing with adrenaline. Players filtered through in small groups, laughing loudly as they relived every goal. Garrett appeared first and Hannah didn't hesitate. She practically flew into his arms, you couldn't help but beam as Garrett caught her effortlessly, spinning her once before pressing a kiss against her forehead before dipping down and pressing one to her lips.
Then, Dean walked through. His helmet had disappeared somewhere during the celebration, blond curls damp with sweat, sticking up in every direction, cheeks flushed from exertion. When his eyes caught yours, everything ceased to exist. The coaches. The teammates. The reporters. The noise. There was only you. In two quick strides he was right in front of you. One second there was a few feet separating the two of you and the next, his hands were around your waist, lifting you effortlessly off the concrete.
A startled laugh bubbled from your lips as your feet left the ground. Instinctively, your arms wound around his neck, fingers brushing against the damp curls at the nape of his neck. He held you impossibly close, burying his face against your shoulder for the briefest moment as his heartbeat hammered wildly against your chest. He'd just scored a hat trick. The arena had chanted his name. Thousands of hats had rained onto the ice. Yet none of it compared to this. None of it compared to having you in his arms.
You melted into his embrace without hesitation, holding him just as tightly. "That was amazing!" You laughed, pulling back just enough to cup his flushed cheeks between your hands. Your eyes sparkled with so much pride that it stole what little breath he had left. "A hat trick, Dean! I'm so fucking proud of you." Dean couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at him with so much unfiltered admiration. Maybe no one ever had.
His eyes drifted downward before he could stop them and his breath caught. You were wearing a jersey, but not just any Briar jersey. His. His last name stretched proudly across your shoulders, and the white number on the front rested directly over your heart. Something inside his chest squeezed so painfully he almost winced. It really shouldn't have affected him the way it did. It was just a jersey. Just fabric. Except, it wasn't. Seeing his name on you awakened every selfish, possessive thought he'd spent months trying to bury.
It looked right. Far too right.
"You're wearing my jersey." The words escaped almost reverently. Your gaze followed his before a rosy blush crept across your cheeks. "Oh." You smiled sheepishly, smoothing the front of it with your palms. "Beau practically insisted. He claimed it was good luck since you guys are only two games away from another Frozen Four." Yet, Dean barely registered your explanation. His thoughts were spiraling too quickly. His jersey. Your smile. The way you'd waited for him in the tunnel instead of celebrating with everyone else.
The way you'd hugged him before anyone else had the chance. The way you'd looked absolutely radiant cheering for him from the stands. His mind replayed every moment from the last few months in painful succession. You showing up with homemade soup when Tucker got sick. Driving hours just because Summer needed a friend. Holding his hand while the medic checked him over after his injury. Calling yourself his girlfriend just to get another guy to leave you alone.
Every forehead kiss he'd lingered on a little too long. Every hug he'd held a few seconds longer than necessary. Every excuse he'd made just to have you close. He'd spent months convincing himself that wanting you around all the time was normal. That missing you after only a few hours was normal. That getting irrationally jealous every time another guy looked at you was normal. Only it wasn't. It had never been normal. He couldn't keep pretending anymore, he wouldn't.
"Dean?" Your voice was soft, tinged with concern now that he'd gone completely quiet. Your thumb brushed gently across his cheek. "You okay?" His eyes found yours again. God. How had he been so blind? He was so unbelievably in love with you it almost hurt. A helpless laugh escaped him as he shook his head once, mind made up. "Fuck it." Before doubt had a chance to creep back in, he surged forward and captured your lips with his.
The kiss was soft at first, almost hesitant. As if he was giving you every opportunity to stop him. You didn't. Instead, your surprised gasp melted into a smile against his mouth before you kissed him back with equal certainty. Every ounce of fear he'd carried for months dissolved in an instant. His hands slid more securely around your waist, holding you like he'd dreamed about doing for far too long.
Not because he was afraid you'd disappear, but because after wanting this for what felt like forever, he couldn't bear to put even an inch of distance between the two of you. Your fingers disappeared into his blond curls, gently scratching at his scalp as your tilted your head deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against his. Dean nearly melted. The one thing he'd imagined over and over whenever his feelings became impossible to ignore. The reality was infinitely better.
When the kiss finally broke, neither of you moved very far. Your foreheads rested together, noses brushing. His eyes searched yours almost nervously, as though waiting for someone to tell him he'd imagined the whole thing. Instead, you smiled completely enamored. "Took you long enough." You whispered, your lips brushing his as you stole another quick kiss simply because you could. Dean let out a breathless laugh. "You mean," He searched your face in complete disbelief. "We could've been doing this the whole time?"
A sheepish grin spread across your face as you nodded. Dean stared at you for a long moment, then groaned dramatically. "God..." He dropped his forehead against your shoulder. "I really am such a clueless bastard." You laughed, the sound vibrating against his chest as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. "It's okay, I still love you." Dean practically tackled you into another kiss, finally hearing the words he'd been waiting for months to hear without knowing it. "God, I fucking love you too, babydoll." He muttered against your lips.
Finally. Finally. Finally.
Off to the side, Hannah bumped Garrett's shoulder with a knowing grin. "See you guys at Malone's?" Dean didn't even glance in their direction. "Sorry, Wellsy." His answer came automatically, one hand absentmindedly tracing circles against your back. "I've got a lot of lost time with my girl to make up for." Because, now that Dean had you, there was absolutely no way in hell he was letting you go anytime soon.
Thanks for reading! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated! Feeling generous? Leave a tip!
author’s note: cheers to part 2! my plan for this was to show how reader becomes more free, more open to Beau, while still being a menace to him, but i really wanted reader to become someone relaxed and nonjudgmental. their banter was my top priority along with reader being in charge over Beau 🙂↕️ because Beau enjoys being walked like a dog. enjoy! 🩷
Beau
He'd fucked up. The realization hit him the second he noticed you were no longer at the party.
Beau wasn't typically one to panic. But right now, standing in the middle of a crowded kitchen surrounded by a sea of girls, panic was exactly what he felt.
He panicked, because you had probably walked back to your dorm completely alone, especially since both Hannah and Allie were still here with their boyfriends. More than anything, he panicked because he knew he'd lost—but Beau wasn't the type to just give up.
Without a word, he broke away from the crowd and beelined toward his best friend and his girlfriend.
"What's up, man of the hour?" Dean teased as he approached.
"I fucked up," Beau muttered.
Allie rolled her eyes. "Of course you did, you idiot."
While Dean looked on, completely confused, Beau let out a defeated sigh. "Y/N's gone."
Dean’s mouth fell open in a silent O.
"Allie, please," Beau pleaded, turning to her desperately. "Can I borrow your dorm key?"
Allie's eyes bulged. "Huh?"
"I know Y/N won't ever let me explain myself if I just try to catch her on campus," Beau rushed out, the words tumbling over one another. "I know she might be completely done with me—that I might have lost her for good. But I just need to make sure she's okay. I want to be selfish just this once, because I care about her too much to just give up."
He knew how desperate he sounded, but knowing Y/N, he knew he had to put his pride on hold and if she demanded it, he would happily get down on his knees and beg.
Allie and Dean exchanged a long look, a silent conversation passing between them.
Beau waited, his shoulders hunched as he braced himself for a rejection, but to his utter surprise, Allie reached into her pocket and pulled out her key.
But before she handed it over, however, her gaze hardened. "I want nothing but the absolute best for her. And I've seen the way you look at her and I love that. But Beau? If you fuck this up, I will ruin you."
"Yes, ma'am," Beau said, a massive, unsuppressed smile breaking across his face as he took the key.
He patted Dean on the shoulder before bolting in the direction of the door, breaking into a full sprint the second he cleared the crowd.
At this point, he knew he owed Allie everything. She had been kind enough not to just tell him to fuck off—especially after he'd called her after that disastrous day, desperately trying to get information about you without sounding completely blunt.
It was hard, to be completely honest, because for once in his life, Beau found himself completely caught off guard.
He was baffled that his usual charm hadn't worked like magic this time, but he quickly realized he didn't even want the easy way out. He wanted the hard in, because for the first time since arriving at Briar University, he had finally found something—someone—worth being rejected for over and over again.
You.
And he was fully prepared to fight for you. Even if it meant breaking into your dorm room and letting you beat him with a frying pan.
—-
Beau: I know you're free from 5. I bet you're hungry already, so I booked a table for 6. Dress code: Casual. I know you like details, but that's all you get ;). I'll pick you up.
You bite your lip as you read Beau's message. Pocketing your phone, you head back to the dorm to get ready.
For the past two weeks—ever since his confession that he wanted to get to know you, and your acceptance of it—he has been a proper gentleman. He continues to prove you wrong about your earlier impression of him and his habits.
Since then, you have finally started to see that Beau is indeed a changed man. Football is still a priority, and so are his friends, but the opinions of others—and other girls—seem to drift right past him. He no longer entertains any girl who approaches him, instead, he politely tells them that he's with someone.
That someone is you, the one he still looks at with a twinkle in his eyes.
Due to his grueling football practice schedule, he started weaving you into his daily routine just so he could study by your side. The sessions could last anywhere from one to four hours, but Beau never once complained.
Instead, he learned to appreciate the quiet moments with you. He learned to love the way everything slowed down, catching his breath and savoring the stillness like a rare drop of water in a desert.
He felt entirely comfortable around you, deeply grateful that he didn't have to force dry small talk just to keep your interest. There was simply no need for it when he was already knee deep in your world, and you started to feel more comfortable around him.
Once, you asked him if he'd rather be doing something else instead of just sitting there in dead silence, but he simply shook his head.
"I'm fine," he murmured. "Honestly, getting to sit here and watch you look all cute and focused is the best part of my day anyway."
The blush on your face flared even warmer when he leaned in closer, whispering, "Though... I am keeping score of how many hours you’ve ignored me, and I fully expect to be paid back in kisses."
You hadn't kissed him just yet, but his passion hadn't dulled in the slightest.
As you arrive back to the dorm, only Hannah is there, practicing.
“Oh hi!” she greets upon seeing you with a huge happy smile on her face.
“Hi,” you lock the door and take your shoes off, giving her a quick hug before heading to your room.
“Where are you going?” she asks, following after you, abandoning her guitar on the sofa.
“I’m going to freshen up a little before Beau picks me up.”
Hannah’s smirks. “He’s picking you up?”
“Yeah, he just texted that he’s gonna be here soon. We’re going out to dinner,” you inform her, changing your top and brushing your hair.
Hannah watched your frantic pacing from one corner of the room to the other. A piece of chewing gum dangled from your mouth as you hurriedly tried to touch up your makeup.
Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, you realized you had exactly five minutes before Beau arrives.
While frantically applying a fresh coat of mascara and dabbing concealer under your eyes, you caught Hannah’s expression out of the corner of your eye.
"What?" you asked.
"It's just funny to see how the tables have turned."
You froze mid-motion. "You think…You think I shouldn't go?" Your voice was laced with sudden anxiety.
Are you too blind to see Beau's clear intentions? Was it really too early of a transition?
No. Beau still grovelled, and you were one hundred percent sure he actually enjoyed it.
Hannah smiled warmly.
"I think you're going to be just fine with him. It's so obvious Beau wants you, and he actively acts on it." She stepped closer, brushing her palm soothingly against your arm. "Everyone sees how smitten he is. He doesn't play games—not when it comes to you," she finished, pulling you into a tight hug.
—-
“Okay, I need something no one else knows about you,” you pat your lips with the napkin, “I wanna feel special.”
Beau snorts. “Special about knowing one of my dirty secrets?” He leans closer over the table, whispering the last of his question playfully.
You mimic him, intervening your fingers under your chin, elbows on the table. “I want something to hold against you.”
Beau falls silent for a moment, his brown eyes lazily scanning over you. The usual smirk is present at the corner of his mouth—something that has practically become his trademark.
His hand, which had been resting on the table, slowly reaches out to take yours from under your chin. His fingers briefly fumble for yours, slowly intertwining them right in the middle of the table.
Your breath catches in your throat, and you feel your face growing warmer and warmer, even though you were already hot enough from the restaurant and the food you'd eat.
“I can’t tie a shoe.”
You froze, empty blinks were sent back to him.
“What?” you manage to ask.
“I have to make two bunny ears.”
Your mouth twitches upwards.
“You tie your shoe with bunny ears?”
“Yeah. I never figured out how to do the one bunny ear through the loop, so I came up with two bunny ears tied together.”
You can’t help it, you burst into laughter. Beau laughs with you, as his smile was present the whole time, not an inch of doubt or fear present on his face.
“Poor bunnies,” you huff, giggling.
Beau’s gaze lingers on you, intense yet gentle.
“What is it?”
“Nothing,” he murmurs, squeezing your hand. “I just love it when I can make you laugh. It’s my favorite sound.”
The pink on your cheeks deepened.
Dinner had been… a blast.
Beau drove you just outside of Hastings to a nice restaurant that served delicious Italian dishes.
“You remembered?” You turned to face him for a fleeting moment before you were escorted to your table.
“Of course,” he replied softly, his palm resting against your lower back. “I remember everything about you.”
It was during a casual conversation that you had mentioned to him how much you love pasta and Italian food—even mentioning that you got a cookbook for Christmas written by an Italian nonna.
The food, the servers, the atmosphere and him - everything was amazing.
Then he asks, how was your day, and you’re smiling again.
Because single-handedly, this is your most favourite thing about him. Because he always makes it his priority to ask about your day, eager to learn something new about you, about your visions, your quirks, your triggers, anything. Because he never interrupts, his brown eyes deepening into something like melted chocolate, and he waits until you're done, then, and only then he asks follow up questions.
And maybe he starts to warm his way into your heart.
—-
"Hi, fangirl."
"Hi, bunny."
Beau threw his head back with a laugh, sweaty, dark locks plastered against his forehead. He had ripped his helmet off the second the coach's final whistle signaled the end of practice.
You were seated up in the bleachers, your coat tightly wrapped around you to keep from shivering. It was late - the sun had already set, and the biting night breeze was softly but surely creeping in. Beau made his way up to you, a bright smile cutting through the exhaustion on his handsome, sweaty face.
"I thought you were headed home," he said, taking the bleacher stairs two at a time.
"I wanted to see you," you admitted, feeling your ears flush hot despite the chill.
"Well, the whole fangirl theme is lookin' pretty spot-on tonight, then."
"Says the guy who literally follows me around campus," you countered while rolling your eyes, playfully shoving his shoulder as he sat down right next to you.
Beau turned fully toward you. His warm eyes raked over your face, instantly catching the slight tremor in your shoulders.
"You're freezing," he said matter-of-factly, a slight furrow appearing between his brows.
"I'm okay... for a few more minutes, at least."
"You really keep me humble, don't you?" he huffed with a soft snort.
"Please, it's my main source of entertainment."
Without thinking, you reached out and pushed the damp hair back from his forehead, your fingers lightly brushing against his skin. Beau’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, his breath hitching in his throat.
It wasn't the first time you had touched him, but it didn't happen nearly as often as he yearned for. Yet, bit by bit, as your guard dropped lower each time you were together, Beau couldn't stop his heart from hammering against his ribs like a caged bird.
Before you could pull your hand away, he caught your wrist. He didn't squeeze, but he held it there, silently begging you not to stop.
You bit your lip to hide a smile, leaning into it as you tentatively traced your thumb along his chiseled jawline.
"You played well today," you murmured, your eyes dropping briefly to his lips.
Beau’s gaze dropped to yours, doing exactly the same.
God, you wanted to kiss him so badly. You knew the ball was entirely in your court.
Beau knew it, too. He was doing everything in his power to move at your pace, but the way his dark eyes begged for a taste, you knew that you probably looked just as desperate as he felt.
But you couldn't give in to the temptation. Not just yet.
So instead, you murmured, "Thanks for the snacks."
Your warm breath brushed directly against his lips, the proximity so intense it felt as if you actually had kissed him. He closed his eyes for a brief second to gather himself, gently leaning forward to rest his forehead against yours.
"Couldn't let you pass out in the middle of your lecture," he whispered back. His own breath fanned over your skin, making you subconsciously wet your lips.
Beau let out a low groan. "Tease."
You couldn't help but giggle.
"You should go and change—you'll catch a cold," you whispered, slowly peeling yourself away from him.
"Aww, are you worried about me?" Beau teased, a smirk playing on his lips. "Where's my don't-give-a-fuck girl?"
"Well, I definitely won't give a fuck if you're sick before your next game, because you didn’t listen to me," you countered, crossing your arms over your chest. You looked up at him as he stood, his tall frame towering over you in the chilly air.
"But you'll take care of me anyway, won't you?" he leans down, his veiny forearms planted on his knees, his face mere inches from yours.
His eyes once again find your lips.
So does yours.
"Take care of you when you brought it on yourself? Hell no."
"Rude," he laughed.
"Go and change!"
"Anything for you, sweetheart," he replied smoothly, then he leaned forward and planted a kiss on your cheek.
You were sure you looked like a crab now.
—-
Bunny: I can't wait to see you tonight. Any chance you’ll get here sooner?
You: We’re still getting ready.
Bunny: I’m dying over here.
You: Dramatic much?
Bunny: I need to see my pretty girl.
You: Your pretty girl?
Bunny: No need to act surprised.
You: You're way too confident.
Bunny: Then break my ego again. I’ll even thank you for it.
"Who got you smiling like that?" Hannah asked, wiggling her eyebrows at you from where she sat on your bedroom floor, even though the answer was completely obvious.
"Shut up," you murmured, a helpless smile taking over your face as you turned back to the mirror to finish your makeup.
“We should hurry up,” Allie shouts from the bathroom, “the guys are getting cranky.”
“You tell me,” you snort, coating your eyelashes in mascara.
“If you had told me last year that these big ass guys who are known to be absolute manwhores are now getting pissy when their girls are making them wait, I’d have laughed in everyone’s faces,” Hannah says.
“Guess they like being walked like a dog overall,” you add to it, making the girls laugh.
An hour later, you walk through Malone’s, not even surprised that it’s packed.
Fighting your way through the crowd, you are visibly relieved to see the guy in the back, who managed to reserve a booth.
“Finally,” Dean is the first one to notice all three of you, immediately making room for Allie. Then, Garrett holds a hand out to Hannah and pulls her into her lap.
“This guy over here was getting whiny,” Dean says, pointing a finger at Beau.
You laugh as you sit down next to him, Beau's hand immediately wrapping over your shoulder. His fingers slide into your hair at your nape, sending goosebumps down your arms.
“And that guy over there was checking his phone every two minutes, wishing Allie would grace him with some reply to his hundred messages,” Beau retorts, to which Dean gives him the middle finger.
“Awww, you missed me that much?” you ask, turning your attention to Beau and looking up at him through your lashes.
His fingers continue to curl around your soft locks.
“Told you, sweetheart. I was seriously dying over here,” he says, his eyes raking over you, “Though I have to admit, I might go into cardiac arrest. You look beautiful.”
“Flirt,” you reply, unable to stop grinning, your cheeks already turning pink.
"Would you like something to drink? I bribed Taylor to give us alcohol without watering it down."
You narrow your eyes at him. "How exactly did you do that?"
Beau flicks your nose. "No need to get jealous. I gave Max’s phone number to her. She has a thing for blondes."
You snort. "Okay. Bring some tequila."
"Damn. You'll be on fire in no time."
"I'm already on fire," you tell him, your glossy eyes boring into his.
"Careful, or I might think you're in love with me," he leans closer to whisper in your ear, his soft lips brushing against your earlobe.
You bite your lip. "You wish."
"I do, baby,” then he gets up and walks to the bar.
Your heart missed a beat.
"He has a nice ass."
"He does," you reply, wishing your heart to stop beating erratically.
Garrett barks out a laugh, and you turn to them with a smile.
You lean closer to Dean, who can't stop smirking. "But that ass is mine."
"Okay, keep on objectifying him," Dean says, winking teasingly. "He likes it."
Eight shots and two bathroom breaks later, you lean into Beau's side as if you've always belonged there.
"Are you not drunk?" you ask him, your words slurred and vision blurry, though Beau has never looked brighter.
"Not as far gone as you are," he fires back, his long fingers squeezing your hip teasingly. His other hand remains intertwined with yours in his lap, his thumb brushing soothing circles over your knuckles.
"Why do you like my hair so much?" you blurt out.
It's no secret that Beau always finds a way to touch your hair. He loves curling a strand around his fingers constantly.
Once, while he was over at your place between classes and practice, he even found himself braiding it.
"You're going to get it tangled," you told him then, though your voice lacked any bite.
"You have no faith in me," Beau replied, shaking his head but lazily continuing the braid anyway.
Then there was another time, when you were over at his place after a gruellingly long lecture. You lay across his bed with a book in hand, reading to ease your mind a little. Beau laid right beside you on his back. You thought he might be sleeping, but then his arm slowly reached out, brushing a stray lock behind your ear.
"Thank you," you whispered, mesmerized by his softness.
Beau brushed a knuckle over your cheek, making you blush all over again.
"Because it smells sweet, and it was the first thing I noticed about you," Beau answers then.
"My hair?"
"Well, you were walking right in front of me," he chuckles, his hand casually brushing over your hair again, trailing down the strands. "So I noticed your hair immediately."
You scoff playfully, looking back at him. "Not even my ass?"
"Baby, your ass is hot," he says quickly, "But I love yo- ,” he catches himself, “your hair more."
"My hair?" you repeat, a little skeptical but melting a bit.
"Yeah. And how sweet it smells all the time."
"That sounds so dumb."
"Maybe," he murmurs, his fingers tangling into the locks once more, anchoring you close. "But I'm obsessed with you, so I'm obsessed with your hair, too."
“You’re so dumb,” you hiccup as you laugh up at him.
After your laugh dies down, your eyes automatically drop to his lips. He looks incredibly good in his jeans and black sweater, and smells even better—honestly, it's enough to make your mouth water.
"Y/N," he whispers, your name a soft breath against your skin as he keeps his face close to yours.
"Hm?" you hum, completely incapable of tearing your eyes away from him.
"Don't kiss me right now."
"But I really want to," you pout, leaning in just a fraction more.
"I really want you to, too," he admits softly. "But you're drunk."
This man.
Beau's eyes linger on your lips for a fraction of a second longer. Then, with a deep sigh, he gently pulls back to put some necessary distance between you two.
"I don't want you to regret it tomorrow," he continues, his thumb shifting to trace soothing circles on your cheek. "I don't want you blaming yourself, and I definitely don't want you to feel like I took advantage of the situation."
"You're so sweet," you whine, your defenses completely melting. "When did you get so sweet? Imma cry."
He gives you a warm, melty smile. "Don't cry, baby."
"I won't," you sniffle playfully, holding his gaze. "But I might."
Beau lets out a soft laugh, the tension breaking as he pulls you in close.
—-
"Why the fuck would you buy them all?"
"Because I wanted to," he shrugged, acting nonchalant despite the weight of eight books stretching the paper bag.
For the past two months, Beau had never made you angry. Annoyed, sure, but never angry. Right now, though? You were fuming.
"But I didn't want them."
"Sweetheart, you looked back in their direction three times before you walked away."
"I was just making sure I read the blurb correctly."
"Uh-huh." Beau doesn't pay any attention to your protests. He just keeps walking toward his car, keys already jingling in his hand.
"You should take them back," you insist, hurrying to keep up. "What if somebody else wants them?"
"That somebody is you." He unlocks the car and swings the passenger door open for you. "Get in."
"Not until you bring the books back." You cross your arms stubbornly over your chest, planting your feet.
Beau sighs, but he steps closer, closing the distance until the toes of his shoes touch yours.
"Look at me," he says, his voice soft but determined. He slips a warm palm over your cheek, catching your chin with his thumb, gently forcing you to meet his gaze.
"I know you like to be independent and all," Beau says, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. "But please let me step up and spoil you however I please."
"But I don't want you to spend money on me."
"I spend money on whatever I want, and I wanted this," he says firmly, giving the paper bag a little shake.
"I've never...", you scramble for the right words, but your thoughts tangle together. Sensing your distress, Beau leans in, his lips pressing a warm, grounding kiss right against your forehead. “This was never done to me before, so it’s uncomfortable and hard right now.”
"Thank you for telling me," Beau says softly, before his lips curve into that familiar, arrogant smirk. "But I want you to know this is going to happen a lot more from now on."
Your lips curl up in a little smile anyways.
"I'm still mad at you right now, Bruce," you cross your arms, hiding the frantic flutter in your pulse.
"Oh, here we go again," he rolls his eyes, a rich laugh bubbling up from his chest. "Get in the car, woman."
"Don't tell me what to do, Boden."
"Jesus, how many names do you know with B?"
"Enough to annoy you for a lifetime," you tease, stepping past him.
"A lifetime, huh?" He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.
"Get lost, Blaine," you scoff, giving his chest a playful push as you walk to the passenger side.
Before you can grab the door handle, a sudden smack lands on your butt.
"Hey!" you yelp, turning to glare at him, though a grin tugs at your mouth.
Beau looks entirely unbothered. "Sorry, my hand slipped."
“Jerk,” you mutter under your nose while sitting in the car, waiting for him to sit in the driver seat.
"I need to pay you back," you blunt out the second the apartment door clicks shut behind you.
The words feel clumsy, a knee-jerk reaction. The truth is, he has been everything you ever could have wished for—patient, steady, and infuriatingly giving. Meanwhile, you’ve been far too lazy, dragging out the heavy tension between you two like a snail.
You’re done being careful. You’re done moving slow.
Beau pauses in the middle of the living room, setting his keys down. "No, you don't."
"Yes, I do."
He turns around slowly to face you, a genuinely confused look washing over his features. "Did you not hear a single thing I just said in the parking lot?"
"I did."
Step after deliberate step, you close the distance between you. You stop right in his space, having to crane your neck just to look up into his eyes.
"I need to pay you back," you repeat, your voice dropping to a soft, definitive murmur.
Slowly, you lift your arm, letting your fingers slide up his chest until your palm rests against the warm skin at the nape of his neck.
Beau’s eyes widen slightly at the touch, his breath hitching. His gaze instantly drops to your lips before lifting back to your eyes, dark and searching. The confusion evaporates, replaced by a sudden, heavy heat. He brings his hand up, his palm wrapping securely around your hip to anchor you, pulling you firmly against his chest.
"You do?" he murmurs, his head tilting as he leans down, his breath fanning across your lips. "What exactly do you have in mind?"
"Something that's far too overdue."
You close the remaining fraction of an inch and kiss him.
Finally.
Rising up onto your tippy toes, you throw your weight into him, deepening the kiss. A low, breathless groan breaks from the back of Beau's throat. His grip tightens, his fingers squeezing your hip to pull you flush against him, while his other hand slides up to cup your jaw, his thumb angling your face to take the kiss deeper.
He tastes so good.
His tongue guides over your bottom lip, begging to let him deeper into you, because he no longer wanted air, he wanted you to breathe.
Tongues dancing together, his hand that cupped your jaw now moved into your hair, fisting it at your nape, keeping you fucking close to him.
He never tasted anything sweeter in his whole life.
Your own fingers fist the fabric of his sweater at his chest, suddenly terrified that your legs will give out the second he lets you go.
"Fuck," he murmurs against your lips. His voice is raw and hoarse when the desperate need for oxygen finally forces you both apart.
"Holy shit," you whisper back. Your eyes are glossy, your cheeks flaming hot.
You try to step back just a fraction to catch your breath, but Beau’s grip tightens instantly on your hip, anchoring you right where you belong.
"No, I'm not done," he protests. He pulls you back in and immediately kisses you senseless. A soft moan escapes into his mouth, your composure completely gone.
He continues to taste you, lick you, anchor you, breathe you.
"Beau," you moan his name the second he pulls back just an inch.
"I have a new favorite thing," he murmurs. He leans his forehead against yours, both of your chests heaving as you try to catch your breath. "Actually, no. Two things."
"I'm all ears," you giggle softly. Your fingers mindlessly track down his chest, smoothing out the fabric of his wrinkled sweater.
"One—the way you moan my name. It's hot as fuck."
A fierce blush flares across your cheeks.
"Two—your kiss. I want to kiss you all the fucking time now."
"Worth the wait?" you tease.
"Worth the fucking wait," he says, nodding frantically.
You laugh, leaning up to plant a quick, sweet kiss on his lips. This time, he doesn't immediately deepen it or steal your breath away. Instead, he cradles your face tenderly in both of his palms, looking down at you with an intensity that makes your heart stop.
"Can I be yours, baby?"
Now it’s your turn to nod frantically. Beau grins, leaning down and kissing you senseless, again, but this time, it’s not frantic, messy or hungry, but rather a soft, slow and gentle one.
“Though, I’ve been yours the moment you trash talked me.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: Garrett is supposed to hate you by association. You’re dating his rival. You’re wearing the wrong colors. But he doesn’t look at you like you’re the enemy, he looks at you like he’s seeing something everyone else has learned to ignore. And when you run out of places to hide, his number is the only one you can think to call
Warnings: 18+ content, domestic violence, sexual assault, and trauma recovery
Read part one here
You wake up to sunlight streaming through unfamiliar curtains.
For a moment, you can’t remember where you are. The bed is too comfortable, the room too clean, the sheets smell wrong — not wrong, just different. Not like Cameron’s cologne and expensive detergent. Like something cleaner. Safer.
Then it all comes rushing back.
The napkin. The attack. Running through Boston in the freezing dark. Garrett’s voice on the phone, steady and sure. The apartment lobby. His car. This house.
You sit up slowly, every muscle in your body screaming in protest. Your throat feels like you swallowed glass. Your face throbs. When you catch sight of yourself in the mirror across the room, you barely recognize the person staring back.
The bruises are worse than you thought. Dark purple handprints wrap around your throat like a necklace. Your left cheek is swollen, a deep red-purple that’s going to turn black soon. There’s a split in your bottom lip you don’t remember getting.
You look like you went twelve rounds with a professional fighter.
You look like a victim.
The thought makes you want to throw up.
There’s a knock on the door — soft, hesitant.
“Y/N?” Garrett’s voice. “You awake?”
“Yeah.” Your voice comes out raspy, damaged.
“Can I come in?”
You pull the blanket up higher, suddenly aware you’re still in yesterday’s clothes. “Sure.”
The door opens and Garrett steps inside, carrying a tray. He’s showered and changed — different sweatpants, a clean t-shirt, hair still damp. He looks almost normal except for the dark circles under his eyes and the tension in his jaw.
“I brought breakfast,” he says. “Nothing fancy. Just toast and eggs and coffee. Tucker made it. He’s weirdly good at cooking for a guy who lives on protein shakes and beer.”
He sets the tray on the desk, and you see he wasn’t kidding. Scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a mug of coffee with cream. There’s even a glass of orange juice.
“You didn’t have to do this,” you say.
“I know.” Garrett leans against the desk, arms crossed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I got hit by a truck.”
“Yeah. You look-” He stops himself. “Sorry. That came out wrong.”
“I know what I look like.”
There’s a long pause. Garrett’s looking at you with an expression you can’t quite read. Concern, maybe. Or pity. You’re not sure which is worse.
“I think you should go to the police,” he says finally.
Your stomach drops. “Garrett-”
“I know you’re scared. I know you think he’ll get away with it. But Y/N, look at yourself.” He gestures toward the mirror. “You have evidence. Documented injuries. That’s assault. That’s attempted murder.”
“His parents are lawyers-”
“I don’t give a shit if his parents are on the Supreme Court.” Garrett’s voice is hard. “What he did to you is a crime. You have rights. You have options.”
“And if he gets away with it? If they make me look crazy? If no one believes me?”
“Then at least you tried. At least there’s a record. At least the next time he does this — because there will be a next time, to you or someone else — there’s a paper trail.”
You want to argue. Want to explain all the reasons why this won’t work, why it’s pointless, why you should just disappear and hope Cameron forgets about you.
But Garrett’s looking at you with those dark eyes, and you can see the plea in them. The desperate need to do something, to fix this, to make it right.
“Will you come with me?” You ask quietly.
“Every step of the way.”
***
The police station smells like bad coffee and bureaucracy. You sit in a hard plastic chair in the waiting area, Garrett beside you, while an officer processes your intake paperwork.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” the desk sergeant says, barely looking up from his computer.
Shortly turns into twenty minutes. Then thirty. You’re about to suggest leaving when a female officer appears.
“Y/N Y/L/N?”
“That’s me.”
“I’m Officer Murphy. Come on back.”
She leads you and Garrett to a small interview room. It’s exactly like the ones on TV — gray walls, metal table, chairs that look designed to be uncomfortable. There’s a camera mounted in the corner.
“For documentation purposes,” Officer Murphy explains, following your gaze. “Everything we discuss will be recorded. Is that okay?”
You nod.
“I’m going to need verbal consent.”
“Yes. That’s okay.”
Officer Murphy sits across from you, pulls out a notepad. Garrett takes the chair beside you, close enough that you can feel the warmth of his body.
“So,” Officer Murphy begins. “You’re here to file a report about an assault?”
“Yes.”
“Can you tell me what happened? Start from the beginning.”
You take a breath. Try to organize the chaos of last night into something coherent.
“My boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he attacked me last night. At my dorm room.”
“What time was this?”
“Around eight PM, I think. Maybe a little after.”
Officer Murphy is writing everything down. “And what precipitated the attack?”
“He found a phone number in my bag. He thought I was cheating on him.”
“Were you?”
The question catches you off guard. “No. It was just—someone gave me their number and I kept it. That’s all.”
“Okay. So he found this number and then what?”
“He got angry. Started yelling. Threw my stuff everywhere. Then he-” Your voice catches. “He put his hands around my throat. Choked me until I couldn’t breathe.”
Officer Murphy’s expression doesn’t change. “Did you lose consciousness?”
“Almost. I thought I was going to die.”
“What happened next?”
“He let go for a second. Hit me. Across the face. Twice.” You point to your cheek. “Then he started choking me again.”
“How did you get away?”
“I kneed him. In the groin. He let go and I ran.”
“Where did you run to?”
“Just … ran. Down the street. I called for help.” You glance at Garrett. “He came and got me.”
Officer Murphy looks at Garrett for the first time. “And you are?”
“Garrett Graham. I’m-” He hesitates. “A friend. She called me and I picked her up.”
“You’re a student at BU as well?”
“No. Briar University.”
Something shifts in Officer Murphy’s expression. Recognition, maybe. “You play hockey.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And the boyfriend — Cameron Beck — he plays for BU?”
“Yes.”
Officer Murphy writes something in her notepad. You can’t see what.
“Okay, Y/N. I’m going to need to document your injuries. Is it alright if I take some photographs?”
Your stomach churns. “Do you have to?”
“It’s important for the case. Physical evidence of assault.”
You look at Garrett. He nods slightly, encouraging.
“Okay,” you whisper.
Officer Murphy pulls out a digital camera. “I’ll need you to remove your sweatshirt so we can see your throat and face clearly.”
With shaking hands, you pull off your sweatshirt. You’re wearing a tank top underneath, which means the bruises on your arms are visible too. The ones from before last night. The finger-shaped marks that have faded to yellow-green.
Officer Murphy’s jaw tightens. “How long has he been hurting you?”
“I don’t know. A while.”
“Months? Years?”
“About a year. It started small. Then got worse.”
“And you never reported it before?”
The judgment in the question makes you flinch. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I was scared. Because I thought I could fix it. Because he said no one would believe me.” Your voice rises. “Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
She starts taking photos. Flash after flash, documenting every bruise, every mark. Your throat from multiple angles. Your face. Your wrists. Your arms. You feel like a crime scene.
Which, you suppose, you are.
Garrett has gone completely still beside you. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves.
“Alright,” Officer Murphy says finally, lowering the camera. “You can put your sweatshirt back on. I just need to get the rest of your statement.”
She asks you to walk through the entire relationship. When it started. When the abuse began. How often it happened. You try to remember specific incidents but they all blur together after a while. The time he threw your laptop across the room. The time he locked you in his apartment for two days. The time he pushed you down the stairs and then convinced everyone, including you, that you’d just tripped.
Officer Murphy writes it all down without comment.
Then she asks: “Did he ever sexually assault you?”
The room goes very quiet.
You can’t look at Garrett. Can’t bear to see his reaction.
“Yes,” you whisper.
“Can you describe what happened?”
“He would-” Your throat closes up. “He would force me. When I didn’t want to. When I said no.”
“How many times did this happen?”
“I don’t know. A lot. Too many to count.”
“Most recently?”
You close your eyes. “Yesterday morning. I woke up and he was already—he didn’t ask. He just-”
You can’t finish the sentence.
Beside you, Garrett makes a sound. Almost like a growl. When you glance over, his hands are clenched into fists so tight his knuckles have gone white. There’s something wet on his palms.
Blood.
His nails have cut into his skin.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
He doesn’t seem to hear you. His eyes are fixed on the table, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle jumping.
Officer Murphy notices too. “Mr. Graham, do you need to step outside?”
“I’m fine.” His voice is rough.
“You’re bleeding.”
Garrett looks down at his hands like he’s surprised to see them. Slowly, mechanically, he unclenches his fists. Crescent-shaped cuts mark his palms.
“I’m fine,” he says again.
Officer Murphy doesn’t look convinced, but she continues. “Y/N, I know this is difficult, but I need you to be as specific as possible about the sexual assaults. Dates, times, locations if you remember them.”
You do your best. You tell her about the times in his apartment. The time in his car. The time in a bathroom at a party when you were too drunk to consent. You tell her until the words stop meaning anything, until you’re just reciting facts like they happened to someone else.
Through it all, Garrett sits beside you, silent and bleeding.
When you’re finally done, Officer Murphy closes her notepad.
“Okay. This is what’s going to happen next. We’re going to issue a warrant for Cameron Beck’s arrest. Based on your statement and the photographic evidence, we have probable cause for assault, battery, strangulation, and sexual assault. Those are serious charges.”
“Will he go to jail?” You ask.
“That depends on a lot of factors. The DA will review the case and decide whether to prosecute. If they do, there will be a trial. You’ll have to testify.”
Your heart sinks. “I have to see him again?”
“In court, yes. But we’re also going to help you file for a restraining order. That means he can’t contact you, can’t come within a certain distance of you. If he violates it, he goes to jail immediately.”
“His parents are going to fight this,” you say. “They have money. Lawyers.”
“Let them fight. We have evidence. We have your testimony. And frankly, based on what you’ve described, this isn’t going to be a hard case to make.”
You want to believe her. Want to believe that for once, the system will work the way it’s supposed to.
But you’ve been disappointed so many times before.
“What do I do now?” You ask.
“Go home. Rest. We’ll contact you when we have more information. In the meantime, avoid any contact with Mr. Beck. If he tries to reach out, document everything and let us know immediately.”
“Okay.”
Officer Murphy stands, offers her hand. “You did the right thing, coming here. I know it doesn’t feel like it right now, but you’re incredibly brave.”
You shake her hand, but you don’t feel brave. You feel exhausted and broken and terrified of what comes next.
Garrett stands too, still favoring his bleeding palms. Officer Murphy notices.
“Mr. Graham, you should get those looked at.”
“They’re fine.”
“They’re not fine. There’s a first aid kit at the front desk.”
Garrett just nods, but you can tell he has no intention of doing anything about it.
You follow Officer Murphy out of the interview room, back through the station. At the front desk, she hands you a folder.
“Resources,” she explains. “Domestic violence hotlines, counseling services, legal aid. And my card. Call me anytime if you have questions or concerns.”
“Thank you.”
You walk out of the station into the gray February morning. The cold hits you like a slap. You don’t have a coat. You left everything at your dorm when you ran.
Everything except your phone and your life.
Garrett guides you toward his car with a hand that doesn’t quite touch your back. Protective but not possessive. It’s such a contrast to Cameron that you almost cry.
Once you’re both in the car, Garrett turns to face you. “Where do you want me to take you?”
You hesitate. “My dorm, I guess. My roommate should be back by now-”
“No.”
“What?”
“I’m not taking you back there. Not where he knows where to find you. Not where you’ll be alone.”
“Garrett, I can’t just hide forever-”
“I’m not saying forever. I’m saying until we know he’s been arrested. Until we know the restraining order is in place.” He starts the car. “You’re coming back to the house.”
“I can’t impose like that-”
“You’re not imposing. You’re surviving. There’s a difference.”
You want to argue. Want to insist you can take care of yourself. But the truth is, you’re terrified. Terrified Cameron will show up at your dorm. Terrified he’ll convince you to take him back again. Terrified of what he’ll do when he finds out you went to the police.
“Okay,” you say quietly.
Garrett drives back to his house in silence. His hands are tight on the steering wheel, and you can see the blood from his palms smearing the leather.
“You’re still bleeding,” you say.
“I know.”
“You should clean that.”
“I will.”
But he doesn’t sound like he cares. He sounds like he’s somewhere else entirely. Somewhere dark and violent.
When you pull up to the house, there are two other cars in the driveway. Garrett parks and turns to you.
“My roommates are home. They know you’re here — I told them last night. They’re cool, I promise. But if you want to go straight to the room and not deal with people, that’s fine too.”
“It’s their house. I should at least say hi.”
“You don’t owe them anything.”
“Still.”
You follow Garrett inside. The house looks different in daylight — messier but homier. There are hockey bags by the door, shoes scattered everywhere, a pile of mail on the hall table. It smells like coffee and something cooking.
“G, that you?” A voice calls from the kitchen.
“Yeah. And Y/N.”
Three guys emerge from the kitchen. You recognize one of them from Briar Hockey’s most recent post on Instagram — Logan, Garrett’s best friend. The other two you don’t know.
They all stop when they see you. You watch their expressions change as they take in your injuries — shock, anger, pity.
“Jesus,” one of them breathes. He’s auburn-haired, built like a tank. “He did that to you?”
You nod, unable to speak.
“I’m Tucker,” he says. “And when I see that motherfucker, I’m going to break every bone in his body.”
“Get in line,” Garrett mutters.
The third guy — tall, blond hair, kind eyes — steps forward. “I’m Dean. And you’re welcome to stay here as long as you need. Seriously.”
“I don’t want to be a burden-”
“You’re not.” Logan’s voice is firm. “Any friend of Garrett’s is a friend of ours. And anyone that piece of shit hurt automatically gets our protection.”
You’re overwhelmed suddenly. These boys — these strangers — are offering you sanctuary without hesitation. Without judgment. Without demanding anything in return.
“Thank you,” you manage.
“You hungry?” Tucker asks. “I made chicken noodle soup earlier this week.”
“I could eat,” you say.
“Good. Sit. I’ll heat it up.”
Garrett leads you to the dining table — a beat-up wooden thing that’s seen better days. You sit, and Garrett takes the chair beside you.
Logan grabs a first aid kit from under the sink. “Let me see your hands.”
“I’m fine,” Garrett says.
“You’re bleeding on my chair. Let me see your hands.”
Reluctantly, Garrett holds out his palms. The crescent-shaped cuts are deeper than you thought, still seeping blood.
“What the hell did you do?” Dean asks.
“Nothing.”
Logan starts cleaning the cuts with antiseptic. Garrett doesn’t even flinch.
“We went to the police this morning,” Garrett says. “She filed a report. They’re issuing a warrant for Beck’s arrest.”
The room goes quiet.
“Good,” Tucker says finally from the kitchen. “Fucking good.”
“Did they believe you?” Dean asks you.
“I think so. There’s evidence. Photos. My statement.”
“And if he tries to come near you?”
“Restraining order. But it takes time.”
“Until then, you stay here,” Logan says. It’s not a question. “We’ll make sure you get to your classes, get whatever you need from your dorm, whatever. But you don’t go anywhere alone.”
“I can’t ask you guys to do that-”
“You’re not asking. We’re offering.” Tucker brings over two bowls of soup, sets one in front of you. “Eat. You look like you haven’t eaten in days.”
He’s not wrong. You can’t remember the last real meal you had. You pick up the spoon, take a bite.
It’s delicious. Rich and warm and exactly what you need.
“This is really good,” you say.
“Told you.” Tucker grins. “Hockey and cooking. My only two skills.”
Despite everything, you almost smile.
Garrett’s still watching you with that intense expression. Like he’s memorizing every detail. Like he’s afraid if he looks away, you’ll disappear.
“You’re safe here,” he says quietly. “I know it doesn’t feel like it. I know you’re scared. But we’re not going to let anything happen to you.”
You look around the table at these four boys — these strangers who are treating you like family. Who are offering you protection without asking for anything in return. Who believe you, unconditionally.
“Why?” You ask. “Why are you all doing this?”
The boys exchange glances.
“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Logan says simply.
“Because that asshole deserves to rot,” Tucker adds.
“Because you deserve better,” Dean says.
Garrett doesn’t say anything. Just reaches over and squeezes your hand gently. Carefully. Like you’re something precious.
You squeeze back.
And for the first time since last night, you let yourself believe that maybe, just maybe, you’re going to be okay.
***
Three weeks feels like both an eternity and no time at all.
Garrett’s been counting down the days like a prisoner marking time on a cell wall. March 14th. The date he highlighted in his calendar. The date he’s been waiting for.
The date he’s going to make Cameron Beck pay.
He’s in the locker room now, lacing up his skates with mechanical precision. Around him, his teammates are going through their pre-game routines. Logan’s taping his stick. Tucker’s blasting music through his headphones. Dean’s doing some complicated stretching routine that looks like yoga.
Everyone knows what tonight is. What it means.
You filed charges. Cameron was arrested. And then, less than twenty-four hours later, he was released on bail. Fifty thousand dollars — pocket change to his parents. He walked out of that police station like nothing happened, posted some bullshit on Instagram about “false accusations,” and went right back to his life.
Including hockey.
Boston University’s administration reviewed the case. Looked at the evidence, the photos, your statement. And then decided that since Cameron hasn’t been convicted yet, he should be allowed to continue playing while awaiting trial.
Innocent until proven guilty, they said.
Never mind the handprint bruises on your throat. Never mind the records documenting your injuries. Never mind that you can barely sleep without having nightmares.
None of that matters to BU’s athletic department as much as their winning record.
Garrett’s jaw clenches so hard his teeth ache.
Coach Jensen appears in the doorway, clipboard in hand. “Alright, boys. Listen up.”
The room quiets.
“We all know what tonight is,” Coach says, his eyes scanning the team. “We all know who we’re playing. And I’m going to say this once: I don’t care about your personal feelings. I don’t care about drama. I care about hockey. You play clean, you play smart, you win the game. Got it?”
There’s a murmur of agreement.
Coach’s eyes land on Garrett. “Graham. My office. Now.”
Garrett stands, follows Coach down the hallway to his office. Coach closes the door behind them.
“Sit.”
Garrett sits.
Coach leans against his desk, arms crossed. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“Do you?”
“You’re thinking about that girl. About Beck. About what he did.”
Garrett doesn’t confirm or deny.
“I get it,” Coach continues. “I do. What happened to her is horrific. But Garrett, you’re the captain of this team. You’re a junior. You’re probably going to the NHL in a year. You can’t throw that away because you want revenge.”
“I’m not throwing anything away.”
“If you go after him tonight, you will be. You’ll get suspended. Maybe for the rest of the season. Maybe permanently. Is that really worth it?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “Yes.”
Coach sighs. “I can’t stop you. But I’m asking you to think about your team. About your future.”
“I have thought about it.” Garrett stands. “And I’ve made my decision.”
He walks back to the locker room. His teammates look up as he enters, reading his expression.
“Well?” Logan asks.
“Same as always. Play clean, win the game.”
“And are you going to play clean?” Tucker asks with a knowing smile.
Garrett doesn’t answer. Just pulls on his jersey — number 44, GRAHAM across the back in bold letters.
When it’s time to head to the tunnel, Garrett catches Coach Jensen’s eye one more time.
“Coach?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry.”
Coach’s brow furrows. “For what?”
“For the fact that the team will probably have to play without me for a few games.”
Coach opens his mouth to respond, but Garrett’s already moving down the tunnel. He can hear Coach calling after him, but the words don’t register. There’s only one thing on Garrett’s mind now.
The ice.
***
You’re sitting on Garrett’s bed, laptop balanced on your knees, streaming the game. You probably shouldn’t watch. Your therapist — the one the victim services advocate connected you with — said you should avoid triggers. And watching Cameron skate around like nothing happened, like he didn’t try to kill you, is definitely a trigger.
But you can’t help it.
You need to see this.
The arena is packed — a sold-out crowd for what the announcers are calling “one of the most anticipated matchups of the season.” Briar versus BU. First place versus second place in the conference standings.
They have no idea what else this game means.
The camera pans across the Briar bench. There’s Garrett, sitting between Logan and Tucker, face hard and focused. He looks dangerous. You’ve never seen him look like that before — like violence contained in a hockey uniform.
Then the camera cuts to the BU bench and your stomach drops.
Cameron.
He’s there. Number 14, sitting at the end of the bench, laughing at something one of his teammates said. Like this is just another game. Like he didn’t assault you. Like he didn’t rape you. Like he didn’t leave you so broken you still can’t look at yourself in the mirror without flinching.
The commentators are talking about him. About his stats, his performance this season, his NHL prospects. They mention, briefly, that he’s facing “personal legal issues” but don’t elaborate. Wouldn’t want to damage his reputation with something as trivial as the truth.
You feel sick.
The door opens and Beau, Dean’s best friend, pokes his head in. He promised the boys to keep an eye on you while they are at the game. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t look okay.” He comes in, sits on the edge of the bed. “You know you don’t have to watch this, right?”
“I know.”
“But you’re going to anyway.”
“I need to see it.”
Beau nods like he understands. “Want company?”
“Sure.”
He settles in beside you, close enough to be supportive but not so close it feels invasive. It’s something you’ve noticed about all the boys — they’re incredibly careful about your boundaries. They never touch you without asking. Never get too close. Never push.
It’s the opposite of Cameron in every way.
The puck drops.
***
Garrett’s never been a dirty player. He plays hard, plays physical, but he doesn’t cheap shot. Doesn’t go for injuries. Doesn’t use his stick as a weapon.
Tonight’s going to be different.
He’s skating his shift, focused on the puck, when he sees Beck coming up the ice. Their eyes meet across the neutral zone and Beck smirks. Actually fucking smirks at him.
Garrett’s vision goes red for a second, but he forces it down. Not yet. He needs to wait for the right moment. Can’t just jump him in the middle of open ice or the refs will toss him before he gets a chance to do real damage.
The first period is surprisingly restrained. Both teams feeling each other out, testing boundaries. Garrett gets a few good hits in — all legal, all clean — but nothing that satisfies the rage burning in his chest.
Logan scores midway through the first. Dean gets an assist. Briar’s up 1-0.
The period’s winding down — about three minutes left — when Garrett finds himself lined up against Beck for a faceoff in the defensive zone.
They’re at the dot, sticks ready, waiting for the ref to drop the puck.
Beck leans in close.
“Hey, Graham,” he says, voice low enough the ref can’t hear. “How’s my girl doing?”
Garrett’s stick tightens in his grip, but he doesn’t respond.
“She still staying at your place?” Beck continues, that smirk playing on his lips. “That’s cute. Playing house. But we both know she’ll come back to me eventually. She always does.”
The ref’s getting into position.
“She’s a good fuck though, right?” Beck’s voice drops to a whisper. “Tight. Eager. Especially when she cries.”
Something inside Garrett snaps.
The puck hasn’t even dropped yet when Garrett rips off his gloves and launches himself at Beck.
His first punch catches Beck square in the jaw. Beck’s head snaps back and he goes down hard, hitting the ice, but Garrett doesn’t stop. He’s on top of him, raining down punches with methodical precision. Face, ribs, face again.
Beck tries to cover up, tries to fight back, but Garrett’s bigger, stronger, and absolutely fucking furious.
“You piece of shit-” Punch. “You fucking coward-” Punch. “You think you can talk about her like that-” Punch.
Beck’s nose breaks with a satisfying crunch. Blood sprays across the ice.
The refs are shouting, trying to pull Garrett off, but he shrugs them away. Gets in two more solid hits before two refs manage to grab his arms and haul him backwards.
Garrett’s still trying to get at Beck, still ready to throw more punches, but the refs have him locked down.
Beck’s on the ice, face a bloody mess. His teammates are rushing over. The crowd is going absolutely insane — some people cheering, some people booing, everyone on their feet.
One ref is talking into his mic. “Number 44, Briar. Five-minute major for fighting. Game misconduct. You’re done.”
Garrett doesn’t argue. Doesn’t protest. Just skates toward the tunnel, ripping off his helmet.
The Briar bench erupts.
Every single player starts tapping their sticks against the boards. The sound echoes through the arena like thunder. It’s the hockey equivalent of a standing ovation.
Support. Solidarity.
They know why Garrett did it. And they’re backing him one hundred percent.
Coach Jensen is standing behind the bench, shaking his head, but even he’s fighting a smile.
As Garrett disappears into the tunnel, he catches one last glimpse of the ice. Beck’s sitting up now, holding his face, blood pouring through his fingers. His coach is yelling at the refs, demanding Garrett be suspended, banned, arrested.
Garrett doesn’t care.
It was worth it.
***
You watch the whole thing happen in real-time.
One second, they’re lined up for the faceoff. The next, Garrett’s on Cameron like a feral animal.
Beau jumps up beside you. “Holy shit!”
You can’t speak. Can’t breathe. You just watch as Garrett hits Cameron again and again and again. Watch as the refs try to pull him off. Watch as Cameron’s face turns into a bloody pulp.
The commentators are losing their minds.
“Absolutely vicious attack by Graham — completely unprovoked — this is going to be a lengthy suspension-”
But it wasn’t unprovoked. You know that. Something happened at that faceoff. Cameron said something. Did something. Pushed Garrett past his breaking point.
And Garrett responded.
For you.
The camera follows Garrett as he skates toward the tunnel. His face is set, determined, completely unrepentant. Blood — not his own — is splattered across his jersey.
Then the camera cuts to the Briar bench and you see it. Every player tapping their sticks. The sound might not come through clearly on the broadcast, but you know what it means.
They’re supporting him.
All of them.
“Did you see that?” Beau’s grinning. “The whole fucking bench. They all know.”
“Know what?”
“Why Garrett did it. They’re telling him they’ve got his back.”
Your throat feels tight. Your eyes are stinging.
Garrett just got himself ejected. Probably suspended for multiple games. Maybe even kicked off the team. And he did it for you. Because Cameron said something about you. Because he couldn’t let it slide.
The game continues. BU gets a five-minute power play because of the major penalty, but Briar’s penalty kill holds strong. Dean blocks three shots. Tucker strips the puck from a BU forward and clears it down the ice.
When the period finally ends, it’s still 1-0 Briar.
You close the laptop.
“You okay?” Beau asks.
“I don’t know.”
“That was pretty intense.”
“He did that for me.”
“Yeah. He did.”
“He’s going to get in so much trouble.”
“Probably.” Beau shrugs. “But Garrett doesn’t care. You should’ve seen him these past three weeks. He’s been counting down to this game like it was Christmas.”
“I need to-” You stand up. “I need to call him.”
“He’s probably in the locker room or getting reviewed by the league officials right now.”
“I don’t care. I need to talk to him.”
You grab your phone, pull up Garrett’s number. It rings four times before going to voicemail.
“Hey, it’s Garrett. No phones allowed on the ice. Leave a message.”
Beep.
“Hey, it’s me. I just—I saw what happened. What you did. And I-” Your voice cracks. “Thank you. I know that probably sounds crazy. I know you’re probably in trouble and I should feel bad about that but I just—thank you. For standing up for me. For not letting him get away with it. For everything.”
You pause, trying to find the right words.
“I’ll be here when you get back. We can talk then. Just be safe, okay?”
You hang up.
Beau’s watching you with a soft expression. “You care about him.”
It’s not a question.
“He saved my life,” you say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You sit back down on the bed. “I don’t know what I feel. Everything’s so complicated and messed up and I’m barely holding myself together most days. But yeah. I care about him. How could I not?”
“He cares about you too. A lot. Like, a scary amount.”
“What do you mean?”
Beau hesitates. “He doesn’t really talk about his feelings. None of us do — we’re athletes, we’re emotionally constipated. But the way he is with you? I’ve never seen him like that with anyone. He’s protective to the point of obsession.”
“I don’t want to be his redemption project,” you say quietly.
“You’re not. Trust me. If you were, he’d be treating you like a victim. Like someone who needs to be saved. But he doesn’t do that. He treats you like a person. Like someone who deserves respect and autonomy and choice.” Beau stands, stretches. “Anyway. I’m going to make some popcorn. You want some?”
“Sure.”
He leaves and you’re alone with your thoughts.
You pull the laptop back open, reload the stream. The second period is underway. Briar’s still up 1-0. BU’s pressing hard, trying to tie it up, but Briar’s goalie is playing out of his mind.
The commentators are still talking about Garrett’s ejection.
“We’re hearing that Graham will face supplemental discipline from the league. Likely a multi-game suspension. Possibly more serious consequences given the severity of the attack.”
Good, you think viciously. Let them suspend him. Let them punish him. It was worth it.
You think about Cameron’s face. The blood. The way he looked genuinely scared for the first time since you’ve known him.
You should feel bad about that. Should feel guilty that you’re glad Garrett hurt him.
But you don’t.
You feel vindicated.
***
Garrett’s in Coach’s office when the game ends. Briar won 3-1. Logan got another goal in the second, and Tucker scored an empty-netter in the third.
But Garrett wasn’t there to see it.
“The league’s reviewing the footage,” Coach says, arms crossed. “They’re talking about a five-game suspension minimum. Maybe more.”
“Okay.”
“That’s it? Just okay?”
Garrett shrugs. “What do you want me to say? I knew what I was doing. I knew there would be consequences.”
“Did you know Beck is in the hospital?”
That gets Garrett’s attention. “What?”
“Broken nose, fractured orbital bone, possible concussion. They took him out on a stretcher.”
Garrett should feel bad about that. Should feel some kind of remorse.
He doesn’t.
“Good,” he says.
Coach’s expression hardens. “Garrett-”
“He did horrible things to her, Coach. Too many times to count. He strangled her until she thought she was going to die. He made her so scared she couldn’t even function. And BU let him keep playing because they care more about winning than doing the right thing.”
“So you decided to take justice into your own hands?”
“Yeah. I did.”
“That’s not your job.”
“Maybe not. But someone had to do it.”
Coach is quiet for a long moment. “What did he say to you?”
“What?”
“At the faceoff. Right before you hit him. What did he say?”
Garrett’s jaw tightens. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does if it pushed you that far.”
“He talked about her. About-” Garrett can’t repeat the words. Can’t make himself say them out loud. “It was disgusting. Disrespectful. And I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.”
Coach sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “You know I have to suspend you from training as well. Team policy.”
“I know.”
“You’re probably done for the season.”
“I know.”
“And you’re okay with that?”
Garrett meets Coach’s eyes. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”
Coach studies him for a long moment. Then, surprisingly, he smiles. “You’re a good kid, Graham. Stupid as hell sometimes, but good.”
“Does that mean you’re not kicking me off the team?”
“I should. But no. You’ll serve your suspension and then we’ll see where we are.” Coach stands. “Now get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got someone waiting for you.”
Garrett doesn’t need to be told twice.
He showers quickly, changes into his street clothes. His hands are sore — he definitely bruised his knuckles on Beck’s face — but it’s a good kind of pain. Satisfying.
His phone has seven missed calls and twice as many texts. Most from teammates, congratulating him. A few from reporters, asking for comment. One from his dad, which he deletes without reading.
And one voicemail from you.
He listens to it in his car, sitting in the parking lot.
Your voice is shaky but sincere. Thanking him. Telling him you’ll be there when he gets back.
Something in his chest loosens.
He starts the car and drives home.
When he walks through the door, the house is quiet. Beau’s on the couch, watching TV.
“She’s in your room,” Beau says without looking up.
Garrett takes the stairs two at a time.
His door is closed. He knocks softly.
“Come in.”
You’re sitting on his bed, laptop closed beside you. You look up when he enters and something in your expression makes Garrett’s breath catch.
“Hi,” you say.
“Hi.”
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Are you?”
“I watched the whole thing.”
“And?”
You stand, walk over to him. You’re close enough now that he can see the fading bruises on your throat, the shadows under your eyes.
“Thank you,” you say quietly.
“You already said that. In your message.”
“I know. But I wanted to say it to your face.” You reach out, hesitate, then gently take his hand. Look at his bruised knuckles. “Does it hurt?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
The smallest smile touches his lips. “Maybe a little.”
You hold his hand carefully, like it’s something precious. “You’re probably suspended.”
“Yeah.”
“For multiple games.”
“Probably.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of him,” Garrett corrects. “Because he’s a piece of shit who deserved to have his face rearranged.”
You look up at him, and there’s something in your eyes Garrett can’t quite read. Gratitude, maybe. Or something deeper.
“No one’s ever stood up for me like that before,” you say.
“They should have.”
“But they didn’t. You did.”
Garrett wants to close the distance between you. Wants to pull you into his arms and promise that he’ll always protect you, always fight for you, always be there.
But he doesn’t.
Because you’re not his to protect. Not really. You’re just someone he couldn’t walk away from. Someone he couldn’t save until you decided to save yourself.
“Get some sleep,” he says instead. “We can talk more in the morning.”
You nod, but you don’t let go of his hand.
“Garrett?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m glad it was you. That night. When I called. I’m glad it was you who answered.”
Something in Garrett’s chest cracks open.
“Me too,” he says.
You finally release his hand and he steps back into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
He leans against the wall, closes his eyes, and lets himself feel everything he’s been holding back for three weeks.
The rage. The fear. The overwhelming need to protect you.
And something else. Something he’s not ready to name yet.
But it’s there.
Growing stronger every day.
***
The suspension comes down two days after the game: four games for “excessive violence and intent to injure.”
Garrett doesn’t even blink.
Four games. That’s it. He was expecting worse — six, maybe eight. The fact that the league went relatively light on him suggests that maybe, just maybe, someone up there knows what Beck did. Knows why Garrett did what he did.
“Four games,” Logan says, reading the official statement on his phone. “That’s nothing.”
“Could’ve been worse,” Garrett replies, sprawled on the couch with an ice pack on his still-swollen knuckles.
“Could’ve been better. Could’ve been zero games and a medal.”
Tucker walks in from the kitchen, protein shake in hand. “Did you see the prospect rankings?”
“What about them?”
“You moved up.” Tucker grins. “Apparently scouts love a forward who can put up points and throw down when needed. The Bruins are talking about you even more now.”
Garrett sits up. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Check Twitter. Hockey analysts are going crazy. Half of them are calling you a thug, but the other half are saying you’re exactly what the league needs. A player with skill and grit.”
Dean appears in the doorway. “There’s already a highlight reel of the fight on YouTube. It’s got like two million views.”
“Jesus.”
“You’re famous, man. In the best and worst way possible.”
Garrett doesn’t care about fame. Doesn’t care about the projections or the highlight reels or what analysts think. He cares about one thing: that Beck is in the hospital with a face that looks like ground meat, and everyone knows why.
You appear at the top of the stairs, wearing one of Garrett’s old Briar Hockey hoodies that swallows you whole. You’ve been staying in his room for three weeks now, and the house has adjusted around you. The boys treat you like a little sister — protective, teasing, careful. It’s the safest you’ve felt in over a year.
“What’s all the noise about?” You ask.
“Garrett’s trending on Twitter,” Tucker announces.
“For the fight?”
“For being a badass, apparently.”
You come down the stairs, curl up on the couch next to Garrett. It’s become natural now, this casual proximity. He doesn’t flinch when you’re near. You don’t panic when he moves. It’s taken weeks to build this comfort, but it’s there.
“How are the knuckles?” You ask.
“Better. Still ugly.”
“Battle scars.”
“Something like that.”
Your phone buzzes. You pull it out, check the screen, and Garrett watches your expression change. The color drains from your face.
“What?” He asks immediately.
“The DA. The trial date got moved up.”
“To when?”
“Three weeks from now.” Your voice is shaky. “April seventh.”
Garrett does the math. That’s right after his suspension ends. Almost like fate scheduled it that way.
“You okay?” He asks.
“I don’t know. I thought I’d have more time to prepare.”
“You’ve been preparing for weeks. You’re ready.”
“Am I?” You look at him, and there’s real fear in your eyes. “What if I mess up? What if I freeze on the stand? What if his lawyers tear me apart?”
“Then I’ll be there to put you back together.”
It’s a promise. Simple and absolute.
You lean into him slightly, and Garrett puts his arm around your shoulders. The gesture is still new enough to feel significant. Still careful enough that either of you could pull away.
But neither of you do.
***
The three weeks pass in a blur of preparation.
The DA — a sharp woman named Katherine Doherty who looks like she could argue a case in her sleep — meets with you six times. Goes over your testimony, prepares you for cross-examination, teaches you how to stay calm under pressure.
“They’re going to try to discredit you,” she says during one session, Garrett sitting quietly in the corner. “They’re going to imply you’re lying, that you wanted it, that you’re just trying to ruin his life because you’re bitter about the breakup. And you cannot let them see you break.”
“How do I not break?” You ask. “How do I sit there and listen to them call me a liar and not fall apart?”
“You remember why you’re doing this. You remember that you’re not just fighting for yourself — you’re fighting for every woman he might hurt in the future. Every girl who might think she deserves to be treated like he treated you.”
Garrett watches you absorb this. Watches you straighten your spine, lift your chin.
“Okay,” you say. “I can do that.”
“I know you can.”
The night before the trial, you can’t sleep. Garrett finds you in the kitchen at 2 AM, making tea with shaking hands.
“Hey,” he says softly.
You jump, nearly dropping the mug. “God, you scared me.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t sleep either.”
“Tomorrow’s the day.”
“Yep.”
You pour hot water over the tea bag, watch it steep. “What if he gets away with it?”
“He won’t.”
“But what if he does? His parents hired the best lawyers in Boston. They’ve got money and connections and-”
“And you have the truth.” Garrett moves closer, takes the mug from your hands before you spill it. “You have evidence. You have photos. You have medical records. You have me.”
“You can’t testify. You weren’t there.”
“No, but I can sit in that courtroom and make sure you know you’re not alone.”
You look up at him, and in the dim kitchen light, Garrett can see the fear and determination warring in your expression.
“I’m terrified,” you whisper.
“I know.”
“But I’m also angry. I’m so angry at him for what he did. For what he took from me. And I want him to pay.”
“He will.”
“Promise?”
Garrett shouldn’t make promises he can’t keep. Shouldn’t guarantee an outcome that’s out of his control. But looking at you — brave and broken and desperately needing something to hold onto — he can’t help himself.
“I promise.”
***
The courthouse is exactly as imposing as you imagined. All marble and high ceilings and the kind of quiet that feels heavy.
You’re dressed in a simple navy dress that Katherine helped you pick out. Professional but not severe. Respectful but not apologetic. Your hair is pulled back. Your makeup is minimal.
Garrett’s beside you in a suit that looks uncomfortable on him. He’s a jeans and hoodie guy, but today he looks like he walked out of a magazine. Dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie that Logan had to help him knot.
“You look good,” you tell him as you wait outside the courtroom.
“I look like I’m going to a funeral.”
“And still very handsome.”
He manages a small smile. “You ready?”
“No. But let’s do this anyway.”
Katherine appears, all business in her sharp pantsuit. “Alright, let’s go over this one more time. You tell the truth. You stay calm. You don’t let his lawyer bait you into anger. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Remember, the evidence is on our side. The medical records, the photos, the police report. This isn’t a he-said-she-said. This is a he-said-she-said-and-she-has-proof.”
You nod, trying to absorb her confidence.
The courtroom doors open and you walk inside.
It’s smaller than you expected. Maybe forty seats in the gallery, half of them filled. You recognize some faces — your parents, who flew in from wherever they’ve been. Julie, who’s been your rock through all of this. Some of Garrett’s teammates.
And Cameron’s parents. Sitting in the front row, looking like they’re at a country club meeting instead of their son’s rape trial.
You don’t look at Cameron. Can’t. Not yet.
The bailiff calls the court to order and the judge — an older woman with gray hair and sharp eyes — takes her seat.
“The People versus Cameron Jameson Beck,” the bailiff announces. “Charges of rape in the first degree, assault in the second degree, and attempted murder.”
The words hang in the air like a death sentence.
The trial begins.
***
Garrett sits in the gallery, three rows back, and watches everything unfold.
The prosecution goes first. Katherine is methodical, building her case piece by piece. She presents the medical records — the photos of your bruises, the hospital documentation of your injuries. She presents the police report, Officer Murphy’s testimony about the state you were in when you came to the station.
She presents your Instagram, showing the jury the transformation from bright, happy student to hollow-eyed ghost.
Cameron’s lawyer — a smarmy guy named Robert Coburn who probably charges a thousand dollars an hour — objects to nearly everything. “Relevance, your honor.” “Speculation.” “Prejudicial.”
Most of his objections get overruled.
Then it’s time for your testimony.
You take the stand, right hand raised, and swear to tell the truth. Your voice is steady, but Garrett can see your hands shaking.
Katherine approaches with a gentle expression. “Can you state your name for the record?”
“Y/N Y/L/N.”
“And how old are you, Y/N?”
“Twenty.”
“And you’re a student at Boston University?”
“Yes. Junior. Journalism major.”
“Can you tell the jury how you met the defendant?”
You take a breath. “We met at a party. March of last year. He was charming. Funny. He asked me out and I said yes.”
“And when did the relationship turn abusive?”
“Gradually. It started with small things. Criticizing what I wore, who I talked to. Then it escalated. He’d grab my wrist too hard. Shove me. Call me names.”
“And did you tell anyone?”
“No. I thought I could fix it. Thought if I just tried harder, he’d go back to being the person I fell for.”
“When did the physical abuse become severe?”
“Last summer. He pushed me down a flight of stairs. Told everyone I tripped. I had bruises for weeks.”
Katherine presents photos. The jury studies them, and Garrett watches their faces shift from neutral to horrified.
“And the sexual assault. Can you describe what happened?”
This is the hard part. Garrett can see you steeling yourself.
“He would force me. When I said no, he’d do it anyway. He said I owed him. That it was my job as his girlfriend.”
“How many times did this occur?”
“I don’t know. Dozens. Maybe more.”
“And the incident on February nineteenth of this year. Can you describe that?”
You detail it all. The napkin. His rage. The choking. The fear that you were going to die.
By the time you finish, half the jury is crying.
Then it’s Coburn’s turn.
He stands, adjusts his expensive tie, and approaches you like a shark circling prey.
“Ms. Y/L/N, you claim my client raped you. Is that correct?”
“It’s not a claim. It’s a fact.”
“A fact. I see. And yet you never reported these alleged assaults until after you left him. Why is that?”
“I was scared.”
“Scared. Of what?”
“Of him. Of what he’d do if I told anyone.”
“But you told Mr. Graham, didn’t you?” Carlisle gestures toward Garrett. “A hockey player from a rival school. Isn’t it true that you were having an affair with Mr. Graham and fabricated these accusations to justify leaving my client?”
Garrett’s hands clench into fists.
“No,” you say firmly. “I never even met Garrett until the day before it happened. He saw Cameron hurting me after a game and tried to step in. And I didn’t fabricate anything, Cameron tried to kill me.”
“Allegedly tried to kill you.”
“There’s nothing alleged about it. He choked me until I blacked out.”
“Or perhaps you two had rough sex and you’re retroactively withdrawing consent because you regret it?”
Katherine jumps up. “Objection! Badgering the witness.”
“Sustained,” the judge says. “Mr. Coburn, watch yourself.”
But Coburn isn’t done. “You say my client raped you dozens of times. And yet you stayed with him. You continued to see him, to sleep in his bed, to appear with him publicly. Does that sound like the behavior of a rape victim?”
“Yes.” Your voice doesn’t waver. “It sounds exactly like the behavior of someone trapped in an abusive relationship. Someone who’s been manipulated and gaslit into thinking they deserve it.”
“Or someone who’s lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You expect this jury to believe that my client — a decorated student athlete with no prior criminal record — is a rapist and attempted murderer based solely on your word?”
“Based on my word and the medical evidence and the photos and the testimony of everyone who saw what he did to me.”
Coburn smiles. It’s not a nice smile. “No further questions.”
You step down from the stand and Garrett wants to go to you, wants to pull you into his arms and tell you how incredibly brave you are. But he stays seated, hands gripping the bench in front of him so hard his knuckles turn white.
The defense presents their case. It’s weak — character witnesses who talk about what a great guy Cameron is, how he volunteers and gets good grades and wouldn’t hurt a fly.
Cameron himself takes the stand. Denies everything. Claims you were the aggressive one, the unstable one. Says you threatened to ruin him if he ever left you.
It’s all bullshit and everyone in the courtroom knows it.
When both sides rest, the judge gives instructions to the jury. They file out to deliberate.
And then you wait.
***
Two hours feel like two years.
You’re in a conference room with Katherine, drinking terrible coffee and trying not to throw up.
Garrett’s there too, because they couldn’t make him leave. He sits beside you, not saying much, just being present.
“What if they don’t believe me?” You ask for the hundredth time.
“They will,” Katherine says.
“But what if they don’t?”
“Then we appeal. But they’re going to believe you, Y/N. The evidence is overwhelming.”
Your phone buzzes. It’s your mom, asking for updates. You ignore it. Can’t deal with her nervous energy on top of your own.
Garrett’s phone buzzes too. He checks it, smiles slightly.
“What?” You ask.
“Logan. He says if Beck walks, they’re going to handle it themselves.”
“That’s not helpful.”
“I think it’s sweet.”
Despite everything, you almost laugh.
There’s a knock on the door. The bailiff pokes his head in. “Jury’s back.”
Your stomach drops. “Already?”
“Quick verdicts are usually good for the prosecution,” Katherine says, standing. “Let’s go.”
You walk back into the courtroom on legs that feel like jelly. The gallery has filled up — more people heard about the verdict and came to watch.
Garrett takes his seat in the gallery. You sit at the prosecution table with Katherine.
The jury files in. You try to read their faces, but they’re all carefully neutral.
The judge addresses the foreperson. “Has the jury reached a verdict?”
“We have, your honor.”
“On the charge of rape in the first degree, how do you find?”
“We find the defendant guilty.”
The courtroom erupts. Cameron’s mother gasps. His father starts shouting. The judge bangs her gavel.
“On the charge of assault in the second degree, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
“On the charge of attempted murder, how do you find?”
“Guilty.”
You can’t breathe. Can’t process. Guilty. Guilty on all counts.
The judge is talking about sentencing, but you can’t hear her over the roaring in your ears. You turn around, looking for Garrett, and find him already standing, pushing his way toward the railing that separates the gallery from the floor.
“Twenty-five years,” the judge announces. “With possibility of parole after twenty.”
Twenty-five years. Cameron won’t be out until he’s almost fifty.
Katherine is hugging you. Julie is cheering. You’re crying.
And then you’re moving, pushing past people, until you reach Garrett.
He meets you at the railing and you throw yourself at him. He catches you, arms wrapping around you, pulling you close.
“We did it,” you sob into his shoulder. “He’s going to prison.”
“You did it,” Garrett corrects, voice rough. “You were so fucking brave up there.”
“I was terrified.”
“But you did it anyway. That’s what brave means.”
You pull back just enough to look at him. His eyes are wet, you realize. Garrett Graham is crying.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, tucking your head under his chin. “So goddamn proud.”
Behind you, bailiffs are handcuffing Cameron. Leading him away. He’s shouting something — probably threats, probably curses — but you don’t care. Can’t hear him over your own heartbeat.
You’re safe. Finally, truly safe.
You look up at Garrett and something shifts. Something clicks into place.
He’s looking at you with an expression you’ve seen before but never fully understood. Fierce and protective and something else. Something deeper.
“Garrett,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
You don’t have words for what you’re feeling. Don’t know how to explain that this boy — this stranger who became your savior who became your friend — has somehow become everything.
So you don’t say anything.
You just reach up, cup his face in your hands, and kiss him.
For a second, he freezes. Surprised. Then his hands come up to cradle your face, gentle and careful, and he kisses you back.
It’s nothing like kissing Cameron. There’s no demand in it. No ownership. Just soft and sweet and full of promise.
When you finally pull apart, you’re both crying.
“Was that okay?” You ask, suddenly worried you misread everything.
“That was-” Garrett’s voice breaks. “Yeah. That was okay.”
Around you, the courtroom is clearing out. People are talking, crying, celebrating. But you and Garrett are in your own bubble.
His thumbs brush your cheekbones, wiping away tears. His touch is so gentle it makes your chest ache. You think about all the times Cameron grabbed your face — harsh, controlling, meant to intimidate. And then you think about this. About Garrett holding you like you’re something precious. Something worth protecting.
“Thank you,” you whisper. “For everything. For answering the phone that night. For believing me. For fighting for me.”
“You don’t have to thank me.”
“I do. Because you didn’t have to do any of it. You could’ve walked away. But you didn’t.”
“I couldn’t.” Garrett’s forehead touches yours. “Not from you.”
Katherine appears beside you, tactfully clearing her throat. “Sorry to interrupt, but there’s some paperwork we need to go over. And the press is outside — they’re going to want a statement.”
You take a shaky breath. “Can Garrett come?”
“Of course.”
You don’t let go of Garrett’s hand as you follow Katherine to another conference room. Don’t let go as she explains the next steps — the appeals process that Cameron will probably pursue, the restraining order that’s now permanent, the victim services available to you.
Don’t let go as you walk outside and face the cameras.
You read a prepared statement that Katherine helped you write. About believing survivors. About holding abusers accountable. About how justice, while imperfect, still matters.
The whole time, Garrett stands beside you. Not in front of you, not behind you. Beside you.
When it’s finally over, when you’re back in Garrett’s car heading home, you let yourself feel it. All of it. The relief and the grief and the rage and the hope.
“I can’t believe it’s over,” you say.
“It’s not over,” Garrett replies. “He’ll appeal. There will be more legal stuff. More healing you have to do.”
“But the worst part is over.”
“Yeah. The worst part is over.”
You look at him — really look at him. This boy who became a man in your eyes. Who taught you that not all strength is violent. That protection doesn’t mean possession.
“What happens now?” You ask.
“What do you want to happen?”
“I don’t know. I just know I want you in it. Whatever it is.”
Garrett reaches over, takes your hand. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
And for the first time in over a year, you believe that someone’s promise to you actually means something.
You believe in tomorrow.
You believe in healing.
You believe in love — the real kind. The kind that doesn’t hurt.
As Garrett drives you home, your hand in his, you think about that girl in the old Instagram photos. The bright, ambitious journalism student who wanted to change the world.
She’s not gone.
She’s been sleeping. Waiting. Healing.
And now, finally, she’s ready to wake up.
***
One year later.
You’re standing on the sidelines of Agganis Arena, camera crew behind you, microphone in hand, and you’ve never felt more alive.
The scoreboard reads 4-2, Briar. Opening game of the season, and your alma mater just got demolished by your boyfriend’s team. You should probably feel some kind of loyalty conflict, but honestly? You’re just happy to be here.
Happy to be doing what you love.
Happy to be yourself again.
“Alright, Y/N, we’re live in thirty seconds,” your producer says through your earpiece.
You smooth down your blazer — BU red and white, professional but not stuffy — and check your notes one more time. Post-game interview with Briar’s captain and star center, who just scored a hat trick.
Who also happens to be the love of your life, but you’re trying to keep it professional.
“And we’re live in five, four, three …” The producer counts down with his fingers, then points at you.
You smile at the camera. “I’m here with Garrett Graham, captain of the Briar University hockey team, who just led his team to a dominant 4-2 victory over Boston University in tonight’s season opener. Garrett, congratulations on the win.”
Garrett’s in his full gear minus his helmet, hair damp with sweat, face flushed from exertion. He looks good. Unfairly good. But you keep your expression neutral, professional.
“Thanks, Y/N,” he says, and there’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Feels great to start the season with a W.”
“You had three goals tonight. Walk me through that second one — the wraparound. That was pretty spectacular.”
“Yeah, I mean, their goalie was cheating to the far post, so I saw an opening and just tried to jam it in. Got lucky.”
“Lucky?” You raise an eyebrow. “That was pure skill and you know it.”
Now he’s definitely smiling. “Well, I’ve had some good coaching. Great teammates. It’s a team effort.”
“Speaking of team effort, this is your senior year. How does it feel knowing this is your last season playing college hockey?”
Something shifts in Garrett’s expression. Gets more serious. “It’s bittersweet, you know? I love this team. Love this school. But I’m also excited for what’s next.”
You consult your notes, but you’ve memorized these questions. Did the research like you do for every interview. The fact that you also know Garrett’s favorite breakfast order and the way he likes his coffee doesn’t matter right now. Right now, you’re a journalist doing your job.
“Your team has high expectations this year,” you continue. “Returning most of your starters, strong recruiting class. Do you think Briar can make a run at the national championship?”
“I think we’ve got the talent and the drive. We’ve been working our asses off—sorry, can I say that on air?”
You fight back a smile. “We’re cable. You’re fine.”
“Well, we’ve been working really hard in the off-season. Everyone’s bought in. Everyone wants it. So yeah, I think we’ve got a real shot.”
“And what about you personally? Any individual goals for the season?”
Garrett looks directly at the camera. “Honestly? I just want to make the most of it. Enjoy every game. Play for my teammates. And hopefully leave Briar better than I found it.”
It’s a perfect answer. Humble but confident. Team-oriented but ambitious.
You should wrap up the interview. Move on to the next player. But there’s something in Garrett’s eyes — a warmth, a familiarity — that makes you relax slightly.
“So,” you say, going slightly off-script. “Three goals on opening night. That’s got to feel pretty good, especially against BU.”
“Oh, especially against BU,” Garrett agrees, and now he’s definitely teasing. “No offense to your school.”
“Some taken. We did make it competitive for two periods.”
“You did. That third period though …” He makes a yikes face.
“Okay, rude.”
“I’m just stating facts. As a journalist, I thought you’d appreciate factual accuracy.”
You bite back a laugh. “I appreciate winning more.”
“Well, you’re dating a Briar guy now, so technically you did win tonight.”
Your producer is probably having a heart attack in the truck, but you can’t help it. You grin. “I suppose that’s true.”
“Plus I scored three goals. You should be very impressed.”
“Oh, should I?”
“Definitely. I expect appropriate celebration later.”
You feel your cheeks heat up. “Garrett, we’re on camera.”
“I know.” He’s absolutely shameless, that smile widening. “Just keeping things interesting for the viewers.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And okay, you do. You love this — the easy banter, the way he can make you laugh even in the middle of a professional interview, the way he looks at you like you’re the only person in the arena.
“Alright, I think that’s probably enough for tonight,” you say, trying to regain some semblance of professionalism. “Garrett Graham, congratulations again on the win. Best of luck for the rest of the season.”
“Thanks for having me.”
He starts to walk away, then turns back. Before you can react, he’s leaning in and kissing you — quick and sweet but definitely not professional — right there on camera.
When he pulls back, you’re frozen, face burning, completely flustered.
“See you at home,” he says with a wink, then jogs off toward the locker room.
You turn back to the camera, trying to compose yourself. Your producer is definitely going to kill you, but you can hear him laughing through your earpiece.
“And that’s … that’s the post-game report from Agganis Arena,” you manage. “Back to you in the studio.”
The camera light goes off and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
Your producer appears, shaking his head but grinning. “Well, that’s going viral.”
“I’m so sorry-”
“Are you kidding? That was gold. Adorable, authentic, exactly the kind of content people eat up.” He claps you on the shoulder. “Great job tonight, Y/N. Really great work.”
You pack up your gear, still blushing, and check your phone. There’s already a text from Julie: OMG I SAW THAT. YOU AND GARRETT ARE DISGUSTINGLY CUTE.
Then one from Logan: G’s getting chirped so hard in the locker room right now. Worth it though.
Then one from your mom: Sweetie, you looked wonderful! Very professional! Well, mostly professional 😊
You’re laughing as you head out to the parking lot. Your car is parked next to Garrett’s truck — you drove separately since you had to be here early for setup, but you’ll both end up at the same place.
Home.
It still feels surreal sometimes. That you’re here. That you’re happy. That you wake up every morning next to someone who treats you like you’re precious.
You drive home on autopilot, your mind replaying the interview. The way Garrett looked at you. The easy chemistry between you. The kiss that’s probably being GIF’d and memed as you drive.
When you pull into the driveway, his truck is already there. Lights are on in the living room.
You let yourself in — still a small thrill every time, having a key, being welcome, being home — and find Garrett on the couch, showered and changed into sweatpants and a Briar t-shirt.
“Hey, superstar,” you say, dropping your bag by the door.
He looks up, grins. “Hey, yourself. How’d the rest of the interviews go?”
“Fine. Though none of them involved impromptu kisses.”
“I couldn’t help it. You looked too good.”
You flop down beside him, and he immediately pulls you into his side. It’s automatic now, this casual affection. So different from the careful distance you maintained those first few months.
“You’re going to get me in trouble,” you say, but there’s no heat in it.
“With who? Your producer loved it.”
“With my professional reputation.”
“Your professional reputation is that you’re a talented journalist who asks great questions and happens to be dating the extremely handsome captain of Briar’s hockey team.”
“Extremely handsome? Really?”
“I’m just reporting the facts.”
You laugh, tilting your head up to look at him. “You played really well tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. That second goal was beautiful. And the assist to Logan — perfect pass.”
“Are you analyzing my game?”
“I’m a sports journalist. It’s literally my job.”
Garrett’s expression softens. “You know what I love about you?”
“My devastating good looks?”
“Well, yes. But also that you never stopped chasing your dreams. Even after everything. You could’ve given up on journalism, on sports media, on everything. But you didn’t.”
You think about that. About the girl you were a year ago — broken, terrified, barely functional. About the slow, painful process of putting yourself back together. The therapy sessions. The nightmares that still happen sometimes. The moments of panic when someone moves too fast or raises their voice.
But also about the victories. Getting back on camera. Doing your first post-game interview. Continuing with your journalism degree. Landing the job with BU’s sports network.
Coming home to Garrett and feeling safe.
“I had help,” you say quietly.
“You did the work.”
“We did the work.”
Because it hasn’t been just you. Garrett’s been there for every step. Patient when you couldn’t be touched. Understanding when you had nightmares. Gentle when you needed gentleness and strong when you needed strength.
He’s been to therapy himself — dealing with his own trauma, his own guilt about his mother. Learning how to be supportive without being controlling. How to protect without possessing.
You’ve healed together.
“Come here,” Garrett says, pulling you fully into his lap. You go willingly, straddling him, your hands on his shoulders.
“Hi,” you whisper.
“Hi.”
He kisses you properly this time. Not the quick peck from the arena, but slow and deep and full of promise. His hands settle on your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles through your shirt.
When you break apart, you’re both breathing harder.
“I’m really proud of you,” he says. “For tonight. For everything. You were amazing out there.”
“It was just an interview.”
“It wasn’t just anything. You stood on that sideline in the arena where he used to play and you did your job like the professional you are. That takes guts.”
You hadn’t thought about it that way. Hadn’t consciously registered that you were in BU’s arena doing what you love without fear.
“He’s in prison,” you say. It’s a fact you remind yourself of sometimes. When the anxiety creeps in. When you wonder if he’ll somehow find you. “He can’t hurt me anymore.”
“He can’t hurt you anymore,” Garrett agrees. “And even if he could, he’d have to go through me first.”
“My fierce protector.”
“Always.”
You kiss him again, and this time it’s different. Deeper. More urgent. His hands slide under your shirt, warm against your skin, and you arch into the touch.
“Bedroom?” He murmurs against your lips.
“Bedroom,” you agree.
He stands, lifting you easily, and you wrap your legs around his waist. He carries you upstairs — something that should be cheesy but somehow isn’t, not with him — and lays you gently on the bed.
The first time you slept together, four months ago, you cried. Not from pain or fear, but from the overwhelming realization that intimacy could be tender. That sex could be about connection instead of control.
Garrett held you through it, whispered that you were safe, that you could stop anytime, that he loved you.
You don’t cry anymore. Now it’s just … good. Better than good. Amazing.
He takes his time with you now, kissing down your neck, your collarbone. His hands are reverent as he removes your clothes, piece by piece, checking in with every new touch.
“This okay?”
“Yes.”
“And this?”
“Yes.”
It’s something he always does. Always asks. Even a year into your relationship, even though you’ve done this dozens of times, he never assumes. Never takes.
Only gives.
He kisses the spot on your throat where Cameron’s handprints used to be. The bruises are long gone, but the memory lingers. Garrett knows this. Treats these places with extra care. Extra tenderness.
“Beautiful,” he whispers against your skin. “So fucking beautiful.”
You pull him up to kiss him properly, to tell him without words how much he means to you. How much this means.
Hours later, you’re both exhausted and sated, tangled together in the sheets. Your head is on his chest, his arm around you, fingers drawing idle patterns on your shoulder.
“What are you thinking about?” He asks.
“How different everything is.”
“Good different or bad different?”
“The best different.” You tilt your head to look at him. “A year ago, I couldn’t imagine being happy again. Couldn’t imagine feeling safe or loved or … whole.”
“And now?”
“Now I can’t imagine anything else.”
Garrett’s quiet for a moment. “I love you. You know that, right?”
“I know. I love you too.”
“I’m going to marry you someday.”
It’s not a proposal — just a statement of fact. But it makes your heart skip anyway.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. When you’re ready. When we’re ready. But someday, I’m going to put a ring on your finger and spend the rest of my life making sure you never doubt how loved you are.”
You should probably be scared by that level of commitment. Should feel trapped or pressured or uncertain.
But you don’t.
You feel safe.
“Someday sounds good,” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
He kisses the top of your head, and you settle back against his chest. Listen to his heartbeat. Let yourself drift.
You think about the girl in those old Instagram photos. The one who was bright and ambitious and full of dreams. The one who thought she could change the world.
She’s still here. She’s been here all along, just waiting to be found again.
And she’s got so much left to do.
Stories to tell. Games to cover. A career to build. A life to live.
But for now, in this moment, wrapped in the arms of someone who sees all of her — the broken parts and the healing parts and the parts that were never damaged at all — she’s exactly where she needs to be.
“Garrett?” You murmur, half-asleep.
“Hmm?”
“Thank you for answering the phone that night.”
His arms tighten around you. “Thank you for calling.”
Outside, the world keeps spinning. Tomorrow will bring new challenges, new victories, new moments to navigate. But tonight, you’re safe and loved and whole.
Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission
Warnings: 18+ content
The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.
“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”
Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”
“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”
“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”
Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”
Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”
“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”
He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.
“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”
“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”
“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”
“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”
“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”
They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.
Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.
Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”
“Who?” Tucker asks.
“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”
Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.
“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”
“Yeah?” The other guy asks.
“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”
Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.
McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”
Dean stops walking completely.
Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”
“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.
“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”
“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”
“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”
“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”
“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”
Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.
Something must genuinely be wrong with her.
No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.
“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”
Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.
Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”
McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”
Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”
McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”
“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”
“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”
Beau winces. “Dean.”
McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”
“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”
For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.
But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.
McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”
Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.
McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.
Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.
“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”
“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”
“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”
They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.
But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.
It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.
He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.
Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.
“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”
He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.
“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.
Beau glances over. “Yeah?”
“Who did McMahon just break up with?”
Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”
“Just answer the question.”
“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”
“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.
“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”
“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”
“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.
“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”
“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.
“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”
Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”
“I am absolutely going to track her down.”
“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.
Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”
“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”
“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”
“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.
“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.
He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.
He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.
***
The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.
“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.
“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”
“I’m open!”
“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”
“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”
“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.
On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.
Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.
He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.
It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.
“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”
“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.
“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”
“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”
“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”
Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”
“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.
“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”
Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”
“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”
The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.
Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.
“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.
“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”
Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”
Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”
“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”
Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”
“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”
Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”
Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”
Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”
“Who?” Dean demands.
“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.
Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”
“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”
Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”
Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.
“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”
Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.
“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.
“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”
The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.
Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”
“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.
“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”
Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.
He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.
It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.
“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.
“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”
“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”
Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”
Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”
“No,” Dean says immediately.
“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”
“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”
“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.
“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”
“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.
“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”
Beau sighs. “Dean-”
“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”
The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.
“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”
He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.
“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”
Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”
“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.
“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”
“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”
Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.
Right now, Dean is dead serious.
“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”
Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”
“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.
“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”
Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”
“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.
Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”
“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.
“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”
“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”
“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”
“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.
“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”
“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”
“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.
“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”
Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”
Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.
He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.
And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.
Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.
He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”
Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”
“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”
“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.
“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.
“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”
“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”
“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”
He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?
He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.
Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?
That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.
***
Dean does not usually require props.
In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.
But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.
Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.
So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.
He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.
“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.
“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.
“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”
“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”
“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.
Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”
He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.
The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.
He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.
He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.
Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.
The lock clicks. The door swings open.
And Dean completely forgets how to speak.
You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.
He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.
You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”
Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.
“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.
“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”
Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”
Silence.
Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.
You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.
Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”
The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.
Before he can even register the hit, you step back.
“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.
Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.
“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”
He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.
“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”
“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”
“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.
“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”
The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.
“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”
Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”
“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”
“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”
You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”
“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”
The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.
“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”
“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”
You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”
“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”
You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.
“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”
“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.
Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.
You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”
“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”
You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.
For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.
“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”
Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.
The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.
You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.
“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”
“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.
“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”
“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”
You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”
Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”
Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”
“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”
Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.
“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”
Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.
“Y/N,” he starts softly.
“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”
You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.
“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”
You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.
“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.
He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.
This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.
“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.
You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”
“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”
You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”
“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”
“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”
“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”
“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”
“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.
You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.
“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”
You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.
But then the wall goes back up.
“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”
Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.
He needs leverage. What does he know about you?
Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.
“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.
You stop. “What?”
“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”
You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”
“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”
You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”
“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”
“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.
Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.
“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”
You stare at him.
“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”
Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.
The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.
“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.
“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”
You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”
“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”
“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”
Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.
“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”
You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.
The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.
Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.
“Shirtless,” you say softly.
“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”
The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.
“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”
“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.
You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.
“When?” You ask.
“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”
You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”
Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.
“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”
He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.
He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.
Now, he just has to do the impossible.
***
The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.
Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.
He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.
“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”
You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.
“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.
“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”
He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.
“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”
“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”
“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.
“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”
You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”
“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”
Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.
On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.
You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.
Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”
“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.
“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”
“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”
“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”
You do. He is staring at your lips.
“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”
He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.
A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.
The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”
He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.
You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.
“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”
“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.
He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.
He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.
Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.
He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.
You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.
Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.
“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?
“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”
The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.
Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.
He lowers his head.
The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.
“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”
He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.
“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.
He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.
It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.
Dean feels it. He stops immediately.
“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.
You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.
“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.
“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”
“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”
“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”
“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”
He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.
“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.
“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”
“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.
The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.
“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.
He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.
The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.
“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”
He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.
The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.
The coiled spring snaps.
A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.
Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.
When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.
You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.
Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.
He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.
He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.
“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”
You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”
“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”
You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.
“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.
Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.
“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”
Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”
“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”
He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.
You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.
Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.
But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.
You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.
It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.
You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.
“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”
It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.
Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.
He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.
You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.
Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.
“Look at me,” he demands softly.
You meet his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.
And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.
You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.
He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.
It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.
“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”
“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.
The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.
“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”
You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.
Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.
He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.
You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.
He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.
“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”
You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”
“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”
You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.
The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.
But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.
And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.
***
The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.
The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.
“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”
You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”
“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”
You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.
“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”
“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.
You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.
Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.
And leading the pack is Dean.
He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.
A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.
You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.
“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.
“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”
“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”
“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”
Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.
“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”
“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”
“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”
You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”
Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.
Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.
“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.
“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”
“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”
Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”
“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”
You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”
“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.
You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.
“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”
“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”
“It’s a yes,” you agree.
“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”
“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”
Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.
You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.
“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.
“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.
“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.
The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.
Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.
And Dean.
Dean is putting on a show.
You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.
Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.
He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.
Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.
“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”
“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.
“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”
You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”
“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”
You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”
Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”
“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.
“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”
You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.
You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.
Your heart does that stupid flip again.
He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.
“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.
Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”
“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”
“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”
“I think I can manage that.”
“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”
You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.
“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”
The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.
You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.
You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon.
He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.
“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”
A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.
Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.
But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.
He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.
All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.
“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.
McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”
Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.
“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.
Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.
“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”
McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”
“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”
McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”
“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.
“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.
“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”
McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”
“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”
The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.
“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”
McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.
Dean isn’t finished.
He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.
“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”
McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.
He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.
The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.
Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.
You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.
No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.
Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.
“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”
You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.
It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.
The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.
You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.
“That was perfect,” you whisper.
“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.
“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”
“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”
You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”
Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”
“You love it,” you remind him.
“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”
He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.
“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”
“Dean!”
He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.
You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.
You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.
And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.
You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
stormborns
gummygunk
prguitarman
tangentwithtanner
andulkaphoto
