só existindo

Laughter came from just outside your dorm window.

You got up off your bed to peak past the blinds, watching a group of girls walk past in gorgeous skirts and dresses. They were the kind of girls that had legs for days, hair that just sat right with no amount of effort and the best skin you’d ever seen. The kind of girls with no blemishes.

You stepped away from the blinds and walked to stand in front of your mirror.

You’d gotten dressed in your nicest pair of jeans, a plain top and a cardigan over the top.

The anxiety in your chest built up when you really looked at yourself.

You thought back to the girls outside and compared yourself to them.

This was ridiculous. You weren’t dressed to go on a first date with Garrett Graham, and yet this was the nicest outfit in your wardrobe that you felt comfortable wearing.

You stepped closer to the mirror, taking note of all the small blemishes - the most obvious to you being the small hairs that lined your chin and your upper lip. Cursed PMOS.

Your gaze dropped down to the cropped top, noticing the gap between your jeans and top showing a small slither of skin. You pulled the top a little bit up to reveal the dark, coarse, hair that travelled down from your belly button, before sharply pulling the top back down.

What were you doing?

You couldn’t go on a date with Garrett Graham. You couldn’t go on a date, full stop.

You pulled up your phone and sent the text that you’d been drafting and re-drafting all night.

To Garrett: hey! so sorry this is on such short notice, but i don’t think i’m going to be able to make it tonight. hope that it doesn’t cause you any inconvenience?

The second after you sent it you threw your phone to the bed and immediately started undressing, all the while thinking about how excited you’d been when Garrett had asked you out.

You and Garrett were walking through campus after class.

“But if you really think about it, I should still be able to still pass the class—.” You stopped talking when you realised Garrett was no longer walking next to you.

He stood only a couple feet away, hands tucked into his pockets looking… Shy?

“You okay?” You walked up to him, looking up at him with worry in your eyes.

He smiled and nodded his head slightly. His movements were slow and soft.

“You sure?”

“I’m just thinking.” He pulled his hands out of his pockets to lock his arms across his chest.

“Oh nooo… That’s never good.”

Garrett smiled, looking away from you to try and compose himself.

He looked back at you with a nervous smile, “I have a question.”

“Okay.” You nodded encouragingly.

“I..” He let out a nervous laugh, “Would… Fuck.”

“Hey. You don’t have to ask or tell me anything you’re not ready to.” You put your hand on his arm so you could give it a reassuring squeeze.

You could see the nerves disappear from Garrett then. In fact, his whole body relaxed. He caught your hand with his before you could remove yours, holding it tight like an anchor.

“I wanted to know whether I could ask you out?”

His nervous smile returned briefly, before softening again when he watched your entire disposition light up.

There was no way this was happening.

“On a date?” You asked quietly.

“Yeah.” He chuckled.

“You’d like to take me out on a date?”

Garrett found it endearing that you felt the need to check again, but in your defence the question had literally appeared out of nowhere.

“Yes. Please.”

“Okay.”

It had been such an easy decision in agreeing to go on a date with him.

Now it just felt like the most stupid thing.

You stood in front of the mirror again, this time in only your underwear, trying not to cry.

Your hands smoothed over your stomach and your hips.

You looked over every inch of your body, from your thighs to your hips, belly to your chest, and all the way up to your face.

It was only when you got to looking at your face that you noticed the tears beginning to fall.

“Fuck.” You swore to yourself, feeling both insecure and pathetic.

Enough was enough.

You didn’t want to be that girl that stared in the mirror and hated what you saw, but some days it was just all too much.

Your mind was such a frustrating place to be.

The wardrobe door rattled as you roughly opened it, pulling out a large Briar U shirt that you knew would hide everything you were too ashamed to look at today.

The next time you looked in the mirror your body was now shapeless - hidden by all the oversized clothing you’d thrown on.

You took a deep breath.

You were okay. It was just a bad day.

Half an hour later, sitting in bed and twenty minutes into your comfort movie, there was an urgent knock at your door.

You hesitated at first, considering no one ever came knocking, but when the knocking continued you padded out of bed to see the commotion.

“Garrett…” Your face probably was probably showing the same level of shock as your voice.

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently.

“Am… Are you panting?”

Garrett’s hair looked wet and tousled no doubt from a shower. Don’t think about Garrett Graham in the shower.

He was slightly out of breath and had a crazed look to his eyes, like he was a man on the run.

“I tried calling and texting.”

“My phone was off.”

Garrett stepped forwards, his hands reaching out to maybe cup your cheeks but stopped when you stepped back. You looked down at the distance between your feet, having lost all bravery to look at him directly.

“Y/N…”

“Please don’t,” You sniffled and held up your hand, “I’m going to cry if you come any closer.”

Garrett quietly crossed the threshold of your dorm and shut the door behind him. Clearly this was a conversation meant for just the two of you, and he knew there were a bunch of busybodies in your dorm corridor.

“Garrett, please.” You walked away, blowing out a deep breath through your mouth.

“If I’ve done anything…”

“You haven’t.” You quickly shut that thought down for him.

Garrett wasn’t an insecure guy, but he did have a more tender heart than people realised. You were lucky enough to know that his compassion for others stemmed from his dad, which is why you were so eager to shut down any bad thoughts he had about himself.

Even with your back turned, you could tell he hadn’t moved from the spot in front of your door.

That was Garrett all over.

He was always respectful with you. Always letting you lead and giving you anything you needed first.

“Garrett… I-I can’t do this.” Your voice didn’t sound confident.

“Do what?”

“This. Us. I…” Your breathing started getting heavier and out of sync as you tried to find a reason. Your mind felt like soup and nothing was processing like you wanted it to. “Sorry.”

“Hey, no. C’mon.” His shoes were heavy on the floor as he closed the distance between you, “Can I give you a hug?”

You nodded and his arms were instantly around you.

He spun you around in the hug so your face could bury itself into his chest. His arms were strong, like pillars holding you up.

The comfort of being held by him was enough for you to break down. Your body wracked with sobs as he held you close, your hands fisting his sweatshirt like a lifeline.

“I’ve got you.” He whispered.

Your body felt heavy. The emotional weight of the evening had taken its toll on you, and if Garrett weren’t here you didn’t know how you’d keep yourself afloat.

“I-I c-an’t…”

“Just breathe.”

Garrett continued to speak in soft tones to you as he tried to calm you down.

His hand rubbed small circles over your back. The motion was calming enough, alongside his talking, to bring your breathing back to normal. A few hiccup tears slipped out, but after a few minutes of letting it all out you felt like you had nothing left to give.

Your head wriggled out of the depths of Garrett’s chest. Garrett moved his head so you could, already looking down to check on you.

“God, this is so embarrassing.” You laughed through an empty sob.

Garrett shook his head, “No it’s not.”

“You have snot on your sweatshirt.”

“Thank you.” He said proudly, earning a smile from you. That felt like the biggest achievement of Garrett’s day. Now the job was to keep you smiling.

You moved completely out of Garrett’s hold so you could slip down onto the floor back against your bed. Your legs bunched close to your chest and your arms wrapped around them to contain yourself.

Garrett didn’t hesitate in sinking down next to you.

He kept his hands to himself, even though you could tell he was twitching to hold onto some part of you.

Garrett felt like he won the moment you tilted your head onto his shoulder. His head tilted down to lean on top of yours.

“Is that a picture of Dean dressed as a ballerina?” Garrett asked, staring at the corkboard hanging over your desk.

You laughed, your throat still a little broken from crying, “Yeah.”

“When was that? And why wasn’t I there?”

“I don’t even know. He gifted it to me once and told me I had to hang in pride of place.”

“He’s so weird.” Garrett laughed and you laughed with him.

The next couple of minutes were quiet.

Garrett was no doubt looking at your endless amounts of trinkets and photos in your room, that had probably all changed since the last time he’d been here.

“You’re not pushing me to talk.” You said.

“No.”

“Why?”

“You’ll talk to me when you’re ready.”

You bit your lip to contain a new round of tears. “Thank you.”

A loud ping echoed through the room. “Excuse me.”

Garrett took out his phone, not hiding it from you. You watched on as his phone lit up.

The photo on his lockscreen was one he had taken of you skating away from him in his ice hockey jersey. It was taken moments before your legs decided to stop working, and Garrett had to quickly skate over to you to keep you upright. You smiled at the memory.

There was a notification on his screen from Logan.

Logan: Is Y/N okay?

“I might have panicked.” Garrett said before you could ask what Logan meant.

“How so?”

“When you texted saying we weren’t doing our date, I thought the worst. I was worried that you might’ve been sick and then I started thinking about you maybe getting cold feet. Logan caught be pacing about it. Instead of panicking with me, he hit me over the head with a tea towel and told me to get over here.”

You laughed, unwrapping your arms from around your legs to wrap around Garrett’s closest arm to you. Your head stayed resting on his shoulder.

“A tea towel?”

“It fucking hurt.” Garrett laughed.

“It’s sweet how you guys have got each other’s backs.”

“Yeah. I’m lucky to have them.”

Garrett closed the notification after responding with a quick ‘yes’. Even though both of you weren’t sure if that were true, at least it wouldn’t keep Logan guessing.

He switched his phone off and put it on the floor, his hand then coming up to settle on top of yours.

You couldn’t help the small smile slip onto your face when his skin touched yours. It felt stupid to say there was a spark when his fingers wrapped over yours, but that’s genuinely how it felt.

“Me cancelling this evening had nothing to do with you. I just freaked myself out, because I don’t really understand why you asked me out.”

“Because I like you.” Garrett said without hesitation.

“No, but…”

“There’s no buts, Y/N. None.” Garrett sat up, your head losing the cushion of his shoulder. His hands stayed enclosed on yours, but he made sure that he could see you.

“Garrett, just… Listen a minute, please?”

“Okay.” He nodded.

You twisted your body to sit facing him.

This conversation was best to have like ripping off a bandaid. There was nothing good about leaving it to sit and fester. It wouldn’t do you any good to shoulder this alone forever, and if there was one person you trusted enough to let in it was Garrett.

“I don’t really like the way I look.” Garrett shifted, his entire body readying to launch. Before he could say anything you shook your head, “Just listen.”

“Okay.”

“I.. I have PMOS. It’s a reproductive health condition which impacts my entire metabolic system and it sucks. It means irregular periods. It means weight gain that I can’t control. And,” You blew out a shaky breath, “It means I get an increase in hair growth across my body. So, my face, my stomach, my legs and inner thighs… You get it. Every time I look at myself I hate myself a little more. A-and this evening, I looked in the mirror and couldn’t see myself as someone worthy of dating you.”

You expected Garrett to not know what to say - maybe even say nothing. It was a lot to dump on someone and expect them to know exactly what to say.

So he surprised you when he spoke immediately after letting you finish, like he’d been waiting for the opportunity all.

“You know what I was worried about tonight?” He moved closer to you, closing the already small space between you.

“What?”

“That you’d realise dating me was a mistake.” He let out a self-deprecating laugh, “And yet here you are thinking exactly the same thing.”

“How could you possibly think—.”

“Well exactly, baby. I don’t understand how you could possibly not realise how much I like you. I’m constantly thinking about the next time I get to see you. In my head you’re already my girlfriend! Not one thing you just told me makes me like you less. I look at you and get nervous, because I’m so scared of screwing something up and fumbling the best person in my life.”

Your breathing laboured as you took in everything he had just said.

Garrett hadn't laughed. He hadn't looked uncomfortable. He hadn't tried to tell you that you were being ridiculous. He had listened and looked at you like nothing you’d said had changed the way he felt about you.

Sometimes it felt like you were being far too superficial about your appearance and then other times looking at yourself was the worst thing in the world. So hearing Garrett tell you he likes you regardless of everything was overwhelming.

You scrambled to detach yourself from him, moving to cup his cheeks instead.

Somehow you found the bravery to pull him close enough for a kiss, all for that to stop the moment his lips came within an inch of yours. You hesitated.

Were you allowed to kiss him? Is that something he wanted?

You got your answer seconds later when Garrett closed the rest of the distance between you, kissing you like he’d been waiting a long time to do it.

His hands rested on the back of your neck, keeping you close to him.

Your belly was uncontrollable with nerves as he continued to kiss you. And fuck was he a good kisser. His lips were wet and warm against yours.

The room had gotten hotter and your world had gotten smaller - the only thing worth focusing on being Garrett.

He pulled back to give you a chance to breathe, your lips making a soft smacking noise as he did. You didn’t like the distance he created, so you pulled him back again for another soft kiss. Garrett quickly took control, tilting his head to kiss you deeper.

The feeling in your belly changed to something hot and buzzing instead. The more he kissed you, the more confident you became and the nerves disappeared.

When he pulled back again, you didn’t immediately kiss him again. Garrett licked his lips, looking between yours and your eyes like he couldn’t decide what was more important to focus on.

“I like you a lot, in case that wasn’t clear.” Garrett said.

You let out a small laugh, “I like you too.”

“Good.” He kissed you once more, “Okay.”

“Okay what?”

You watched as Garrett stood up, holding out a hand for you to follow him up. You took his hand, holding back any swooning as he pulled you up easily.

“Date night.”

“Garrett…” You sighed.

“We’re not cancelling. We’re just moving it.”

“Where?”

A little while later, you were sitting on a blanket on your bedroom floor, a large pizza and cans of soda between you both.

Garrett had ordered the pizzas online and then had grabbed a bunch of rubbish chocolate from a nearby vending machine for dessert. It was kind of perfect.

It reminded you of your favourite scene from High School Musical 3 with Troy and Gabriella.

Garrett was reclined horizontally, propped up on his bicep, whilst you sat cross legged opposite him.

“You want the last slice?” Garrett asked.

You shook your head, “No thank you. Plus, I’ve seen the amount you eat daily… You need it more than me.”

“Agreed. I was just being a gentleman.”

“How noble of you.”

He grabbed the last slice of pizza and devoured it so fast it actually made your stomach hurt. Athletes and their food. You took a sip of your soda whilst he finished eating.

“So…”

“So…”

“Next date.” He raised an eyebrow, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

“Mhm.” You brought your legs up to rest your chin on your knees.

“Tell me what you’d like it to be.”

“Not ice skating, that’s for sure.” You tried to bury your face in your knees as you watched the offence slide across Garrett’s expression. “I’m just not good! I’ll end up in A&E.”

“Not if I hold your hand.” Garrett protested.

“Maybe five dates down the line, then.”

“Okay, deal.” Garrett smirked, no doubt excited by the prospect of getting to go on four more dates with you before then. “Next date though?”

“I don’t know. This one is pretty perfect.” You shrugged.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. All it’s missing is a sunset.”

“Okay, I can work with that.” He sat up and dusted the last of the crumbs off his fingers. “Sunset and pizzas.”

“And chocolate coated strawberries.”

“For the whole weekend?” You hook your arms around his neck.

“The whole weekend,” he confirms, grinning wildly.

“How the hell did you pull that off?” You laugh in disbelief, playing with the wisps of hair at the back of his neck.

“Dustin offered to watch them,” he replies.

You raise your eyebrows at that, “Dustin? Dustin Henderson voluntarily offered to take care of our children?”

Dustin and his wife were the godparents of your eldest girl, and Dustin loved your kids - but letting all six of them stay at his place was rare.

“Well, he also owes me a few favors for constantly saving his ass as a kid. And after the absolute nightmare that your birthday party was, I decided to cash in one of those favors,” Steve shrugs sheepishly.

You bite your lip in amusement at the memory, because your birthday party had been a bit of a train wreck.

It was going to be a surprise, but living in a house with seven other people meant things that were supposed to stay quiet spilled easily.

It’s not shocking that your four year old was the one who told you either.

You already knew Steve was up to something with the way he was rolling into bed late each night - claiming he was working on coaching strategies for the summer baseball leagues he was teaching.

Which was strange, because he always left work at work - stating that he wanted to be as present as possible for you and your children at home. So when it had been nearly two weeks straight of him acting like he still had things to do, you were growing suspicious.

It was another night without Steve in bed, and you were tossing and turning without the warmth that he usually provided, when there’s suddenly a quiet pounding on your door - making you push up on your elbows as it swings open.

Your youngest boy’s standing there, tears streaming down his face with his favorite stuffed animal clutched in his small fists.

“What happened, baby?” You call softly, and he quickly scrambles over to the bed, hauling himself up.

“I had a bad dream,” he sniffles, crawling across the covers and laying himself next to you.

“I’m sorry, buddy,” you reply, pushing his messy hair back.

He grasps onto the sleeve of your shirt, “It was scary.”

“I’m sure it was. Nightmares scare me too,” you reply, rubbing soothing circles on his back.

“They do?” He asks with interest.

“Oh yeah, for sure. They scare Daddy too. It’s okay to be scared of them. Sometimes they feel real, but you know the good thing about them is that they don’t follow you into the real world,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

He nods into your shoulder, before pulling back and looking around the room.

“Where is Daddy?” He questions, the mention of Steve making him realize he’s not in the room with you.

“He’s working on something,” you answer.

Your boy's eyes light up at that, “I know what he’s working on!”

“And what’s that?” You smile as you see that sweet little grin of his.

He sits up on his knees, leaning in close and whispering, “Your birthday party tomorrow.”

“My what?” You ask incredulously, caught off guard by that response.

“Shh, it’s a secret, Mommy,” he giggles, holding a finger to his lips.

“Okay, babe,” you laugh lightly, “I won’t tell anyone.”

“Tell anyone what?” Steve’s voice resounds as he walks in.

He looks tired - disheveled hair and bags under his eyes that make you want to trace the delicate skin there. It clicks into place then, what he’s really been spending his time doing, and it makes affection for him bloom throughout your chest.

“About Mommy’s party,” your son says giddily.

Steve closes his eyes in defeat, hands planted on his hips, “Awesome.”

“Don’t worry, Daddy. She won’t tell anyone,” your boy says seriously.

Steve collapses onto the bed next to you and slings an arm over your waist. Your hand instinctively comes up to brush over the arm that's now tucked around you.

“Guess you know now,” he grumbles into the side of your neck.

“It’s okay baby, I’m not telling anyone,” you laugh softly.

He hums sleepily in response, eyes cutting to the clock on the nightstand which reads just past midnight.

“Happy Birthday, honey,” he reaches up to press a kiss to the underside of your jaw.

Your boy repeats the statement while he worms his way in between you and Steve.

“Stop hogging your mom, buddy,” Steve says teasingly.

You start to drift off cuddled up next to them - gratitude stirring deep within your heart, contentment lulling you back into a peaceful sleep.

When the party started, Steve kept refusing your attempts to help - insisting that he and the kids had it under control.

They did not have it under control.

The party was mostly taking place outside with friends and family crammed into the backyard, but you came inside with Lucas and Max to take a break from the summer heat.

“Is Steve alright?” Max asks, eyeing your husband over the rim of her cup.

You glance over at him, watching as he bounces around the kitchen - constantly running his hands through his hair. It’s a tell-tale sign that he’s stressed, and you narrow your eyes in frustration because he won’t let you do anything to alleviate that tension.

“No, I don’t think so. But he keeps telling me he’s fine,” you mumble.

“He’s staring at that cake pretty hard for someone who’s supposedly okay,” Lucas laughs from where he stands next to her.

She gently elbows him, “Why don’t you go offer him a hand?”

He snorts at that, “No way. He nearly bit my head off when I asked him where the presents were supposed to go.”

“I’m gonna go check on him again,” you sigh.

The second you enter the kitchen, it’s like a mental radar goes off in Steve’s head, because he turns and starts shooing you out.

“Babe, I told you to go enjoy the party,” he emphasizes.

“Steve, I can’t when I can practically see you vibrating with nervous energy. Tell me what’s wrong,” you try to convince him, sliding your hands up his shoulders.

He gives in, melting at your touch, “The cake is lopsided.”

You smile a little, “So?”

He pinches the bridge of his nose in aggravation, “It’s really lopsided.”

“It’s my fault, Mom. I was on cake duty and hit a curb trying to get back here in time,” your eldest girl remarks from her space at the island. She cringes while she waits for your reaction to that, because Steve’s already gotten on to her about safe driving.

You take a deep breath, “You’re more important than the cake. I don’t care what it looks like. I’m sure it’s still gonna taste great.”

Lucas comes in at that moment, “Sorry to barge in, but you should probably head into the living room.”

“What now?” Steve asks anxiously.

“The twins,” Lucas says, which is enough of an answer because the two of them had been arguing more than usual lately - developing attitudes the closer they got to fifth grade.

Max is standing in front of them with her arms folded, disappointment clouding her eyes. In her hands is a ripped birthday card, and your kids are on the verge of tears at getting a scolding from their favorite aunt.

“What happened?” You hesitantly ask.

Your girls face crumples, “I worked really hard on my card for you, and he spilled his soda all over it.”

Your boy looks regretfully over at her, “I tried fixing it.”

“Yeah, and then you ripped it!” Your girl bites out.

“It was an accident!” He gripes back.

“I bet you were just jealous because my card for Mom was better than yours,” your girl seethes.

That comment makes your boy's tears spill over, and he turns around to run up the stairs. The sound of his door shutting reverberates throughout the house.

“I’ll go talk to him,” you decide, getting ready to follow him.

Steve turns to you, “No, honey, please sit down. I can handle it.”

“I can talk to him,” Max offers, and you shoot her a grateful look because it’s clear Steve’s stubborn tendencies are taking over his rational decision making.

When she disappears up the stairs, Steve turns to his middle girl - giving her a pointed look.

It makes her start crying too, “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t mean it.”

Your oldest boy interrupts - carrying your toddler, who you heard before you saw because she’s screaming up a storm.

“She wants Mom,” he says, looking a little guilty.

“I’ve got her,” Steve cuts in, grabbing her from his boy.

It doesn’t soothe her, and Steve’s eyebrows pinch downwards as he tries to console her with no avail.

“Steve, I can take her. It’s fine,” you say calmly.

He looks like he’s on the verge of a breakdown, and you reach up to cup his face in your hands, thumbs lovingly skimming over the stubble on his jaw.

“Let me take her, baby,” your eyes glance over to your ten year old who’s dropped onto the couch in a fit of tears - quietly insinuating that he’s got another child that needs him.

He reluctantly lets your toddler squirm her way over into your arms before crouching down in front of his girl to talk to her.

It’s then that the fire alarm sets off, and your eldest girl squeals about forgetting to set the timer for the food in the oven - running back into the kitchen.

“Are you kidding me?” Steve barks out sarcastically.

Lucas claps a hand on his brother-in-law's shoulder, “I’ll take care of it, man.”

“Thanks, Lucas,” you smile, cradling your youngest babe in your arms.

Steve continues his conversation with your daughter, and since he has his back turned, you hightail it to your toddlers room before he can intervene - having a feeling she really just needs a good nap after all the excitement from the day.

When you try to lay her down on her bed, she starts clinging onto you, “What’s wrong, sweet girl?”

“Mommy, stay,” she begs.

You’ve never been any good at telling her no, especially when she gives you her puppy dog eyes - the color just like yours but the expression of it resembles those doe eyes Steve likes to give you.

“Just for a little bit, babe,” you concede, curling up next to her.

Eventually her breathing evens out, and the gentle puffs of air from your girl drags you into your own slumber.

“Baby,” Steve whispers, and you blink wearily when you feel his hand curl around your bicep.

“Hmm?” You muse groggily.

He reaches out to smooth down your top that’s riding up, “Been looking for you.”

“You found me,” you mutter, looking over to see your girl has turned around in her sleep - facing away from you now.

You sit yourself up, and Steve’s hands reach out to help you stand to your feet.

“C’mon,” he says quietly, trying to keep his voice down.

He guides you out into the hallway, shutting your girls door silently behind him. You expect him to usher you back to the party, but he leads you towards your bedroom.

“Steve?” You question, tone laced with confusion.

“Wait right here for me, please?” He requests.

When you nod, he heads into the walk in closet - clearly searching around for something.

A muffled screech of laughter catches your attention, and you peer out the window that overlooks the backyard. You smile at seeing all the people you love in one place and startle slightly when Steve’s arms wrap around your middle, pressing his body against yours as he stands behind you.

“God, I just wanted one day where you didn’t have to worry about anything,” he grumbles dejectedly, head dropping into the crook of your neck.

“Steve, we have six children,” you remind him, letting yourself relax in your hold.

“Yeah, who you take care of every single day. Just wanted you to have one day where you felt taken care of,” he refutes.

You turn in his arms, “How could you possibly think I don’t feel taken care of?”

You lightly run your fingers over the dark circles that still remain under his eyes from the work he put into planning this day for you.

“You take care of me, Steve,” you affirm.

He swallows hard, “Sometimes I feel like I don’t do enough for you.”

“Not enough? Babe, you go to work to teach middle schoolers, then you coach baseball, then you come home and still ask what you can do to help me. You spent weeks staying up way too late to try to plan something special for me, and just because it didn’t go exactly the way you planned doesn’t mean it’s any less appreciated. You do more than enough,” you declare, turning your head to tuck yourself under his chin.

“Do it because you’re everything, you know that?” He murmurs, resting his head on top of yours - making you grip tighter to the back of his shirt at hearing the emotion behind the words.

“Got another present for you,” he whispers, ducking down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“Steve, you’ve gotten me plenty already,” you object.

“It’s not finished, but thought you might wanna see what the kids and I have been working on for you,” he lets go of you, turning to grab whatever he was looking for in the closet.

He places a scrapbook in your hands, and on the front cover is a picture of you, Steve, and your babes posing cheesily for the camera last year on Christmas Day.

You start to flip through the pages, memories from milestones and celebrations filling them, and your throat constricts as you feel the familiar prick of tears.

“You crying, honey?” He asks fondly.

“This is literally the sweetest thing I’ve ever gotten, of course I’m crying,” you hiccup, thumbing each sleeve of the book adoringly.

“It was supposed to be another surprise, but I just had to show you it now. Guess I’m not much better than our four year old,” Steve says playfully.

“Don’t worry, baby. Remember, I won’t tell anyone,” you refer to your words from the night before.

“Good, because I think if you told the kids they’d riot against me,” he chuckles

You beam at him, setting the precious gift down on your bed before extending your hand to grab his - heading back to the chaos of your birthday party, but you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Though you reassured Steve that the effort put into the birthday party is what counted, he was still trying to make it up to you.

It’s why he’s just treated you to dinner at your favorite restaurant and promised the house as all yours for the next couple of days.

“And just what are we going to do with all that free time?” You ask coyly, hands coming up to toy with the collar of his button down.

“Hmm, I’ve got lots of ideas, honey,” he replies, dipping his head to nip at the base of your throat.

“Steve,” you say breathlessly, fingers messily popping open the buttons on his shirt so it hangs open, providing you with the heavenly sight of his naked chest.

He grunts in response, lips trailing down the valley of your breasts while his hands are pawing at the zipper of your dress - trying to get the damn thing off.

He shoves the fabric down, letting it pool at your feet - leaving you stripped down to your underwear.

He instantly drops to his knees in front of you, cupping his hands around the backs of your thighs - lips pressing eagerly against the exposed skin.

“Stop teasing,” you whine, pushing at his head - desperate for him to just be inside you already.

Steve doesn’t let up though; instead he moves his mouth to your panties, which are already wet with your slick.

“Play nice, baby. Wanna taste you first. Haven’t in god knows how long,” he mouths over the fabric that’s clinging to you.

Your head falls back against the door, fingers threading in his hair as he continues to tease you through the material before slowly taking them off.

“Oh, god,” you gasp at the feeling of being laid bare before him.

“That’s it, honey,” he coos, grasping at one of your legs - lifting it to have better access to your core.

He kisses your inner thigh that’s now hooked over his shoulder, hovering over your heat. His eyes flick up to meet yours as his tongue laves over your entrance - prodding inside gently, before licking his way up to your clit. A loud moan is torn from your throat, followed by a string of curse words as Steve’s lips secure themselves over the little nub.

“Taste so good, baby,” Steve moans, tongue working expertly against you.

Your hips rut involuntarily against his mouth, and you can feel the tension building faster than you’d like it too - embarrassingly close already from how worked up you are.

“Gonna come,” you whimper.

“Already, baby? Damn, must be good,” he smirks cockily, bringing two fingers up to sink inside of you to get you there faster.

You feel the coil in your stomach tighten as his fingers pump in and out of you - eyes rolling back when you feel the band snap.

Steve pulls away, breathing hard with your juices coating his mouth and jaw. The sight makes you needy, and you tug him to stand up.

“Bedroom, now,” you demand.

“Yes, ma’am,” he teases, sliding his hands down to cup your ass and lift you up into his arms.

He’s trying to multitask - kicking off his shoes while walking up the stairs at the same time.

As expected, it doesn’t end well. When his second shoe is off, he steps on it, causing him to tumble down at the top step that leads to the landing of the second floor.

Thankfully he catches your fall, arms still nestled securely behind your back. Once the shock wears off, you start giggling - back splayed out on the floor while Steve’s holding himself up over you.

“Sorry, baby,” he laughs, leaning forward to kiss you, and you can taste the remains of yourself on him.

It spurs you on, hands shooting out to eagerly unbuckle his belt. You toss it behind you somewhere before trying to shove his dress pants and boxer briefs down.

He helps you get them off, and your lips part at the sight of his member on full display. Your breath hitches as lust pools inside of you while you admire his cock - fully hard and thick, with a prominent vein running down his shaft. The pretty pink tip is flushed, leaking incessantly with precum.

Steve takes the opportunity to hike your legs up and over his shoulders while you’re distracted, slipping a hand under your lower back to help guide you up off the hardwood floor.

His knees are digging into the steps of the stairs, back protesting the angle, but he can’t be bothered - greedily wanting to pull another orgasm from you.

“Please, just fuck me already, Steve,” you cry, weakly trying to move his head away.

“Patience, baby,” he replies, dragging his tongue up your slit - tasting your previous release, and he groans loudly when he feels your thighs press against his head.

“Shit, Steve, I’m too sens-,” you break off with a whine as his tongue flicks out to lap at your clit, lazily tracing circles over it.

When you come for a second time on his fingers, you know you’re not making it to the bed.

You push at his chest, forcing him to lay on his back. His eyes blow wide at your actions - hands shooting out to grasp at the meat of your hips when you sit down on him, cock nudging at your entrance from the movement.

You reach down to grab him, stroking unhurriedly - thumb brushing over the head, spreading the precum that’s now dribbling down towards the base.

Steve whimpers when you line him up, torturously gliding down on him - taking your time as each inch of his dick slides in until the hilt.

“Oh, fuck me,” Steve moans when your pussy flutters around him.

You pause, letting yourself adjust to the size of him before you start to rotate your hips slowly against him.

“Stop, it’s your birthday. I’m doing the work,” he pants, fingers sinking into your skin hard enough to leave bruises.

Steve starts to thrust up into you, steadily creating a rhythm that has you rocketing towards your third orgasm of the night.

“Feels so good,” you whimper as his hips jerk upwards into your tight cunt, deliciously stretching you open.

“C’mere, want you closer,” he pleads, reaching up to your necklace that’s swaying in the air.

He pulls at it, tugging you down so you’re flush against him. He’s relentless, continuing to thrust shallowly, so it’s more of a grind than anything, but you’re aching with need for him to move faster.

“Need you to go faster,” you mumble against his neck, fingers running through the dark hair on his chest.

His hips pick up speed at your request, pulling back until his ruddy tip nearly slips out before snapping forwards - burying himself deep inside of you.

“Steve, oh god, right there,” you cry out at the feeling of him grazing your sweet spot.

“Doing so good for me, honey,” he starts planting sloppy kisses anywhere he can reach on your exposed skin.

The praise has your head spinning, clenching around him each time he bottoms out.

“Shit, ‘m not gonna last if you keep squeezing me like that, honey,” Steve moans, bucking up into you to chase his release.

At the realization that he’s about to come, you remember something that makes you panic.

“Wait, wait, wait,” you breathe worriedly.

Steve’s hips still immediately, “What? What’s wrong?”

Being stuffed full of him without moving is maddening, and you close your eyes blissfully - mewling at the feeling.

Steve leans forward to press his forehead against yours, “Baby, hey, tell me what’s wrong.”

You’re brought back to reality by him pinching lightly at your hipbone to get your attention.

“I, uh, I forgot to take my birth control today,” you admit.

Steve nods in understanding, “Okay. What do you wanna do?”

“The risk of getting pregnant is pretty low when you miss just one, but we’ve been so busy lately, and I haven’t exactly been taking it regularly because we haven’t had any alone time,” you trail off.

“That’s alright, honey. We can stop, and I’ll just finish w-,” Steve starts to try to lift you, but you grab onto his shoulders, refusing to let him move.

“No, no, don’t,” you protest frantically.

Steve runs his hands up your back lovingly, “You know I’m weak babe, haven’t ever been able to pull out.”

You scoff into his neck, “Yeah, you and your breeding kink. Trust me, I know.”

“Hey, don’t tease me. I’ve never heard you complaining when you call me Daddy,” his teeth skin over the shell of your ear and you lose all resolve.

“Just come inside me,” you whine, hips moving against his length.

Steve chokes out in surprise at the sudden action, before forcing you to stop again, “Wait, baby, seriously. Do you want that?”

“Do you?” You reply, looking into his eyes curiously.

“I mean, you know I love kids. I love our kids. And I love seeing you full with my kids,” he brushes a hand over your tummy, making you flush.

No matter how much your body has changed over the years, he still never fails to make you feel beautiful.

“But, it’s you who has to carry a baby - not me. And, six has been a lot on you. I know it has, and I don’t want you to feel forced into having another one,” Steve replies earnestly.

“God, I love you,” you whisper, leaning in to kiss him.

“Love you too, gorgeous. But that’s not exactly an answer,” he mumbles against your lips.

You make a high pitched noise of pleasure when you feel him twitch inside of you, and you subconsciously start to move your hips up and down - feeling sweet relief at the friction.

Steve huffs a breath of laughter, “You listening to me?”

“Mhm,” your nose nudges against his before capturing his lips in another swift kiss.

“What’s the final verdict? Cause I can’t hold off much longer,” he grunts at the feel of you rocking against him.

“Want you to fill me up, give me another baby,” you’re babbling at this point, nearing your climax again.

Steve lets out a guttural sound at that, shifting his hips to feverishly meet yours, and it stuns both of you when you feel him spurting thick ropes of cum into your pussy - flooding you with his release.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry, honey,” he mutters miserably, “didn’t mean to come before you.”

You push at the sweaty hair that’s sticking to his temples, “It’s okay, handsome.”

“No, gonna keep going, need you to finish,” he jerks upwards, pushing his seed further into you while also forcing some of it out - causing it to trickle down his balls.

Your jaw drops at the feeling, hand slipping down to rub at your clit, which Steve pushes away and replaces with his own fingers.

“C’mon, baby,” he urges, breath fanning across your cheek.

You’re completely gone for him, and when you finally tip over the edge, gushing over his cock, you collapse on top of him - bones dissolving into mush.

Steve’s breath is ragged in your ear, heart beating rapidly against your own - hands coming up to caress through the tendrils of your hair.

“You okay?” He asks, pressing a kiss to your hairline.

You laugh lightly, “Better than okay.”

The two of you grow quiet as you lay there, basking in each other’s presence for a few moments more until the ache in your muscles encourages you to get up off the floor.

Before you’re able to move, Steve brings his hands to your face - grasping it tenderly and looking at you a bit timidly.

“You meant it, right?” He questions.

You lean into him, “Of course I meant it, babe. I love you.”

“I’m so in love with you,” he replies, kissing the spot below your ear.

You nuzzle into him, pleased with the affection, “Besides, I probably won’t even get pregnant.”

Those were famous last words for someone who would be staring in shock at a positive test a month and a half later - two pink little lines strikingly clear.

Divider credits to @cafekitsune

Harrington Household Taglist: @daveythorntonslocker @mutual-future-repeat @cciessuzi @enchantedsharddetective @aria1108 @ann-aatn @willyoucry13 @soapyysofi @scoopstroop0704 @offbrandhandymanny @sweatydjoshoes @sckmyk1ss @storietilman @shadogirl

lmk in the comments or message me if you wanna be added to the HH taglist!

You grab your phone, your emergency kit from the trunk — thank god for your mother’s paranoia — and run toward the smoking vehicle. The smell hits you first: gasoline, burnt rubber, something metallic that might be blood.

“Hello?” Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Can anyone hear me?”

A groan from the driver’s side. You circle around, your boots crunching on broken glass and scattered debris. The driver’s door hangs open at an odd angle. A man in his fifties sits slumped against the steering wheel, a gash above his eyebrow bleeding sluggishly.

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

His eyes flutter open. Blue eyes. Dazed but focusing. “I—what happened? Where’s-” His head jerks toward the passenger side, and pure terror floods his face. “Beau! BEAU!”

He tries to unbuckle his seatbelt, but you put a hand on his shoulder. “Sir, please don’t move. You might be injured-”

“My son!” He shoves your hand away, stronger than he looks. “My son is in the passenger seat!”

Ice floods your veins. You circle to the other side of the vehicle, and that’s when you see him.

The passenger door is crumpled inward, the metal twisted like paper. The window is completely gone. And in the seat, surrounded by a spider web of cracks in what’s left of the windshield, is a young man about your age.

There’s so much blood.

“Oh god,” you whisper. Then louder, forcing yourself into action: “I’m calling 911 right now!”

Your fingers shake as you dial, but your voice comes out clear when the operator answers.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Motor vehicle collision, Route 2 westbound, approximately two miles past the Lexington exit. Two victims. Driver appears stable with minor head trauma, but passenger has severe injuries-” You’re moving as you talk, assessing with your eyes what you can’t yet touch. “Possible cervical spine injury, significant hemorrhaging from upper extremity, penetrating chest trauma. We need paramedics and ALS immediately.”

“Ma’am, are you a medical professional?”

“Second-year medical student. I have BLS and Stop the Bleed certification.”

“Paramedics are en route. ETA eight minutes. Can you provide care until they arrive?”

“Yes.” You set the phone down, speaker on, and force yourself to breathe. Eight minutes. You can do eight minutes.

You turn back to the passenger. The father is now standing beside you, swaying slightly.

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

“That’s my son.” His voice breaks. “Please, you have to help him. Please.”

“I will. But I need you to sit down before you fall down. Can you do that for me?”

He nods shakily and lowers himself to the ground, never taking his eyes off his son.

You lean into the destroyed passenger compartment, and your medical training wars with your human instinct to panic. The young man — Beau, his father called him — is unconscious. His head lolls at an angle that makes your stomach drop. Not a natural angle. Not even close.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Okay, think. C-spine precautions. Don’t move him unless he’s in immediate danger.”

But he is in immediate danger. You can see it in the way his neck bends, the way his head threatens to fall further forward. If his cervical spine isn’t already severed, any more movement could do it.

You look around frantically. The car is stable. No fire. But you need to stabilize his neck now.

Your emergency kit. You dump it on the ground, hands moving fast, grabbing the rolled-up fleece blanket your mom insisted you carry. You carefully roll it into a tight cylinder and maneuver it around Beau’s neck, trying to provide support without moving him any more than absolutely necessary.

“Talk to me,” you call to the father. “What’s his name? Full name?”

“Beau. Beau Maxwell.” The man’s voice is thin with shock. “He’s twenty-two. He’s healthy, no medical conditions, no allergies. He’s—god, he’s the quarterback. He has a game next week. He has-”

“Okay, Mr. Maxwell, that’s good, that’s helpful.” You’re assessing as he talks. The makeshift cervical collar is in place. Now the bleeding. “I need you to keep talking to me. Tell me what happened.”

“A deer. There was a deer in the road, and I swerved, and-” His voice cracks again. “I felt the ice. I felt us sliding. I couldn’t stop it.”

You’re barely listening now, all your attention on Beau’s arm. There’s a shard of glass — thick, wickedly sharp — embedded in his right bicep. Blood pulses around it in rhythmic spurts. Arterial. Brachial artery, most likely.

“Fuck,” you breathe. “Dispatch, update — patient has arterial hemorrhage from upper extremity. I’m applying a tourniquet now.”

Your coat. You’re already shaking from the cold, but you strip off your heavy winter coat without hesitation. You need fabric, need pressure, need to stop the bleeding before he loses any more blood.

The glass shard is still embedded. Leave it or take it out? You run through your training in microseconds. In the field, with no surgical backup, no way to clamp the artery — leave it. But you need pressure above and below.

You wrap your coat around his upper arm, using the sleeves to tie it as tight as you can manage. Your fingers are already going numb, but you pull harder, watching the rhythmic spurting slow to a steady seep. Not perfect, but better.

You’re about to check his other injuries when you see it: a thick branch, maybe three inches in diameter, has punched through the windshield and embedded itself in Beau’s chest. Just left of center. Through the sternum, or maybe just missing it. Either way, it’s deep.

Your hands hover over it, trembling. Every instinct screams at you to pull it out, but you know that branch is the only thing preventing him from bleeding out right now. If it’s hit any major vessels, removing it without a surgical team standing by would kill him.

“Please,” Mr. Maxwell says from behind you. “Please tell me he’s going to be okay.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Instead, you lean back slightly, taking in Beau’s face for the first time.

Even like this — pale, covered in blood, unconscious — he’s striking. Dark hair matted against his forehead, strong jaw, features that would be more at home on a movie screen than a car wreck. There’s a cut above his eyebrow, minor compared to everything else, and his lips are slightly parted, each breath shallow and labored.

You find yourself reaching out, your fingers — cold and blood-stained — brushing against his cheek.

“Hey,” you whisper. “Beau. I know you can’t hear me, but I need you to hold on, okay? Help is coming. Just hold on.”

His skin is cooling rapidly in the February air. You grab the emergency blanket from your kit with your free hand and drape it over as much of him as you can without disturbing the branch or the makeshift collar.

“Six minutes out,” the dispatcher says through your phone speaker.

Six minutes. Six minutes for his brain to be without adequate oxygen if his breathing gets any worse. Six minutes for that branch to shift. Six minutes for his neck to-

No. You push the thoughts away.

“Mr. Maxwell, is anyone else hurt? Was anyone else in the car?”

“No. Just us. We were coming back from dinner. In the city. His grandmother’s birthday.” The man is crying now, quietly. “I told him I’d drive so he could relax. Have a few drinks. I told him-”

“This wasn’t your fault,” you say firmly. “The deer, the ice — this wasn’t your fault.”

You check Beau’s pulse again. Thready. Too fast. Shock, almost certainly. Blood loss, head trauma, possible internal injuries — the list spirals in your mind.

“His pupils,” Mr. Maxwell says suddenly. “Shouldn’t you check his pupils?”

You should. You know you should. But part of you is terrified of what you’ll find. Unequal pupils would mean increased intracranial pressure, brain herniation, things you cannot fix on the side of a dark highway.

Still, you pull out your phone flashlight and gently lift one of Beau’s eyelids.

Blue. His eyes are the same startling blue as his father’s, even closed like this. You shine the light across. The pupil constricts. Sluggish, but it constricts. You check the other side. The same.

“Equal and reactive,” you report to dispatch, relief flooding through you. “Sluggish but responsive.”

“Paramedics are three minutes out,” the dispatcher responds.

Three minutes. You can see lights in the distance now, hear the wail of sirens cutting through the night.

You check the tourniquet again — still holding. Check his breathing — still shallow but present. Your hand finds its way back to his face, and you realize you’re talking to him, a steady stream of words you’ll never remember later.

“They’re almost here. You’re doing great. Just keep breathing, okay? Keep breathing.”

Behind you, Mr. Maxwell is on his own phone now, his voice breaking as he talks to someone. His wife, probably. Telling her something no parent should ever have to say.

The ambulance screams to a stop, and suddenly there are people everywhere. Paramedics in dark blue, moving with practiced efficiency.

“We’ve got him, ma’am. We’ve got him.”

But you don’t move. Not until one of them — a woman with kind eyes and gray-streaked hair — gently touches your shoulder.

“You did good,” she says. “Really good. But we need you to step back now so we can work.”

You stumble backward, and Mr. Maxwell is there, catching your elbow.

“What do we have?” the lead paramedic asks.

Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Twenty-two-year-old male, restrained passenger in head-on collision with tree. Patient found unconscious, significant cervical spine angulation — I’ve placed a soft collar for support. Penetrating trauma to chest, large foreign object still in situ. Arterial hemorrhage from right upper extremity, tourniquet applied. Pupils equal and reactive but sluggish. Respirations shallow, approximately 20 per minute. Pulse thready at approximately 120. Obvious signs of shock.”

The paramedic’s eyebrows raise slightly. “You a doctor?”

“Med student. Second year.”

“Well, med student, you probably saved his life.” She’s already moving, her team swarming around Beau with practiced precision. C-collar. Backboard. IV access. They work with a choreography born of countless traumas.

You watch as they carefully extract him from the vehicle, maintaining spinal precautions, keeping the branch stable. Watch as they load him onto the stretcher. Watch as they cut away his blood-soaked shirt, revealing more of the damage underneath.

“We’re taking him to Mass General,” one of the paramedics calls out. “Trauma one.”

“I’m riding with him,” Mr. Maxwell says, but he’s swaying again, and now that the adrenaline is fading, you can see he’s not as okay as he first appeared.

“Sir, you need to be evaluated too,” another paramedic says, approaching with a second gurney. “We’ll take you both.”

“But-”

“We’ve got him, sir. We’ve got your son.”

You watch as they load Mr. Maxwell into a second ambulance. Watch as both vehicles pull away, sirens wailing, lights painting the dark road in red and blue.

Then it’s just you, standing on the side of Route 2 in just your scrubs and thin long-sleeve shirt, shivering violently as the adrenaline finally crashes. A police officer is talking to you — when did the police arrive? — asking questions you answer automatically.

Your coat is gone. Still wrapped around Beau Maxwell’s arm, probably being cut off by the trauma team right now. Your emergency kit is scattered across the asphalt. Your hands are stained rusty brown with blood.

“Miss?” The officer touches your shoulder. “Miss, are you okay? Do you need medical attention?”

“I’m fine,” you hear yourself say. “I’m fine.”

But you’re not fine. You’re shaking so hard your teeth chatter. Your mind keeps replaying the angle of Beau’s neck, the branch in his chest, the feel of his cooling skin under your fingers.

The officer wraps a shock blanket around your shoulders and guides you to sit in your car, heater blasting. He’s still asking questions — your name, your address, what you saw. You answer them all, but part of you is still on that roadside, watching Beau’s chest rise and fall in shallow, struggling breaths.

“You’re a hero, you know,” the officer says after he’s finished taking your statement. “That young man — you probably saved his life.”

You nod numbly. All you can think is but what if it wasn’t enough?

The officer helps you collect your scattered supplies, guides you through the process of leaving the scene. Your car is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.

Except it’s not.

As you drive home, your hands won’t stop shaking on the wheel. You keep seeing Beau’s face, keep feeling the cold of his skin, keep hearing Mr. Maxwell’s broken voice. That’s my son. Please, you have to help him.

You make it to your apartment building, into your unit, into your bathroom before you finally break down. You sit on the cold tile floor, still in your blood-stained scrubs, and sob.

Because you’ve spent two years studying medicine, learning about trauma and emergency care, practicing on mannequins and in simulations. But nothing prepared you for the reality of holding someone’s life in your hands while their blood soaks into your coat and their father begs you to save them.

Nothing prepared you for looking into the face of a dying stranger and desperately, irrationally, needing him to survive.

You cry until you have no tears left, until the shaking finally subsides, until you can breathe without feeling like your chest is caving in. You peel off your ruined scrubs, scrub the blood from your hands, and sit on your couch in the dark.

Then you pull up Google on your phone, your hands steadier now, and type in a name. Beau Maxwell.

The results flood your screen. Articles about football, highlight reels, statistics. Briar University’s star quarterback. Twenty-two years old. Junior year. Dark hair, blue eyes, a smile that could sell toothpaste. Projected first-round NFL draft pick.

You scroll through image after image of him — in uniform, in interviews, at press conferences. Healthy. Whole. So full of life it seems impossible that just an hour ago you were watching him bleed out on a dark highway.

You close your phone and lean your head back against the couch, staring at your ceiling in the darkness.

“Please,” you whisper to no one, to everyone, to whatever forces govern life and death. “Please let him be okay.”

Outside your window, Boston sleeps on, unaware. Somewhere across the city, in Mass General’s trauma bay, a team of surgeons fights to save the life of a quarterback you’ve never met but will never forget.

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

And pray that your desperate, fumbling first aid was enough to give him a chance.

***

The weight room smells like sweat and rubber, the familiar clang of metal on metal providing a rhythm Dean has known since he was twelve. It’s barely seven in the morning, but he’s already on his third set of deadlifts, Garrett spotting him while Logan and Tucker argue about last night’s game on the bench press across the room.

“I’m just saying,” Tucker calls over, “if you’d passed to me in the third period instead of trying to be a hero-”

“If I’d passed to you, you would’ve whiffed it like you did in the second,” Logan fires back.

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

“You were too busy checking out that blonde in the third row-”

Dean tunes them out, focusing on his form. Up. Hold. Down. Controlled. His phone sits on the bench beside his water bottle, face down. It buzzes once — probably his mom checking if he’s coming home this weekend — but he ignores it.

He’s pulling the bar up for his fourth rep when the phone starts ringing. Properly ringing, not just buzzing. The specific ringtone that means it’s someone from his favorites list.

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

Dean sets the bar down carefully and picks up the phone, expecting to see his mom’s contact photo. Instead, it’s Coach Jensen.

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

“That’s weird,” Dean mutters, answering. “Coach? Everything okay?”

There’s a pause. Too long. Dean’s stomach does something uncomfortable.

“Di Laurentis.” Coach Jensen’s voice is careful in a way Dean has never heard before. Careful like he’s handling glass. “Where are you right now?”

“Weight room. With the guys. What’s going on?”

Another pause. Dean can hear something in the background — voices, maybe a TV.

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. Coach, what-”

“I need you to sit down, son.”

The weight room goes very quiet. Dean realizes his teammates have stopped talking and are now watching him. He doesn’t sit down.

“What happened?”

Coach Jensen takes a breath. Dean can hear it through the phone. “I got a call this morning from Coach Deluca. He called because he knows a lot of our guys are friends with players on his team.”

Dean’s hand tightens on the phone. “Okay?”

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

“There was an accident last night. A car accident. Dean, he’s-” Coach Jensen’s voice catches. “He’s in critical condition at Mass General. His father was driving them back from dinner in the city, and they hit ice, crashed into a tree. His dad’s okay, but Beau-”

Dean doesn’t hear the rest. The phone slips from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor. The sound echoes, distant and wrong, like it’s coming from underwater.

Beau.

Critical condition.

The words don’t make sense. They can’t make sense. Because Dean just saw Beau yesterday. They grabbed lunch between classes, argued about whether the Packers or the Patriots were going to make it to the playoffs, made plans to hit up a party tonight. Beau was fine. Beau was fine.

“Dean?” Garrett’s hand is on his shoulder. “Dean, what’s wrong?”

Dean opens his mouth but nothing comes out. His knees feel strange, like they might not hold him. The weight room spins slightly, or maybe he’s spinning, he can’t tell.

“Shit, he’s going down-” That’s Logan, suddenly on his other side, propping him up.

Tucker grabs the phone from the floor. Dean watches him lift it to his ear, watches his face go pale as he listens to whatever Coach Jensen is saying.

“Oh fuck,” Tucker whispers. “Oh fuck, oh fuck-”

“What?” Garrett demands. “What happened?”

“It’s Beau.” Tucker’s voice sounds hollow. “He’s—there was a car accident. He’s in critical condition.”

The words hit the room like a physical force. Garrett’s hand tightens on Dean’s shoulder. Logan makes a sound like he’s been punched.

Dean still can’t breathe right. Can’t think right. Critical condition. That means bad. That means really bad. That means-

No. No, he’s not going there.

“We need to go,” Dean hears himself say. His voice sounds far away. “We need to go to the hospital.”

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

“Now.” Dean pulls away from his friends, stumbling slightly. His legs feel like water. “We’re going now.”

“Okay,” Logan says quickly. “Okay, yeah. My car’s out front. Let’s go.”

Dean doesn’t remember the walk to the parking lot. Doesn’t remember climbing into Logan’s beat-up pickup. One minute he’s in the weight room, and the next he’s in the back seat, Tucker beside him, watching the familiar streets of Boston blur past the window.

Garrett is in the passenger seat, on his phone. “Yeah, Wellsy, it’s—yeah, it’s really bad. We’re going to Mass General now. Can you—yeah. Thanks, baby.”

The city passes in a haze. Dean stares out the window without seeing anything. His mind keeps trying to process the information and failing. Beau. Car accident. Critical condition.

They’re brothers. Not by blood, but by choice, which Dean has always thought means more. 

Beau is the guy who stayed up with Dean all night when his grandfather died, never saying much, just being there. The guy who taught Dean how to throw a spiral when some girl Dean was into invited him to throw a football around. The guy who knows Dean’s coffee order and brings him one without being asked when he’s had a rough day.

Beau is his brother.

And Dean doesn’t know what he’ll do if-

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

“We’re here,” Logan announces, pulling into the hospital parking garage with slightly too much speed.

They practically fall out of the truck, running for the entrance. The hospital is massive, gleaming glass and steel, and Dean has no idea where to go.

“Trauma wing,” Tucker pants, pulling out his phone. “Coach sent me directions. This way.”

They follow him through automatic doors, past a reception desk, down a hallway that smells like antiseptic and fear. Dean’s heart is pounding so hard he can hear it in his ears. His workout clothes are still damp with sweat. He should have changed. Why didn’t he change?

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

Beau’s mom, Debbie, sits in one of those uncomfortable plastic chairs, her face buried in her hands. Beau’s dad is standing by the window, a white bandage visible above his eyebrow. Beau’s grandmother is there too, being comforted by what looks like Beau’s aunt. There are others Dean recognizes from family gatherings and football games, all wearing the same expression of shock and grief.

They all look up as four hockey players in workout gear burst into the waiting room.

His moml’s eyes land on Dean, and her face crumbles.

“Dean,” she chokes out, and then she’s standing, crossing the room in three steps, pulling him into her arms.

She’s shaking. Or maybe he’s shaking. He can’t tell anymore.

“I’m so sorry,” she’s saying into his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, honey, I know you two—I know-”

That’s what breaks him.

Dean Di Laurentis, who prides himself on being smooth, charming, always in control, shatters. His knees give out, and if Beau’s mom wasn’t holding him up, he’d be on the floor. A sob tears out of his throat, raw and ugly and completely beyond his control.

“I’ve got you,” she whispers, even though she’s the one who should be comforted, even though it’s her son in critical condition. “I’ve got you, sweetheart.”

Dean can feel his teammates behind him — Logan’s hand on his back, Garrett’s voice saying something he can’t make out. But mostly he feels the weight of grief trying to crush him, the terror of possibly losing the person who knows him better than anyone.

“What happened?” He manages to gasp out. “Coach said—but he didn’t—what happened?”

Debbie pulls back, her hands still on his shoulders. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen. “You should tell them.”

Beau’s dad turns from the window. He looks like he’s aged ten years overnight. The bandage above his eyebrow is stark white against his pale skin.

“We were driving back from dinner,” he says, his voice rough. “In the city. For my mother’s birthday. It was late, almost midnight. I was driving because Beau had a few drinks. We were just—we were talking about the game next week. About his classes. Normal stuff.”

He stops, his jaw working. Beau’s grandmother reaches over and takes his hand.

“There was a deer,” Beau’s dad continues. “It came out of nowhere. I swerved, and the road—there was black ice. I felt the car start to slide, and I couldn’t—I tried to correct, but we just kept sliding. We hit a tree. Driver’s side hit first, then passenger side slammed into it.”

Dean’s stomach churns. He can picture it too clearly.

“I woke up a few seconds later. I was okay, just disoriented. But Beau-” Beau’s father takes a moment to gather himself. “He wasn’t moving. There was blood everywhere. And then this young woman appeared. Out of nowhere. She’d seen the crash and stopped.”

“She called 911,” Beau’s mom picks up the story, her voice steadier than her husband’s. “She was a medical student. She—god, the paramedics said she saved his life. She stabilized his neck, stopped the worst of the bleeding, kept him alive until they could get there.”

“What are his injuries?” Garrett asks quietly. He’s moved to stand beside Dean, solid and steady.

Beau’s dad closes his eyes. “Cervical spine trauma. The paramedics said his neck was bent at an angle that should have killed him. Should have severed his spinal cord. But this girl, she somehow stabilized it. Kept it from snapping completely.”

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

“He also had a penetrating chest wound,” Beau’s dqd continues. “A tree branch went through the windshield and-” He makes a gesture toward his own sternum. “She knew not to pull it out. Knew it was the only thing keeping him from bleeding out.”

“And his arm,” Beau’s mom adds, wiping her eyes. “Severe laceration from broken glass. She used her own coat as a tourniquet.”

The waiting room is silent except for the buzz of fluorescent lights and the distant beep of monitors.

“Is he going to be okay?” Tucker asks. His voice is small, younger than Dean has ever heard it.

“They’ve been in surgery for four hours,” Beau’s mom says. “We don’t know yet. They said-” Her voice wavers. “They said the next few days are critical. That even if he survives the surgery, there could be complications. Infection. Brain damage from oxygen deprivation. Paralysis.”

“No.” The word comes out sharp, definitive. Dean doesn’t realize he’s the one who said it until everyone looks at him. “No, that’s not—Beau’s going to be fine. He has to be fine. He’s-”

He can’t finish the sentence. Can’t articulate what Beau means, what a world without him would look like. Can’t.

“We’re praying, honey,” Beau’s mom says softly. “That’s all we can do right now.”

Dean wants to scream that prayer isn’t enough. That there has to be something, anything, they can do. But he just nods, swallowing against the lump in his throat.

More people arrive over the next hour. Beau’s teammates, guys from the football team who Dean knows from parties and the occasional shared class. They fill the waiting room with whispered conversations and shell-shocked expressions. A few of them break down crying. Most just sit in stunned silence.

Dean ends up in one of the plastic chairs, his head in his hands. Logan sits on one side, Garrett on the other. Tucker paces by the window, unable to sit still.

“He’s going to make it,” Logan says quietly. “You know Beau. Stubborn as hell. He’s not going anywhere.”

Dean wants to believe that. Wants to believe that sheer force of will can overcome arterial bleeding and spinal trauma. But he’s seen enough hockey injuries to know that sometimes will isn’t enough.

“Did you know,” Dean says suddenly, his voice hoarse, “that his first word was ‘ball’? He told me that freshman year. Not ‘mama’ or ‘dada.’ ‘Ball.’ His parents said he was obsessed with any kind of ball from the time he could sit up. They knew he’d be an athlete before he could walk.”

“Yeah?” Garrett’s voice is soft, encouraging.

“And he-” Dean’s throat closes up. He forces himself to continue. “He wants to go pro. Obviously. But after that, he wants to coach. High school kids, specifically. He says college and pro players already have all the resources. He wants to work with kids who might not have anyone believing in them.”

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

“He’s going to do it, too,” Dean insists, looking up. “He’s going to play in the NFL and then coach high school ball and probably turn some underfunded program into a state championship team because that’s what he does. He sees potential in people and brings it out of them.”

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

“I mean it.” Dean’s voice cracks. “That’s who he is. So he can’t—he has to-”

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

The waiting room falls silent immediately. Every head turns. A surgeon walks out, still in his scrubs, pulling off his surgical cap. He looks tired. So tired.

Beau’s parents are on their feet instantly, crossing to meet him. Dean stands too, his teammates flanking him. His heart pounds so hard he thinks it might break through his ribs.

“Mr. and Mrs. Maxwell,” the surgeon says. His voice is neutral, professional, impossible to read.

“How is he?” Beau’s mom asks in barely a whisper. “How’s my son?”

The surgeon takes a breath. Dean holds his own, feeling like the entire world is balanced on whatever words come next.

“The surgery was successful,” the surgeon says, and the relief that floods the room is almost tangible. “We’ve stabilized the spinal trauma, repaired the vascular damage to his arm, and removed the foreign object from his chest. The object missed his heart by less than two centimeters. Any further to the right, and-”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. He doesn’t have to.

“But he’s alive?” Beau’s dad asks. “He’s going to live?”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “He’s in critical condition, and the next seventy-two hours will be crucial. There’s still risk of infection, of complications from the spinal trauma. But he made it through surgery, which given the extent of his injuries, is remarkable.”

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

“He’s being moved to the ICU now. You can see him once he’s settled, but he’ll be sedated. We need to keep him as still as possible to let the spinal repair begin to heal.”

“His spine,” Beau’s dad says. “Will he—is there paralysis?”

The surgeon’s expression is carefully neutral. “We won’t know the full extent of any nerve damage until he wakes up and we can do a thorough neurological assessment. The spinal cord itself wasn’t severed, which is extraordinarily fortunate. Whoever stabilized his neck at the scene saved his life and likely saved him from permanent paralysis.”

“The girl,” Beau’s mom says. “The medical student. Do you know her name? We want to thank her.”

The surgeon shakes his head. “The paramedics didn’t get her information. Just that she was a Good Samaritan who stopped to help.”

“We have to find her,” Beau’s mom says, turning to her husband. “We have to-”

“We will,” Beau’s dad promises. “We will.”

The surgeon continues, “I need to be clear with you. Your son’s injuries were catastrophic. The fact that he’s alive is nothing short of miraculous. But the road ahead is going to be long. Months of recovery, likely. Multiple surgeries. Intensive physical therapy. And there are still no guarantees.”

“But he’s alive,” Beau’s mom repeats, like it’s a prayer. “He’s alive.”

“He’s alive,” the surgeon confirms. “You should be very proud of him. He’s a fighter.”

After the surgeon leaves, the waiting room erupts. Quiet at first — no one wants to celebrate when Beau is still critical — but there’s a shift. From hopeless to hopeful. From grief to cautious relief.

Dean sits down hard, his legs finally giving out completely. He drops his head into his hands, and this time when he cries, it’s different. Still scared, still shaken, but there’s something else mixed in.

Gratitude.

“He made it,” Logan says, his own voice thick. “Holy shit, he actually made it.”

“Seventy-two hours,” Tucker says. “That’s what the doctor said. Three days. He just has to make it three days.”

“He will,” Garrett says firmly. “You heard the doc. Beau’s a fighter.”

Dean lifts his head, scrubbing at his face. His eyes feel swollen, his throat raw. He probably looks like hell. He doesn’t care.

“I need to see him,” he says. “I need to see him.”

“Family only in the ICU, probably,” Logan says gently. “At least at first.”

“I don’t care. I need-” Dean’s voice breaks again. “I need to see him.”

Beau’s mom appears in front of him, crouching down so they’re at eye level. She takes his hands in hers.

“As soon as they let us bring visitors, you’ll be the first,” she promises. “I swear. But right now, I need you to do something for me.”

“Anything.”

“I need you to take care of yourself. Go home, shower, eat something. Because when Beau wakes up — and he will wake up — he’s going to need you strong. Can you do that?”

Dean wants to argue. Wants to plant himself in this waiting room and refuse to move until he can see his brother. But her eyes are pleading, and she’s asking so little when she’s going through so much.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, but you’ll call me? The second anything changes?”

“The absolute second,” she promises. “You’re family, Dean. You know that.”

Family. The word cracks something open in his chest. He pulls Beau’s mom into another hug, holding on tight.

“Thank you,” he says. “For calling me. For letting me know.”

“Oh honey,” she says, pulling back to look at him. “There was never a question. You’re his brother.”

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

His teammates drive him back to campus in silence. The shock is starting to wear off, leaving exhaustion in its wake. Dean’s muscles ache from his workout, which feels like it happened years ago instead of hours.

They end up on the couch, the four of them, not talking. Just being there. At some point, Tucker orders pizza. At another point, Hannah and Allie show up with half the football team, bringing food and offering quiet support.

Dean’s phone buzzes constantly. Texts from teammates, from friends, from people he hasn’t talked to in months, all asking about Beau. He doesn’t answer any of them.

Instead, he pulls up his photos. Finds the album labeled “Best Bro.” Hundreds of pictures spanning three years. Beau throwing a touchdown. Beau at a party, arm slung around Dean’s shoulders. Beau asleep in the library during finals week, drooling on his American History textbook. Beau grinning at the camera, blue eyes bright, completely alive.

“He’s going to be okay,” Dean whispers to the photo. “You’re going to be okay.”

He has to believe it. Because the alternative — a world without Beau’s terrible jokes and unwavering loyalty and ability to light up any room he walks into — is unthinkable.

His phone buzzes again. They’ve settled him in the ICU. He looks peaceful. Still sedated. Doctors say next 12 hours are critical. Will update you in the morning. Try to get some sleep, honey. He needs you rested.

Dean stares at the message for a long time. Tell him I’m here. Tell him his brother is here and waiting for him to wake up.

Dean sets his phone down and leans back against the couch. Around him, his friends have settled into quiet conversation. Someone turned on a movie at some point, something mindless playing on low volume.

But Dean isn’t watching. He’s thinking about a girl he’s never met. A medical student who stopped on a dark highway and saved his brother’s life. Who thought quickly enough to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to give him a fighting chance.

Whoever she is, wherever she is, Dean owes her everything.

“We have to find her,” he says suddenly.

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

“The girl. The medical student. She saved him, and she just disappeared. Didn’t even leave her name.”

“Dude, Boston has like five medical schools,” Logan points out. “That’s thousands of students.”

“I don’t care,” Dean says. His voice is stronger now, steadier. “We’ll check every single one if we have to. But we’re going to find her.”

Because whoever she is, she gave Beau a second chance at life.

And Dean is going to make damn sure she knows how much that means.

***

The world comes back in pieces.

First, there’s sound — a steady beeping, rhythmic and insistent. Then sensation — something soft beneath him, something constricting around his neck. Then smell — antiseptic, that particular hospital smell that’s somehow both sterile and cloying at once.

Beau tries to open his eyes, but his eyelids feel like they weigh a thousand pounds.

“-vitals are stable, Mrs. Maxwell. We’re going to start decreasing the sedation now-”

That’s a voice he doesn’t recognize. Professional. Clinical.

“How long until he wakes up?” That voice he knows. Mom. She sounds exhausted.

“It varies. Could be a few hours. His body’s been through significant trauma, so we’re taking it slow.”

Beau wants to tell them he’s right here, that he can hear them, but his mouth won’t cooperate. The darkness pulls him back under.

***

The next time consciousness surfaces, it stays a little longer.

The beeping is still there. But now there are other sounds too — quiet conversation, the rustle of fabric, footsteps in the hallway.

“-told you, you can’t give him solid food yet-” Mom again, but this time she sounds amused.

“I’m not giving it to him. I’m just … having it ready. For when he can.” Dean. That’s definitely Dean.

“You brought Dunkin’ Donuts to a hospital ICU?”

“Munchkins. They’re small. It doesn’t count.”

Despite everything — the pain starting to register in various parts of his body, the confusion, the way his neck feels completely immobilized — Beau almost smiles.

“Beau?” A different voice. Dad. “Beau, can you hear me?”

He tries to respond. Manages something between a grunt and a groan.

“Oh my god.” Mom’s voice cracks. “Oh my god, he’s—get the nurse. Get the nurse!”

Footsteps. Fast.

Beau forces his eyes open. The light is too bright, everything blurry. He blinks, and slowly the world comes into focus.

White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. The edge of what looks like a massive amount of medical equipment.

“Beau?” Mom’s face appears above him, and she’s crying. “Oh, baby. You’re awake. You’re really awake.”

“Hey, Mom.” His voice comes out as barely a rasp, his throat raw and painful.

“Don’t try to move, sweetheart. Your neck—they had to stabilize your neck. You’re in a brace.”

That explains the constricting feeling. Beau tries to turn his head instinctively and immediately regrets it as pain shoots through him.

“Easy, easy.” That’s a new voice — a nurse, he realizes, as a woman in scrubs appears on his other side. “Welcome back, Mr. Maxwell. I’m Theresa. Can you tell me your name?”

“Beau Maxwell.” It hurts to talk, but he manages.

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

Beau tries to think. His memory is … foggy. Disjointed. “Car. We were in a car. Dad was driving.” He looks around, spotting his father standing near the foot of the bed, bandage still visible on his forehead. “Dad. You okay?”

His dad laughs, the sound wet and relieved. “I’m fine, son. I’m fine. You’re the one who-” His voice breaks. “You scared the hell out of us.”

“Language,” Mom chides, but she’s smiling through her tears.

The nurse runs through more questions — what year it is, who the president is, can he feel his fingers and toes. Everything checks out, apparently, because she smiles and says, “Looking good, Mr. Maxwell. The doctor will be by soon to do a full assessment.”

After she leaves, Beau takes stock. He can see Mom and Dad, both looking exhausted and relieved. And there, slouched in a chair by the window, is Dean, holding a Dunkin’ Donuts bag and grinning like an idiot.

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

Dean laughs, and it sounds a little hysterical. “Says the guy in the ICU. Welcome back, man.”

“How long was I out?”

“Two and a half days,” Mom says, stroking his hand gently. “They had you heavily sedated while you healed.”

Two and a half days. Beau processes this slowly. “What … what are my injuries?”

His parents exchange a look.

“Son,” Dad starts, “you had—it was pretty bad. Cervical spine trauma. They had to operate. And there was a branch, through your chest-”

“A branch?”

“Missed your heart by less than two inches,” Mom says quietly. “And your arm—there was a lot of glass. They had to repair the artery.”

Beau stares at the ceiling, trying to reconcile this information with the fact that he’s alive and apparently mostly functional. “How am I not dead?”

“Because someone saved you,” Dad says. “There was a woman, a medical student. She saw the crash happen and stopped to help. She stabilized your neck, stopped the bleeding, kept you alive until the paramedics arrived.”

A medical student. Random Good Samaritan. Beau tries to remember, but there’s nothing. Just darkness and then waking up here.

“The surgeon said if she hadn’t stabilized your neck, one more wrong movement and-” Mom can’t finish the sentence.

“We’ve been trying to find her,” Dean interjects, standing up and moving closer to the bed. “To thank her. But she didn’t leave her name, and the hospital doesn’t have her information. Just that she was a medical student who stopped to help.”

“I want to thank her too,” Beau says. His throat is killing him, but this seems important.

“The police have her contact information from the accident report,” Dad says. “We’re working on tracking her down. But for now, you need to focus on healing.”

A doctor arrives shortly after, running through a battery of neurological tests. Can Beau move his fingers? Yes. Toes? Yes. Feel pressure on his arms? Legs? Yes, yes. The doctor looks cautiously optimistic.

“The fact that you have full sensation and motor function is excellent news,” the doctor says. “But you’re not out of the woods yet. The next few weeks are critical. Any wrong movement could jeopardize the spinal repair.”

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

“For at least eight weeks. And then extensive physical therapy.”

Eight weeks. Beau’s season is over. His entire junior year, gone. He closes his eyes against the wave of disappointment.

“Hey.” Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder. “One step at a time, yeah? You’re alive. That’s what matters.”

Beau nods minutely, the brace making even that small movement awkward.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of doctors, nurses, medications, and family. His grandmother comes by and cries all over him. His aunt brings flowers that the nurses say aren’t allowed in ICU but no one has the heart to remove. His uncle brings an embarrassing amount of Packers gear “for morale.”

Dean never leaves. He’s a permanent fixture in the chair by the window, occasionally trying to sneak Beau a munchkin when the nurses aren’t looking, even though Beau still can’t eat solid food.

“Dude, stop,” Beau finally says. “You’re going to get kicked out.”

“Worth it,” Dean says, but he puts the bag away.

It’s late afternoon on the third day post-accident — technically only a few hours since Beau woke up — when there’s a knock on the door.

“If that’s another neurologist, I swear to god-” Beau starts.

“Language,” Mom says automatically, but she’s already turning toward the door. “Come in!”

The door opens, and everyone looks up expecting another doctor or nurse.

Instead, a young woman steps in.

She’s around Beau’s age, maybe a year or two older, wearing jeans and a Harvard hoodie, her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. She looks nervous, clutching a worn messenger bag and hesitating in the doorway like she might bolt at any second.

“I’m sorry,” she says quickly. “I know you probably weren’t expecting visitors, but I—the reception desk said that—I asked how the patient from the accident was doing, and they said the medical student who helped at the scene was on the approved visitor list, so I thought-” She’s rambling, talking faster with each word. “I can leave. I should probably leave. I just wanted to check-”

“Oh my god.” Dad is on his feet. “You’re her. You’re the medical student.”

She nods, looking even more uncertain. “I’m—yes. I was the one who—I saw the accident, and I-”

She doesn’t get any further because Dad crosses the room in three strides and wraps her in a hug.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice thick. “Thank you for saving my son. Thank you, thank you-”

You stand frozen for a second, clearly startled, before awkwardly patting his back. “I—you’re welcome. I just did what anyone would-”

“No.” Mom is there now too, and as soon as Dad releases you, she pulls you into an equally tight embrace. “No, what you did — the surgeon said you saved his life. That if you hadn’t stabilized his neck, he wouldn’t have made it. You saved our boy.”

Beau watches from the bed, unable to turn his head much but able to see enough. The woman — the medical student who saved him — looks completely overwhelmed, her eyes suspiciously bright.

“I’m just glad he’s okay,” you manage. “I’ve been checking the news, looking for updates, but I couldn’t find anything, and I was worried-”

“He’s going to be okay,” Mom assures you, finally releasing you. “Thanks to you.”

Then Dean is there, and he pulls you into a hug that actually lifts you off your feet slightly.

“I don’t know who you are yet,” Dean says, “but you saved my brother’s life, so you’re stuck with me now. Fair warning, I’m a hugger.”

You laugh, the sound slightly watery. “I can tell.”

“What’s your name?” Mom asks, steering you gently toward the bed.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” you say. “I’m a second-year at Harvard Med.”

“Y/N,” Dad repeats. “That’s a beautiful name.”

You smile, still looking nervous, and then your eyes land on Beau.

Beau, who has been staring at you since you walked in.

Because holy shit.

You’re beautiful. Like, devastatingly beautiful. Even in casual clothes with no makeup and looking slightly anxious, you’re the most stunning person Beau has ever seen. There’s something about your eyes, warm and genuine, and the way you move, and-

Is this heaven? Did he actually die and this is some kind of afterlife? Because that would explain a lot.

“Hi,” you say softly, moving to his bedside. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I got hit by a tree,” Beau rasps, then immediately winces. “Sorry. That was—I’m apparently still working on the whole talking thing.”

You laugh, and the sound does something strange to his chest. “The tree definitely won that round. But I’m so glad to see you awake. When I left the scene, I-” You pause, taking a shaky breath. “I wasn’t sure you’d make it. Your injuries were severe.”

“Apparently you’re the reason I did make it,” Beau says. He wishes he could sit up properly, look at you without the weird angle the neck brace forces. “Thank you. I mean it. Thank you for stopping. For helping.”

“Of course.” You look genuinely confused by the gratitude. “I couldn’t just drive past.”

“Most people would have,” Dean interjects. He’s back in his chair but watching you with open fascination. “Most people would’ve called 911 and kept going.”

“I had training,” you say simply. “And someone needed help. It wasn’t—I mean, I just did what needed to be done.”

“You did a lot more than that,” Dad says. “The surgeon told us you stabilized his neck. That you thought quickly enough to prevent further damage. That you used your own coat to stop the bleeding.”

You duck your head, embarrassed. “I had an emergency kit in my car. My mom’s paranoid about me driving alone at night. The coat was just the closest thing I had.”

“Did you get it back?” Beau asks. “Your coat?”

“Oh.” You blink at him. “No, I—I assume they had to cut it off you. It’s fine, though. It was just a coat.”

“Just a coat that saved my life,” Beau says. “Along with you. So, not really just a coat.”

You smile at him, and Beau’s heart does something complicated in his chest. The monitors beside his bed beep slightly faster, and he desperately hopes no one notices.

“How are you really feeling?” You ask. “Pain levels? Range of motion? Are you experiencing any numbness or tingling?”

“Did you just go into doctor mode?” Dean asks, amused.

“Sorry.” You look sheepish. “Occupational hazard. I’ve been worried about—I mean, cervical spine injuries are serious, and I was so scared I’d made the wrong call at the scene-”

“You made exactly the right call,” Mom assures you. “Every doctor we’ve talked to has said so.”

You nod, but you still look anxious. Beau recognizes the expression — it’s the same one he wears after a bad game, replaying every mistake.

“Hey,” he says, waiting until you look at him. “I’m alive. I can move everything. The doctors say I’m going to make a full recovery. You did good. Better than good. You were amazing.”

You hold his gaze for a moment, and something passes between them. Something Beau can’t name but can definitely feel.

“I’m really glad you’re okay,” you finally say, your voice soft.

“Me too,” Beau replies. “Though I’m pretty sure I have the worst concussion in history because there’s no way someone as beautiful as you is real.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Dean bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, did you just use a pickup line while in a neck brace in the ICU?”

“It’s not a pickup line if it’s true,” Beau says, not breaking eye contact with you.

You’re blushing now, a pink tinge spreading across your cheeks. “I think your brain is working just fine,” you manage.

“That’s what I said!” Dean crows. “The boy’s got game even half-dead.”

“Dean,” Mom says warningly, but she’s smiling.

You laugh again, shaking your head. “I should probably go. Let you rest. I just wanted to check—to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait,” Beau says quickly. Too quickly. The movement makes pain shoot through his neck, and he grimaces.

You step closer instinctively, your hand hovering near his shoulder. “Are you okay? Should I get a nurse?”

“No, I’m fine. I just-” Beau takes as deep a breath as the chest wound allows. “Can I get your number? To, uh, keep you updated on my recovery. Since you saved my life and all.”

Dean makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a cough but sounds suspiciously like a laugh.

You’re definitely blushing now, but you’re smiling too. “Sure. That—yeah. Let me write it down.”

Mom, bless her, immediately produces a pen and paper.

You write quickly, your handwriting surprisingly neat, and hand the paper to Beau. “Text me anytime. I mean it. I want to know how you’re doing.”

“I will,” Beau promises. He wishes he could take the paper himself, but his arm is still heavily bandaged and moving it is a production. Dean takes it for him, setting it on the bedside table with a knowing smirk.

You linger for another moment, looking like you want to say something else. Finally, you speak. “You know, I have to tell you something.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m a Harvard fan,” you say, and there’s a hint of mischief in your eyes now. “Which means I’m technically rooting against Briar. So you need to make a full recovery so we can beat you fair and square next season.”

Beau stares at you. Then he laughs, the sound rough and painful but genuine. “You save my life and then threaten to destroy me on the field?”

“Not a threat,” you say cheerfully. “A promise. We’re coming for that championship.”

“I love her,” Dean announces. “Beau, I love her. Can we keep her?”

“I’m working on it,” Beau mutters, which makes you laugh again.

“Okay, I really do need to go,” you say, backing toward the door. “But it was wonderful to meet you all. And Beau, heal up fast, okay? The rivalry isn’t fun if you’re not playing.”

“Yes ma’am,” Beau says, giving you a slight salute that his injuries allow.

You wave and slip out the door, closing it softly behind you.

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

“In the ICU. While in a neck brace. While your parents were standing right there.”

“I was perfectly respectful-”

“You told her she was too beautiful to be real!” Dean is grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Your game is unreal, man. I’m actually impressed.”

“You asked for her number,” Mom says, and she sounds amused too. “That was certainly … forward of you, sweetheart.”

“I need to thank her properly,” Beau says defensively. “It’s only right.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Beau continues, ignoring him. “Which means she’s smart but has terrible taste in football teams. Someone needs to educate her.”

“Someone being you?” Dad asks, his lips twitching.

“I mean, I feel like I owe her that much.”

Dean is full-on cackling now. “You’re going to date the girl who saved your life. That’s some romance novel shit right there.”

“I’m not—we just met. I’m just going to text her. To say thank you.”

“Sure,” Dean says, not even trying to hide his grin. “Just thank you. Nothing else.”

“Dean, I swear-”

“Boys,” Mom interrupts, but she’s smiling. “Beau needs to rest.”

“I’m fine,” Beau insists, even though he’s exhausted just from the conversation.

“You nearly died three days ago,” Mom says firmly. “You need rest. Dean, stop riling him up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says dutifully.

After his parents leave to grab dinner, it’s just Beau and Dean in the room. Dean is back in his chair, finally eating the munchkins he’s been carrying around.

“She was amazing,” Beau says quietly. “Not just—I mean, yeah, she’s gorgeous. But she saved my life, Dean. She stopped on a highway in the middle of the night and saved my life.”

“I know,” Dean says, and all the teasing is gone from his voice now. “I know, man. We owe her everything.”

“I was so close,” Beau continues. His throat is tight. “Dad said my neck … one more movement and that would’ve been it. And she fixed it. Some random medical student who happened to be driving by.”

“Not random,” Dean says. “Right place, right time. Some people would call that fate.”

“You believe in fate?”

“I believe in you,” Dean says simply. “And I believe you’re here for a reason. So yeah, maybe fate had something to do with putting her on that road at that exact moment.”

Beau thinks about you — your nervous smile, the way you brushed off the gratitude like it was nothing, the competitive spark in your eyes when you mentioned Harvard football.

“I think I was saved by an angel,” he says.

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

“I’m in love,” Beau repeats. It sounds insane. It is insane. He just met you twenty minutes ago. But there’s something — a pull, a connection, something he can’t explain.

“Beau, buddy, I say this with love — you’re high as hell on pain meds right now.”

“I’m serious.”

“You just woke up from a medically induced coma like six hours ago.”

“I know what I feel.”

Dean studies him for a long moment. Then he sighs. “Well, shit. You really mean it.”

“I really mean it.”

“You’re going to marry the girl who saved your life, aren’t you?”

“If she’ll have me,” Beau says, completely serious.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “This is either the most romantic thing I’ve ever witnessed or the pain meds talking. I’m not sure which.”

“Maybe both,” Beau admits. “But I don’t care. I’m going to thank her properly. And then I’m going to get to know her. And then-”

“Then you’re going to sweep her off her feet and ride off into the sunset?”

“Something like that.”

“She’s a Harvard fan,” Dean points out. “You know that’s going to be a problem.”

“I’ll convert her.”

“She literally told you she is waiting for Harvard to beat you.”

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

Dean laughs, shaking his head. “You’re insane. But okay. I’m here for it. Team Beau and his angel.”

“Her name is Y/N.”

“That doesn’t have the same ring to it.”

Beau doesn’t care. He’s already thinking about what to text you. How to thank you properly. How to convince you that stopping on that highway was the beginning of something, not just an isolated act of heroism.

His body is broken. His season is over. His recovery is going to be long and painful.

But for the first time since waking up, Beau feels hopeful.

Because somewhere out there is a girl who saved his life.

And he’s going to spend his recovery figuring out how to deserve her.

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

They spend the next hour crafting the perfect message, with Dean offering increasingly ridiculous suggestions that Beau keeps vetoing. By the time visiting hours end and Dean is forced to leave, they’ve settled on something simple and genuine.

After Dean leaves, Beau stares at the piece of paper with your number, at your neat handwriting, and allows himself to smile.

Three days ago, his life nearly ended on a dark highway.

Today, looking at your number, it feels like it’s just beginning.

***

The physical therapy room smells like sweat and determination, which Beau has decided is just a nicer way of saying it smells like pain.

“Five more, Maxwell,” his PT says in that annoyingly cheerful voice that all physical therapists seem to possess. “You’ve got this.”

Beau grits his teeth and pulls himself up on the bar, his neck muscles screaming in protest. Four months ago, he couldn’t lift his head off the pillow. Three months ago, he couldn’t walk without assistance. Two months ago, he couldn’t turn his head more than thirty degrees.

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

Beau pulls himself up one final time, holding at the top for a three-count before lowering himself down. His muscles feel like jelly, but he’s grinning.

“Hell yeah!” His PT claps him on the shoulder. “That’s what I’m talking about. Four months ago, you were in a neck brace wondering if you’d ever play again. Look at you now.”

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

“Nice try. That’s a question for your surgeon and your coach, not me. But I will say, physically you’re progressing faster than anyone expected.”

It’s not a yes, but Beau will take it.

After the session, he checks his phone. Seventeen texts in the group chat with the guys, mostly Dean sending increasingly absurd memes. Three texts from his mom checking in. One from Coach Deluca asking about his PT progress.

And one from you.

Y/N: How was PT? Did he make you cry today?

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

Beau: Only a little. Mostly manly tears of triumph though.

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

Y/N: FIVE? Beau, that’s amazing! I’m so proud of you!

Beau: Thanks. Couldn’t have done it without my guardian angel believing in me.

Y/N: Stop calling me that. I’m just a person who happened to be in the right place.

Beau: A person with a hero complex and really good instincts under pressure. AKA an angel.

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

Beau’s grin widens. Over the past four months, texting you has become his favorite part of recovery. You check in daily, asking about his PT sessions, his pain levels, his progress. You send him terrible medical jokes. You quiz him on anatomy when you’re studying, claiming he’s helping you prepare for exams when really he’s just learning more about the exact ways his body almost failed him.

You’re funny and smart and competitive and kind, and Beau is more convinced every day that he’s in love with you.

The only problem? You’re still treating him like a patient. A friend, yes, but a friend you saved, which apparently puts him in some kind of off-limits category in your mind.

He’s been trying to change that. Slowly. Carefully.

Not carefully enough, according to Dean, who keeps telling him to “just ask her out already, you coward.”

But Beau wants to do this right. You saved his life. You deserve more than some half-assed attempt at romance from a guy who still can’t turn his head all the way without wincing.

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

Beau’s heart kicks up. Dean doesn’t do “emergency” unless something is actually wrong. He grabs his bag and heads out, making the drive back to campus in record time.

He bursts through the door of the house he shares with Dean and half the hockey team, expecting — he doesn’t know what. Fire? Flood? Someone dying?

Instead, he finds Dean standing in the living room surrounded by streamers, balloons, and a banner that reads I LIVED, BITCH.

“Surprise!” Dean spreads his arms wide, grinning. “We’re throwing you a party.”

Beau stares. “You said it was an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. You’ve been back on campus for a week and we haven’t properly celebrated your return from the dead.”

“I wasn’t dead.”

“You were close enough that it counts.” Dean starts hanging more streamers. “Party’s tonight. Eight PM. Everyone’s invited.”

“Everyone?”

“The team. The guys. Some of the football players. Allie and her friends. That kid from your econ class who kept asking about you-”

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

Dean’s grin turns shit-eating. “I invited Y/N. She said yes, by the way. She’ll be here around nine.”

“You invited—without asking me-”

“You’ve been texting her for months and haven’t made a move. I’m helping.”

“By ambushing me?”

“By creating the perfect opportunity.” Dean hangs the last streamer and steps back to admire his work. “Come on, man. Party atmosphere, some drinks, you finally see her in person again — it’s romantic.”

“It’s manipulative.”

“It’s efficient.” Dean throws an arm around Beau’s shoulders. “Trust me. This is going to be great.”

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

By nine PM, the house is packed. Music thumps through the speakers. Someone has set up a beer pong table. Tucker is already three drinks in and teaching a group of freshmen the rules of some drinking game that definitely doesn’t have any rules.

Beau is nursing a beer and trying not to look at the door every five seconds.

“Dude, relax,” Logan says, appearing at his elbow. “She’ll be here.”

“I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to throw up.”

“That’s just my face.”

“That’s not your face. I know your face. This is your ’I’m freaking out’ face.”

Garrett joins them, holding two beers. “Is he doing the thing where he stares at the door?”

“He’s doing the thing,” Logan confirms.

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

“You love us,” Garrett says cheerfully. “And you love Y/N, which is why you’re doing the door-staring thing.”

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

“Right,” Logan says. “Friends who text every day.”

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

“Okay, yes, fine, I like her.” Beau takes a long pull from his beer. “Happy?”

“Ecstatic,” Dean says, materializing out of nowhere. “And you’re going to tell her tonight.”

“I’m not-”

“You are. Because life is short, Beau. You nearly died. You got a second chance. Are you really going to waste it being chicken about asking out the girl who saved you?”

Beau opens his mouth to argue. Then closes it. Because damn it, Dean has a point.

“What if she says no?” He asks quietly.

“Then she says no,” Dean says. “But what if she says yes?”

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

You’re wearing jeans and a simple black top, your hair down instead of in the ponytail you usually wear, and Beau forgets how to breathe.

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

You spot them and wave, smiling as you make your way through the crowd. Allie intercepts you halfway, pulling you into a hug and saying something that makes you laugh.

“Go talk to her,” Dean says, giving Beau a shove.

“I am talking to her.”

“You’re standing here like a statue. Go.”

Beau takes a breath and crosses the room. You look up as he approaches, and your smile gets wider.

“Hey!” You say, and then you’re hugging him. It’s brief, casual, but Beau’s heart still does something stupid in his chest. “I can’t believe Dean threw you an I Lived, Bitch party.”

“I can,” Beau says. “Subtlety isn’t really his thing.”

“I brought you something.” You dig in your bag and pull out a small wrapped package. “I was going to give it to you later, but here.”

Beau takes it, curious. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Just open it.”

He unwraps it carefully. Inside is a keychain — a small football with the Briar University logo engraved on it and proof that miracles happen on the other side.

Beau stares at it, his throat tight. “Y/N-”

“I know it’s cheesy,” you say quickly. “But I saw it at this little shop near campus and thought of you. Because you are a miracle. You know that, right? The odds of you surviving what you survived, of recovering the way you have-”

“Hey.” Beau sets the keychain carefully on the nearest table and takes your hand. “Thank you. Really. This is—it’s perfect.”

You squeeze his hand, and for a moment, it’s just the two of you in the crowded room.

Then Dean’s voice booms over the music. “EVERYONE! CAN I HAVE YOUR ATTENTION?”

The music cuts off. Everyone turns to look at Dean, who’s standing on the coffee table with a beer raised.

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

“Oh no,” you echo, but you’re smiling.

“Three months ago,” Dean announces, “my best friend nearly died. Car crash, black ice, the whole dramatic scene. And while I was sitting in a hospital waiting room having a complete breakdown, there was someone else on a dark highway saving his life.”

The crowd is silent, watching.

“Y/N Y/L/N,” Dean continues, finding you in the crowd. “Stand up. Come on, don’t be shy.”

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

Reluctantly, you stand. The crowd turns to look at you.

“This woman,” Dean says, “stopped on the side of the road in the middle of the night. Could’ve driven past. Could’ve just called 911 and left. But she didn’t. She stopped. She used her medical training to stabilize Beau’s neck, to stop the bleeding, to keep him alive until the paramedics arrived. The surgeon told us that if she hadn’t done what she did, Beau would have died at the scene.”

Beau can see your eyes are shiny. His are probably the same.

“So this party isn’t just about Beau living, though that’s obviously the main event,” Dean continues. “It’s about Y/N. About the fact that there are still people in the world who stop to help strangers. Who run toward danger instead of away from it. Who save lives because it’s the right thing to do.”

He raises his beer higher. “To Y/N. Beau’s guardian angel. The reason we still have our quarterback. The reason I still have my brother.”

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

You’re definitely crying now, wiping at your eyes with your free hand. Beau pulls you into a hug, and you bury your face in his shoulder.

“I hate your best friend,” you mumble into his shirt.

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

He finds you in that very same resting place, except your head is on Allie’s lap while she holds the ice pack for you. Dean, who’s bandaging your ankle on the end of the couch, immediately stands up and walks over to Logan’s direction,

“Dude, I swear to god that it was an accident.”

Logan takes a look at you over Dean’s shoulder, “What the fuck happened?”

“Me and Garrett were playing soccer when she got here looking for you.” Dean starts talking, “Then she asked us if she could join and I obliged, of course, ‘cause– Well, I wouldn’t I? Can you imagine how misogynistic that sounds if–”

“Dean, get to the fucking point!”

“Right, sorry– She tripped on my foot while we were playing and hit her head. It wasn’t too bad, I managed to catch her. But–” Dean motions his head to you, awake and murmuring something to Allie neither the boys can hear. 

Logan moves in your direction, kneeling by the couch, “Hey, honey. How you feeling?”

You can’t see him, ice pack covering your eyes as well as your forehead. Still, your lips quiver up when you listen to his voice, “I’m good. They’re all being dramatic.”

He looks up at Allie, gesturing for him to take her place on the couch. Allie carefully holds your head as she moves from under you, letting his hands hold you instead before she let go. You lay your head on Logan’s thigh, nuzzling as he presses a gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth. There’s a small cut on your chin, covered by a pink band-aid. His hands move to your cheek, drawing circles as he caresses your face, “You hurt your chin?”

You hum, and Allie speaks up, “Her arms are a bit scratched too. But we already cleaned them, and Garrett is on his way to the rink with Hannah. He said you guys keep a full first aid kit in the locker room.”

Logan hums, “Did you eat anything?” he murmurs to you. 

“Tucker made me a smoothie.” You answer, then your hand moves to remove the ice pack. Logan sees a purple-tinted bump on your forehead, but your eyes are shiny and smiling, “Baby, I’m fine. Really. Don’t get too worried, handsome. Hannah and Allie patched me up, and Dean said he’s sorry a thousand times already.”

Your boyfriend looks up, watching Dean’s apologetic face turn into a pout. Logan rolls his eyes at him, a tiny smile on his lips as he feels disarmed. He’s a little ashamed now, being so ready to pick an argument with his friends a second ago for letting you get hurt, yet there you are, laying all pretty on his lap, tended and smiling as Logan’s heartstrings pull a little.

He gives you a grin, “Do you want paracetamol or something?”

Dean raises his hand and gives his most prideful look, “Already had her take one, boss.”

“Alright. You’re good, man.” Logan says before adjusting your ice pack back to its place, pressing a quick peck on your cheek, “And you keep icing your head, there’s a bump right under your hairline. Allie, take my place?”

You stir, “I can lay on the couch just fine by myself.”

“No, no. We’re keeping someone by your side for the next twenty four hours.” Allie says, already taking Logan’s seat, “We gotta make sure you don’t have a concussion and choke on your own vomit.”

“Geez,” you sneer, “So dramatic.”

He stands from the couch, moving in Dean’s direction, “And you are helping me make dinner,” he drops his arms over his friend’s shoulder, muttering, “Thanks for helping take care of her.”

Dean beams at his friend, “That was nothing. The least I could do for almost killing her, really.” He jokes, squeezing Logan’s shoulder, “She’s all yours now, dude. And I’d say a little TLC is much needed.”

He looks back at you, giggling with Allie on the couch, “I think she’s in good hands.”

“I meant for you.” Dean says, “I know you love when you get to fuss over her, you softie.”

“Well, yeah. Like you said,” Logan shrugs, “Who am I to deny some tender loving care over my oh so hurt and in need of care girlfriend?”

“I can hear that,” you shout from the couch.

“And I don’t hear you complaining, babe.”

notes: thank you for reading! requests are open! likes/reblogs/thoughts are appreciated! <3

Fast forward to now, your junior year of college has come and you were currently still seeing your boyfriend. It had been over a year at this point but Beau didn’t seem to mind as long as he got to be with you. He would rather be with you in secret than not be in your life at all.

It wasn’t like you were a secret to everyone, after all, you had met each others parents/guardians (and extended family) and made it clear that you were serious about each other. Dean also knew because Beau couldn’t really keep anything from him even if he tried. The two men knew each other too well.

“Are we still on for girls night?” You had curiously asked Friday morning knowing that the three of you had always planned a night of movies, dinner, and drinks. Especially since Hannah only drank in privacy.

Hannah sighed, “I can’t tonight. I have practice for the showcase and then I have a tutoring session with Garrett.” She gave you an apologetic smile. “Rain check?”

You nodded, “sure. No problem.” You assured giving her a reassuring smile before moving your gaze to a guilty looking Allie. “Let me guess? You’ve got a date with Sean?”

Allie gave a soft smile, “I’m staying at his tonight.” She replied softly. “But I can cancel if you still wanted to have our girls night…”

You shook your head, “No, don’t cancel your plans for me.” You assured. “We have a girls night once a week. I’ll find something to do.”

Allie gave you a knowing look as a smirk grew on her face, “you’ll be here alone… so maybe you should find someone to do.” She suggested.

Hannah let out a little laugh but nodded her head anyways in agreement, “it’s been what? Freshman year since you’ve hooked up with someone?”

You didn’t say anything, but ‘If you two only knew’ was repeating in your head. It hadn’t been freshman year (obviously) but Beau just happened to wonder in your life not to long after your last hook-up. “I’m happy right now.” You admitted honestly to your girls. “I really don’t need to hook-up with anyone.”

Allie huffed, “everyone needs to have good sex once in a while.” She spoke confidently, “it’s only natural.”

“Aren’t you friends with one of Garrett’s groupies?” Hannah spoke up and you slightly nodded. “They’re all good looking so why not him?”

You cringed internally at the thought of screwing Beau’s best friend. You loved Dean but not in any type of romantic or sexual manner. He was someone you could trust and lean on for anything, and a part of you would forever thank Beau for introducing you to that part of Dean.

You shook your head at Hannah’s suggestion once you broke out of your thoughts, “Never going to happen.”

Allie’s face looked like she was lost in a thought for a moment before she looked from you to Hannah and back again, “who was that dude in your ethics class?” She asked trying to think.

“The one who hangs out with Garrett and the hockey team?” Hannah asked, slinging her back over her shoulder. “If you’re talking about him it’s probably—I think Garrett said his name is Beau.”

Allie turned back to you, “how about him?” She asked. “You two are insufferable.” You muttered before grabbing your bag and heading towards the door so you could get to class.

🫧

Half of your school day was over and you had yet to see your friends or Beau for most of the day. Which it was a given because you had a few different classes and everyone had their own lives outside of the friend group. You were currently grabbing lunch since you had a decent break between classes.

“Hey beautiful.” A soft voice whispered close to your ear before you noticed your boyfriend walk around the table and sit across from you.

A smile grew on your face causing you to bite your lip to keep it from stretching into a grin. “Hey,” you replied softly. “How’s your day been so far?” You asked knowing some of his schedule.

He shrugged acting nonchalant; “as boring as usual.” He muttered before mentioning something that had happened in conditioning earlier. “You wanna swing by the house before your girls night?”

You huffed a laugh, “about that… there’s no girls night anymore.” You replied. “Allie is staying with Sean and Hannah is tutoring Garrett.”

Beau’s eyebrows shot up, “they bailed?”

You shrugged, “we have them often so it’s not like it’s too important.” You assured while giving him a smile. “That also means that I have the dorm to myself…. So I was thinking that you could swing by for a bit? Hannah won’t be back until late and it gives us time to hang in my space.”

He smiled, “sounds like a plan, baby.” He agreed leaning back in his chair.

You hesitated for a moment before meeting his gaze again, “you don’t have to be in a rush either.”

That grabbed his full undivided attention (not like you didn’t have it anyway) as a look of shock seemed to cross his eyes. “Are you saying you don’t care to finally be semi-public?” A teasing tone could be heard in his voice making you roll your eyes.

“It’s long over due, isn’t it?” You asked softly.

Beau’s eyes softened as they looked over you, “what changed your mind?”

You shrugged and thought about it for a moment, “you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, and you know that I love you.” He assured softly but also watching you carefully.

“Maybe they’ll understand more than I think.” You mutter as you feel him grab your hand easily from across the table. “and it would be nice if they quit trying to suggest people for me to hook-up with.”

His eyebrows furrowed, “who are they suggesting?”

You pursed your lips, “well the last one they mentioned was you.”

“Can’t argue with that.” He teased causing a scoff and an eye roll to come from you.

“Yeah and the other one was Dean.” You huffed. “But I’m pretty sure she was hinting at me being with anyone in the hockey house.”

“Dean? Really?” He asked and you nodded thinking back to what Hannah had told you.

Before you could say anything a mop of blonde hair plopped himself down beside your boyfriend, “what about me?” He asked flashing his dimpled smile.

You shook your head not wanting to mention what Hannah had said, but apparently Beau didn’t mind. “Her roommate mentioned her hooking up with you.” Your boyfriend muttered.

Dean’s eyes glistened with a teasing in them, “As much as I would love too. I think bro-code out weighs that.” His reply earned a glare from Beau causing him to joking put his hands up in surrender. “Let me guess, Wellsy thinks your lonely?”

You sighed, “something like that.” You muttered; “my roommates think everyone needs good sex at least once a week.”

Dean nodded, “they aren’t wrong.” He agreed with Allie which wasn’t surprising to you.

You rolled your eyes before throwing a fry off your to-go basket at the blonde’s face. “I have plenty of that.” You assured not missing the smirk that grew on Beau’s face.

Dean snorted, “I don’t doubt it.” The teasing tone was still very prominent in his voice. “You got Beau Maxwell to be in a committed relationship…. You deserve a cookie.” He joked.

Beau rolled his eyes, “seriously dude?”

Dean sent the couple a smirk, “what? You know how many girls want to be in her place right now?” He then turned his attention solely on Beau, “you know how many men want to be in your place right now?” He added.

“I know I’m lucky she chose me.” Beau replied his eyes narrowed at his best friend.

“Damn straight.” Dean replied with a teasing smirk.

You let out a breath, “on that note… I’m leaving.” You muttered and stood up from your seat. “I’ll see you tonight.”

“I love you.” Beau called softly after you.

Dean snorted, “you’re so pussy whipped.”

🫧🫧 You sat at the kitchen table three cases of markers laying on the table. Some would say coloring was for children, but it was a stress reliever for you when you wanted something that was simple. Snacks were also lying along the table as well as drinks and your own custom cocktail. Beau was to be over after football practice was concluded.

Allie🌺 Did you find someone? You: I’m not hooking up with anyone. I’m a relationship girlie now. You know that. Allie🌺 Hooking up might be the start of something more 🤷‍♀️

You sighed laying your phone down. You loved Allie and you knew your friends wanted you happy, but sometimes they need to leave things alone. It’s partly your fault as well, since they don’t know you and Beau are together.

A knock on the door tore you out of your thoughts. You laid your marker down and went to open the door to see Beau looking as attractive as ever. His hair was still wet from his shower in the locker room.

“Hey, baby.” Beau greeted once you opened the door. He walked forward and placed a kiss on your forehead before walking into your dorm.

You smiled softly at the man you were in love with, “hey.” You greeted back while shutting your dorm door.

Beau stopped when he noticed the coloring book, markers, snacks, and drinks laid out on the kitchen table. “Doing a coloring date, are we?” He asked teasingly.

You huffed a laugh, “No. I was just stressed about midterms and I wanted something to calm my nerves.” You explained before going over and starting to clean up the markers.

Beau was right behind you, stopping you from cleaning up the markers. Without saying a word, he sat down in the chair beside your pulled out one and picked a page from your pile. “If my girl’s stressed, then I’m here to help her forget about it.” He spoke softly taking the markers out of your hand.

You felt a blush creep up if the heat radiating from your face was any indication. “You don’t have to color.” You assured as your boyfriend took the lid off a green marker and started coloring a tree that was on his page. “Beau, really it’s fine. You always make everything better anyways…”

Beau huffed playfully moving his gaze to you, “shut up and sit down with me.” He demanded yet his tone was still as soft as it had been.

You smiled to yourself with your heart full of love before sitting down beside him. You were back in your original spot and coloring the page. You two sat quietly, with Beau stealing drinks of your cocktail you had made every once in awhile.

You loved Beau. You truly did because what type of man would willingly sit and color with you. Letting you know that he only cared about being in your presence. Your heart was so full just thinking of him and all the ways that he proved to you that he loved you. Ways that were silent and caring, and not loud or overly sexual.

These are the days that you would remember and reminisce on when you two were old and gray. You smiled thinking about that, even though you and Beau hadn’t exactly mentioned getting married you both knew that you were in each other’s futures.

“What’s got you all smiley?” Beau spoke after a while of silence. Your eyes met his gaze, both of your eyes were filled with love.

You shook your head, “you’re literally perfect.” You mumbled feeling shy suddenly. You dropped your gaze back to your page.

Beau shook his head, “I’m not perfect.” He promised. “I’m far from it, honestly, but you on the other hand? Definitely perfect.” He replied with a cheeky grin on his face.

“I’m serious.” You defended your compliment. “I’d marry you right now if you’d ask because you’re so…” you trailed trying to find the right word to describe him.

Beau looked away for a moment before moving his eyes back over to you. You finally raised your gaze back up to meet his, “you’d marry me?”

Your brows furrowed, “Yes! Is that shocking or something?”

Beau bit his own lip for a moment to stop a grin from forming, “I’m holding you to that.”

You grinned, “is that your way of saying we’re going to get married?” You asked playfully.

Beau nodded, “oh, totally.” He promised and his voice held seriousness. “We’ll get married and have at least two babies… I mean, only if you want children.” He assured

“You sound so sure of yourself.”

“Baby, I’ve had my life planned out with you since I saw you crying in the library freshmen year.” Beau mumbled as he went back to coloring his page. You knew he was using it as a distraction for dropping his truth-bomb on you.

Your eyebrows creased again, “freshman year? But that’s….” You trailed.

“The first time we met and you told me that your first college crush broke your heart.” Beau whispered letting you know that he remembered.

You looked at your boyfriend shocked, “Beau Maxwell, are you telling me that you were pining after me all of freshmen year?”

“Why are you so shocked?” His voice raised slightly but not in anger. It sounded like disbelief.

“Maybe because that’s a truth bomb I wasn’t expecting?” You explained with your hands waving around frantically seeing as you were shocked. “You’re Beau Maxwell.” You elaborated.

“So?”

“So—how can you say so? You’re the quarterback of the football team.” You explained more in depth. “You have had girls falling at your feet since high school and you just tell me that you were harboring a crush for almost a year prior to us sleeping together.”

Beau pursed his lips while nodding, “We’re together now… so why does it matter?”

You huffed, “what would you have done if us having sex didn’t turn into anything?”

His eyebrows furrowed at that because he honestly didn’t know. He had just been lucky and the plan him and Dean had come up with worked. Which now that he thought back may not have been the best idea.

“I don’t know but it did work so I’m not thinking about it.” He shrugged and turned his full attention back to the picture in front of him.

🫧🫧🫧

It was now 9pm and Hannah was still tutoring Garrett and you hadn’t heard from Allie in a moment. You and Beau had finished coloring and you had picked up the pages and markers while Beau helped clean up the snacks and drinks.

You two had moved to the couch as a movie played on your laptop that sat on the coffee table. You weren’t really paying attention to what was happening on your laptop. Your mind kept going over the conversation you two had talked about earlier.

It was definitely more of a glimpse of the future than what either of you had previously admitted. It didn’t scare you or anything, but you just wondered if there was anything that could change his though process. You honestly didn’t think that there was, because like you had stated earlier, he was the perfect boyfriend.

“I’m so in love with you.” You spoke softly as you broke the silence that had settled over your cuddling figures as the movie played. You moved your head to where you could look up at him and see him.

He wore a soft smile on his face, “where’d that come from?”

You shrugged slightly, “I just—I’m lucky to have you.” You settled for that even though it wasn’t exactly what you wanted to say.

His hand softly came up and rested on your jaw and neck, “I’m in love with you too.” He replied softly and leaned his head down just a bit to capture your lips with his.

The kiss had been soft and full of love, something that you were use to Beau doing. It didn’t take long for things to heat up, especially not with how the two of you were talking and feeling.

You blamed your hormones for not being able to hear your phone buzz on the kitchen table. And twenty minutes after your phone went off, You blamed yourself for not hearing the door unlock or open at first either.

“So I know we bailed on girls night, but I was thinking—OH MY GOD!” Hannah screamed before quickly turning around.

You shoved Beau away with more force than you meant too and quickly stood up to find your shirt that said man how thrown across the room. You huffed and rolled your eyes knowing that Hannah was a bit dramatic because neither of you were naked. You both were just shirtless and making out, so it wasn’t like she had walked in on anything.

“You can turn around now.” You sighed as you handed Beau his shirt.

Hannah slowly turned around and faced the two of you before giving an awkward smile, “so you took Allie’s advice on…” she trailed as her eyes flickered to Beau and then back to you.

You gave her a small smile, “not exactly.” You replied before Beau pulled you into him. Hannah’s eyes kept flickering back and forth between the two of you. “We’ve been dating for over a year…”

A flicker of hurt passed through Hannah’s eyes, “and you didn’t trust me enough to tell me?”

You shook your head quickly, “no. It’s not like that. I trust you and Allie completely.” You assured as you finally relaxed against your boyfriend.

“Then why not tell us?”

You shrugged, “it never felt like a good time.” You mumbled knowing that wasn’t an excuse. “Allie and Sean kept breaking up and I didn’t want to flaunt my relationship in front of her, and then you were worried and busy with the showcase and your scholarship list that I didn’t want to seem like I only cared about my relationship.” You explained hoping that she understood where you were coming from.

Hannah was silent for a moment before she finally nodded. “Okay, I understand why you hid it.” She accepted. “But don’t put your happiness in the closet all because you’re worried about us.”

You gave her a smile and nodded, “okay. No more secrets.” You promised and grinned when you felt Beau kiss the top of your head.

Hannah smiled back, “now I’m going to my room and I’ll put my headphones on as loud as the go and close the door.” She assured and shot you a wink as she walked off to her room.

You smiled turning back towards Beau and pulled him towards your room.

“That went better than you thought?” He asked causing you to nod in response. “Way better.” 🫧🫧🫧🫧🫧

You hated the idea of getting out of bed. Beau had finally spent the night without worrying about sneaking out the next morning. Which means you woke up in his embrace for the first time in weeks. It was something that always made your mornings feel complete and it made your heart swell with love.

You could’ve stayed in bed for hours, but you were hungry from not having a full dinner last night. So, reluctantly you got out of Beau’s embrace and found some clothes to slip on before making your way to the small kitchen. You started the coffee maker before pulling out some (protein) pancake mix and getting the add-ins.

“Are those pancakes?” Allie’s voice interrupted your thoughts. You turned and watched her walk out of her room and towards you before hopping up on the counter.

“It is.” You nodded and turned back to the pan on the stove. “I thought you were at Sean’s?”

Allie sighed, “we got into a fight late last night—or early this morning—it doesn’t matter. I just came straight home.” She muttered placing her head in her hands. “I didn’t want to wake anyone up.”

You turned and gave her an apologetic smile, “we’re always available for you.” You promised causing her to send you a small smile.

The kitchen settled into a comfortable quietness for a bit before Hannah came out of her room. She joined you two with a smile on her face which dropped as soon as she noticed Allie’s face. You listened to the two girls quietly as you finished making breakfast. You had listened to Allie’s story about Sean, which always was the same, but you couldn’t convince her she deserved better. She had to figure that out for herself.

You had cooked a few sides to go with the pancakes while Allie had went on-and-on about Sean and Hannah had put her input in every once in a while. You didn’t know what to say, mainly because you had a great boyfriend. Someone who truly loved you and you never had to guess or wonder if he did.

Once breakfast was done you told the girls and the three of you made plates and sat at the kitchen table together.

“We seriously need a girls trip away from this place.” Allie groaned taking a sip of her drink.

You nodded, “I’m down.” To which Hannah agreed too.

You three were talking and making plans to take a trip together eventually, until Allie went quiet mid sentence causing you to look her way. Her fork was frozen mid-way to her mouth and her eyes wide. You followed her line of sight to see her staring at Beau casually padding out of your room and into the small kitchen and living area.

“Morning baby,” he greeted softly as he walked over and gave you a kiss on the head. “Ladies.” He nodded in recognition.

You smiled, “morning. There’s breakfast I fixed a few minutes ago.” You offered

He sent you a thankful smile and gave you a soft “thank you, babe.” before going to fix himself some food as well. You turned your attention back towards Allie who had closed her mouth now but was still looking at you.

You spent years convincing yourself you’d get over him eventually. Turns out watching Dean fall in love with somebody else is a pretty effective way to figure out exactly how bad you’ve got it.

Your phone lights up on the coffee table, and you hate how fast you reach for it, rolling your eyes at yourself.

˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚗: 𝚁𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚎. 𝙽𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛. 𝙳𝚘𝚗’𝚝 𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘𝚗 𝚖𝚎.

You groan and drop your head into your hands.

There he is.

You stare at the messages for a second before typing back.

˗ˏˋ ☏ ˎˊ˗ 𝚈𝚘𝚞: 𝙽𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 💕

A smile tugs at your mouth despite yourself.

That was the other problem. No matter how much this hurt, Dean was still Dean.

Your phone starts ringing before you can answer. Your heart immediately jumps, which is embarrassing considering it’s been doing that for years.

You answer before the second ring.

“Babydoll.”

“Mhmm…” You hum out a breath. “What do you want, Dean?”

For a second all you hear is his breathing before he chuckles weakly, and even though you can’t see him you can feel it. Something’s wrong.

“Can you come over?” His voice wavers a little.

“Yeah,” you answer, gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah. M’fine,” he assures quickly, like the concern is completely unnecessary. You hear him shift around on the other end of the line. “I just need somebody to talk to.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Of course.”

“You’re the best,” he hums.

“Be there in ten.” Click.

You grab your purse and step into the warm summer night. Dean’s place is only a few blocks away, unfortunately giving you more than enough time to think.

You don’t dislike Allie. She’s beautiful, funny, smart, and completely capable of keeping Dean on his toes. The problem is that every time he talks about her, he sounds like somebody who’s already fallen.

You don’t want it to be somebody else.

You want it to be you.

By the time you step into the driveway, most of the lights in the guys’ house are on, the front door wide open and music and conversation pouring out onto the street.

You let yourself inside, greeting the boys on autopilot, too worried about how Dean sounded on the phone to think of much more.

You make your way upstairs, following the sound of Dean moving around in his room. His door is half open. You push it the rest of the way and find him standing in front of his dresser, pulling a shirt over his head.

The second he sees you, his face brightens. “Finally,” he huffs out a breath like you had kept him waiting and you roll your eyes.

Dean crosses the room and wraps his arms around you before you can say something smart—a smothering hug. But this time he keeps you there, turning his face into your shoulder and letting out a long breath.

He stays like that for a moment, holding you like he needs it—like he needs you.

“Dean?” You whisper.

“Babydoll,” he mumbles.

“Seriously, are you okay?” You laugh nervously.

He thinks about that for a minute, mumbling something frustrated and small under his breath. You pull back and cup his cheeks between your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“C’mon,” you breathe, and his bottom lip pokes out in a pout. “It’s me… Tell me. What the hell’s going on with you. You told me to come over. I’m here…”

“I know… Thank you,” he mutters.

“So?”

“So…” He sighs as you drop your hands, hanging heavy by your sides. “Mental gymnastics.”

“Over what?” You ask, cocking an eyebrow at him.

Allie.

“Allie,” he whispers the name you saw coming a mile away. “I can’t do it.”

“Like?” You ask, feeling your stomach sink like a rollercoaster drop. “Like the two of you?”

“No—No. Hell no,” he answers fast and breathless. “That assignment. I couldn’t do it. Every girl I talked to, I just kept thinking about how fuckin’ stupid it was. I even thought about asking somebody to lie.”

“Desperate times,” you murmur.

“You got no clue,” he mumbles, tiredly. “I even thought about asking you. Y’know, to lie.” The words hit harder than they should. “Probably the only person I know who’d give a shit enough to help me with that.”

You force a smile, your lips trembling at the corner. “Of course.”

“She’d never believe it.”

Your eyelashes flutter as your heart starts to crack. “Oh?”

Dean laughs, scratching at the stubble on his jaw as he thinks it over. “You’re my girl. She’d know I was lyin’.”

You nod, giving him the only reply you can muster to that. He lifts his hands, running his fingers through his hair, still turning it over in his head.

“I’m just gonna tell her.”

You stare up at him for a moment, and those nerves you heard on the phone start to become crystal clear. “Tell her what?” You ask nonetheless.

He blows out a breath just like before, laughing nervously. “I don’t know how to say it.”

“You’ve never had trouble talking before,” you say, already turning away, glancing at him out of the corner of your eye as he scowls, rolling your eyes away.

“No too much on your boy, alright. I’m going through emotional duress.”

He walks around his bed and crashes down, turning to his side like he’s already waiting for you to settle on the other.

“This feels different.”

Your stomach sinks as you sink into the mattress next to him.

“I keep trying to convince myself we’re casual, but we’re not,” he tells you honestly. “I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.”

“Yeah,” you whisper.

“We didn’t even do anything special. We stayed in, ordered food, watched movies, and it was probably one of the best nights I’ve had in years.”

The best night he’s had in years. All those memories you’d secretly hoped might fill that place already did—for you.

“I keep waiting for this feeling to go away,” he sighs. “I keep thinkin’ eventually I’ll wake up and it’ll be normal again, but it doesn’t.”

You look up at him for a moment, wishing he would stop talking and feeling awful for it at the same time. You hate how much it sounds like everything you’ve spent years wanting to hear.

You hate it even more because none of it is meant for you.

“Well, what are you gonna say?” You whisper, and he scoots a little closer, snuggling into his pillow.

“To Allie?”

You widen your eyes to keep the tears inside—because why the fuck would you want to know? But some part of you knows you need to hear it.

“Tonight?” He asks and you nod. “Like practice on you.”

No.

You look back at him, wishing you could take back those six little words because now he’s not just going to talk through his feelings.

He wants you to feel them. He wants to sit here and practice telling another girl he loves her while looking you directly in the eye, and the worst part is that he trusts you enough to do it—trusts you enough to hand you something this important and never once wonder what it might cost you.

And that might be too much for you to take.

“Mhmm,” the utterance pushes past your lips, and your head falls a little heavier into the pillow, wafting an unfamiliar perfume, just a whisper. Allie’s.

You push off the pillow and sit, and he does the same, meeting you eye to eye.

“Allie,” he breathes. “I, uh….” Dean laughs nervously, so you do the same. The two of you look away for a moment, anxious for different reasons entirely before looking back at each other.

“Dean,” you whisper, extending your hand casually for him to continue.

“I get it now,” he mumbles, taking your hand in his. Your gaze falls as his fingers tighten around yours.

“Get what?” You whisper, eyes lifting back to him.

“You love love.” Your eyebrows soften on his, recalling something he had told you she had mentioned when they first met. “That’s what you said you wanted, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he smiles.

“So, I came here to tell you that I…” He mumbles as his thumb brushes along your knuckles. “I didn’t complete the assignment.”

Silence settles over the room as you already hear something you know to be true.

“Why?” You ask, watching him for a moment, holding your breath, waiting for his four little words he’s so desperate to say to leave his lips and shatter your heart completely.

“Because I like you,” he answers and you force yourself to smile.

Suddenly, Dean is harder to see through the blur gathering in your eyes. You nod, feeling your body starting to tremble with adrenaline.

“I like us.” He laughs softly. “We just kept having all these little moments.”

Dean doesn’t notice the way your stomach twists, looking away as your first tear breaks free. You lift up your shirt, brushing it away before he can see. He drags a hand across his mouth, smiling at the memory, too busy to see you.

And suddenly every fear you’ve spent months trying not to think about becomes impossible to ignore. Because if he talks about her like this now, what happens when she says yes?

The answer comes immediately. You lose him.

Not all at once. Slowly, the way people drift when they start building a life full of beautiful memories with someone else.

“I couldn’t do it either,” you whisper.

“You think she’s gonna say that?” He asks, breaking character. Talking to a friend.

“I hope so.”

He looks relieved, like finally saying it out loud has taken a weight off his shoulders. “Was it too much, honestly?”

You shake your head quickly—too eager. Not at all your normal reply and you both know it. “No, Dean. I think you should tell her,” your words barely slip past your quivering lips.

“Hey,” he breathes, his eyes widening as he leans in, that relief he was feeling falling away almost as fast as it came. “Are you okay?”

You look up to the ceiling, your hands coming up under your eyes to catch your tears, letting out a breathless laugh. “Oh my God,” you huff.

“You’re crying,” he interjects, pawing your hands away, grabbing your face just like you held him just minutes before.

He searches your face like he missed something. And he did. He has no clue. No fucking clue.

Dean immediately leans forward, pressing his forehead against yours, and you sniffle, hiccuping on your tears. Embarrassment coursing through your veins.

“Did I say something wrong?”

The panic in his voice makes you feel guilty, your tears rolling warm over his hands as you think of an escape plan. Some way to salvage this moment for him—for you.

“Why are you crying?” He whispers, laughing because it’s awkward and he’s nervous. Because this went from a hopeful moment to him being totally perplexed.

“That was just…” You swallow hard. “Really beautiful.”

Dean blinks a few times. “What?”

“Your,” you swallow hard, rolling your eyes as tears flick off your lashes. “That—that speech, Dean.” Your voice cracks, and you laugh as well. For him. Again.

“You think?”

You nod as a smile pulls at your mouth. “I loved it.”

His thumbs come up, brushing beneath your eyes. Dean's smile gets a little brighter, the dimples in his cheeks popping like that was the vote of confidence he needed. “It was that good?”

“Perfect,” you whisper.

“Damn, might be too much for a bar, huh?” He sighs, smiling back at you before he leans in, pressing a kiss against your forehead. “Thank you.” You can hear the relief in his words, like that conversation was exactly what he needed.

And, the last thing you wanted to hear.

“The Uber is here,” Garrett calls from downstairs.

“Oh, shit,” Dean practically jumps off the bed, running his fingers through his hair before he pats his pockets, double-checking for his wallet. “You comin’?” He asks when you stay right where you are.

You shake your head.

You point to your tear-soaked cheeks, attempting a self-deprecating smile. “I don’t think I’m feeling very good—I…” You look around for a moment. “I think I’m just gonna go home.”

Dean frowns immediately. “You’re joking? No, you’re fine. You just—It was the speech, right?” He asks, his attention immediately pulled away when he hears the boys outside yelling for the two of you. “I don’t wanna do this without you. What if this blows up in my face—”

“YOU TWO COMING?” Both of you are called through the open window. Dean groans and drops his head back for a second.

“I need you. You’re killin’ me.”

“Go,” you say, offering him a smile that lets him know he’s gonna be okay.

For a moment he just stands there before finally nodding. “Okay—Alright,” he answers, checking his reflection in the mirror, spraying some cologne across his chest before he grabs his jacket off the chair. He heads toward the door, stopping with one hand on the frame.

“You sure, sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

Dean studies your face for another second before nodding back. “Okay.” A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. Then he hesitates. “Wish me luck?”

“Good luck.”

The sound of his footsteps disappears down the stairs. A few seconds later you hear laughter, voices, a door opening and closing. You push yourself to your feet and wander toward the window, watching the black SUV drive off into the night.

And silence.

And in that moment, it’s like the energy had been sucked out of the room completely, the reality of the night catching up to you.

Your throat tightens immediately and your vision starts to blur—you don’t even realize you’re crying until you wipe at your cheek and your hand comes away wet.

You turn away from the window and look around his room. Your sweatshirt is draped over the back of the chair. His backpack with notes from your study session on Tuesday is half-open beside his desk. The cologne you bought him for his birthday—the scent drilled so deep in your brain it still lingers faintly in the air.

Everywhere you look there are pieces of you here.

Maybe that’s what has been hurting so much. Not the idea of Dean loving somebody else. The idea that he might be happy enough to stop needing you the way he always has. That one day you’ll wake up and realize you aren’t the first person he calls anymore, and that neither of you will have even noticed when it happened.

You press a hand over your mouth and try to breathe through it, but all you can hear is Dean’s voice.

I haven’t stopped thinking about New York.

I keep waiting for this feeling to go away.

Eventually you kick off your shoes and pull yourself onto his bed. The pillow is still warm from where he’d been lying. You bury your face in it trying to stop thinking—stop feeling.

Tomorrow he’ll probably walk through the front door smiling. He’ll tell you everything. What she said. How nervous he was. What had happened after that. And you’ll sit there and listen because that’s what you’ve always done.

Then a horrible thought hits you. You can’t stay here.

Because there’s a really good chance Dean is about to get exactly what he wants tonight. There’s a really good chance she says ‘yes’. And if she does, why wouldn’t they come back here?

For years you’ve walked into this room without thinking about it. You’ve fallen asleep here during movie nights. You’ve spent hours sitting on this bed listening to Dean complain about classes, hockey, teammates, girls you didn’t give a shit about. You treated this like it was your home and you belonged here.

But maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe none of it was ever yours in the first place.

Maybe this is just the first time you’ve had to realize it.

Your grip loosens on the pillow before you finally stand, picking up whatever pieces of yourself you can.

That isn’t even the part that hurts the most. Maybe you should’ve known how this would end.

He needed help telling another girl he loved her, and he came to you.

And you said yes.

That’s fine. Honestly, it makes sense. Her whole body has been giving up in installments for two days, first the sore throat, then the chills, then the cough. This is probably the part where the afterlife gives her Garrett Graham in a hoodie with damp post-practice hair because her brain is basic and under-medicated.

She lies still for another second, blinking at the wall while her body attempts to boot up. Everything feels far away and too close at the same time. Her skin hurts against the sheets. Her eyes feel hot. There’s a weird ache in her hips like she’s done a full leg day instead of lying in bed sweating through cotton and making pathetic little noises every time she has to swallow.

“Hey,” Garrett says through the door, gentler now. “You in there?”

She pushes herself up on one elbow and immediately regrets every choice that has led her to this moment. The room tilts, it makes her stomach roll and her head pulse behind her eyes. 

“Yeah,” she croaks, then coughs so hard her abs ache with it.

“Can you open the door?”

“Why?”

“Because I’m outside it.”

She frowns at the blanket like that might explain the flaw in his logic. “That’s stupid.”

Garrett laughs once under his breath. Soft and relieved and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, okay. Good to know you’re still mean.”

The insult gets her out of bed on principle. It takes longer than it should. She has to sit up first, then sit there breathing like she’s climbed ten flights of stairs, then shove the blankets away while her body complains. 

Her sock slides halfway off on the way to the door. She catches her reflection in the little mirror beside her wardrobe as she passes and stops for half a second, because holy fuck. 

Her hair is twisted into something that might once have been a bun but has clearly lost its will to live. Her cheeks are flushed too bright. Her lips are dry. Her eyes look glassy and annoyed, which is probably the only part of her still operating at baseline.

The knock comes again, lighter this time, and she unlocks the door mostly to make it stop.

Garrett’s standing in the hallway in grey sweats and a Briar hockey hoodie, one hand braced high on the doorframe, curls damp and messy from the shower, cheeks still a little pink from the cold outside and practice. 

He has his gear bag slung over one shoulder and his phone in his other hand, and for one very weird second, all she can do is stare at him.

He stares back. 

The easy, teasing set of his mouth drops. His brows pull in. His eyes move over her face, her hoodie, the blanket marks on her cheek, the tissue in her hand, the way she’s gripping the door.

“Oh, fuck,” he says, stepping in before she even moves out of the way. “Jesus, baby, are you alright?”

She opens her mouth to answer and sneezes three times in a row instead. One of those full-body, medically humbling sneezes that bends her forward and makes her eyes water instantly, and by the third one her head is throbbing so badly she actually groans.

Garrett’s hand lands at her shoulder, warm and immediate. “Okay. Yeah. Great. That answers that.” He kicks the door shut behind him with his heel and drops his bag near the desk without looking. “C’mon. Back to bed.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you got run over by a Zamboni.”

She blinks at him, offended but too slow to make it useful. “That’s mean.”

“That was me being nice.” His hand slides from her shoulder to her back, steady pressure between her shoulder blades as he starts walking her carefully across the room. 

She coughs again, the nasty deep kind that drags up from her chest and leaves her breathless at the end of it. Garrett’s whole body goes still beside her. His hand tightens once before he gets her to the bed and peels back the blankets like he’s done this before. 

He hasn’t, as far as she knows. Garrett Graham’s sick-care experience probably begins and ends with telling Logan to stop being dramatic about food poisoning and then driving him to urgent care when he turned green.

Still, he gets her tucked in with alarming competence. Blanket up. Pillow fixed. Water bottle shifted closer. Tissues within reach. 

He crouches beside the bed when she sinks back into it, knees bent, forearms resting on the mattress, his face much closer now and much more serious than she’s emotionally equipped to deal with right now.

She frowns at him.

Garrett reaches up and smooths his thumb over the tight space between her brows. “What’s that face?”

Her eyes slip shut for half a second because his hand is cool against her skin. Or maybe she’s just too hot. Everything in her body is confused and dramatic. 

“Why’re you…” She has to stop because the cough comes back, rough and ugly, tearing through her chest until she has to roll halfway into the pillow and ride it out with one hand pressed uselessly over her sternum. 

By the time it eases, Garrett’s gone quiet in a way that makes the room feel smaller.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “That sounds awful.”

“It’s super fun, actually.”

“Yeah, sounds like it.” He waits until she can breathe properly again, then brushes the hair off her damp forehead with the backs of his fingers. “What were you asking me?”

She has to think about it. The thought floats away from her, then returns with the annoying brightness of something she probably should’ve been more embarrassed to ask. “Why’re you here?”

“You haven’t texted me back in two days.”

She blinks. “Have I not?”

“No.”

“Oh.” Her eyes drift toward the dark phone on her nightstand like it’s a separate, mysterious artefact from another life. “I was sleeping.”

“I figured.” He tries to make it casual. He really does. The problem is Garrett has never been as casual as he thinks he is when it comes to her. He can do cocky. He can do lazy grins and half-lidded looks and smug little comments that make her want to throw something. But this, sitting beside her bed in his practice hoodie with worry sitting badly under his skin, doesn’t pass as casual for even a second. “Wanted to make sure you were alright.”

She hums, which is easier than finding a sentence. “That’s nice.”

“Yeah, I’m a sweetheart.” His hand comes to her forehead again, palm settling there properly this time, then sliding down to her cheek, then her neck. His brows tighten. “You’re burning up.”

“I know.”

“You taken anything?”

She nods automatically, then frowns. “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I dunno.” She swallows and immediately makes a face because her throat feels like someone has lined it with sandpaper. “I had some.”

“When?”

Her frown deepens. “Time is fake.”

“Right.” Garrett exhales through his nose. He reaches for her phone, glancing at her for permission. “Can I?”

She waves one hand, then lets it flop back onto the blanket with the full weight of her exhaustion. “Don’t look at anything weird.”

His brows lift as he taps the screen awake. “Now I’m definitely worried.”

“I have a lot of photos of wound dressings.”

“That tracks.” He glances down at the lock screen, and his face flattens. “You’ve got a reminder from three hours ago. Due for meds.”

“Oh.” She closes her eyes. “I was sleeping.”

“Yeah, I got that.” His voice gentles at the edges. “You should’ve had more three hours ago.”

“Oops.”

“Big nursing student energy.”

She cracks one eye open to glare at him, but it’s weak and probably mostly watery. “Don’t bully the sick.”

“I’m not bullying you. I’m making observations.” He picks up the packet on her nightstand, scans the label, then checks the other blister pack beside it with a kind of exaggerated seriousness that would make her laugh if her chest didn’t feel like an elephant was sitting on it. “You’ve been eating?”

“Crackers.”

“Plural?”

She gives this due consideration and moves her hand in a little so-so gesture. 

Garrett pauses, packet in hand, and looks at her. “That’s a no.”

“Well, I had soup yesterday.”

“Yesterday when?”

“God, you’re nosy.”

“Yeah, apparently when girls go silent for forty-eight hours and then answer the door looking like Patient Zero, I get curious.” He stands, taking the water bottle with him. “I’m getting you meds and something that isn’t… three sad crackers.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know.” He grabs the mug off the nightstand and makes a face at whatever is inside it. “This tea is fucking freezing.”

“Be nice to her. She was warm once.”

Garrett’s expression softens so quickly she almost misses it. “Okay, fever girl. Stay put.”

“Was gonna run laps.”

“Don’t tempt me, I’ll tie you to the bed.”

“Mmm. Fun, but inappropriate patient care.”

“Write me up later.”

She means to answer. She really does. Something about reporting him to whatever governing body handles smug hockey players with boundary issues. 

But Garrett moves around her room like he belongs there, picking up the cold mug, the empty tissue box, the discarded hoodie from the floor, and her brain snags stupidly on the sight of him in the middle of all her mess. 

His gear bag by her desk. His damp curls. His broad shoulders taking up half the room. The quiet little frown still on his face when he thinks she isn’t looking.

The thought is warm and dangerous and immediately too much work to hold. Her eyes close. 

When she wakes again, it happens slowly and in pieces.

There’s sound first. Low, tinny voices from her laptop, turned down so far they blur into background noise. Then warmth, heavier on one side than the blanket, human and solid and so much better than the weird fever heat burning uselessly under her skin. 

Her head isn’t on her pillow anymore. It’s resting somewhere firmer, the side of her face pressed into soft cotton and the warm line of a thigh beneath it. There’s a hand on her shoulder, broad and absent, fingers curved over the blanket like it landed there a while ago and forgot to leave.

She blinks. Garrett is sitting up against her headboard, one leg stretched out, the other bent slightly so she can lie half-curled against him with her head in his lap. 

Her laptop is balanced near his knee, playing some sitcom she vaguely remembers putting on and then abandoning somewhere in the wreckage of yesterday.

There’s a bowl on the nightstand with a spoon in it, crackers on a plate, a fresh bottle of water, and the thermometer she bought during freshman year after a girl on her floor convinced herself she had meningitis because WebMD said so.

Garrett looks down the second she stirs, like he’s been waiting for it. Like some part of him has been tracking her breathing under the dialogue and the fan and the stupid little coughs that keep catching in her sleep.

“Hey,” he says quietly.

Her eyes drag over his face. He’s softer from this angle. Or maybe she’s just cooked. His hoodie is wrinkled where she’s been lying against him. His hair is mostly dry now, curling messily around his forehead, and there’s a faint line between his brows that makes him look less like the terrifying Briar captain every freshman stares at in the dining hall and more like a boy sitting in her tiny dorm bed because she forgot how phones worked.

She looks at him for a long second. “You’re pretty,” she says.

Garrett goes still. Then his mouth curves, surprised first, then delighted because unfortunately he’s still himself. “Oh yeah?”

She nods, which makes her head throb a little, so she stops. “Mhm.”

“Finally awake, and that’s what you’re telling me?”

“You have a nice face.”

“Thank God.” He settles his hand more carefully against her shoulder, thumb moving once through the blanket. “I was starting to worry the fever had affected your judgment.”

“No, it’s always been bad.”

He laughs, soft enough not to shake her. “Yeah, that checks out.”

She should probably be embarrassed. She can feel the shape of it somewhere far away, waiting for her temperature to drop and her dignity to come back online. 

Right now, everything is too floaty for embarrassment to stick. Her body feels heavy and loose, the edges of the room blurred by sleep and fever and whatever cold medication Garrett must have coaxed into her while she was only half-conscious. 

Her mouth is dry. Her thoughts are slow. But Garrett’s hand is on her shoulder, and his other hand comes up to push her hair back from her forehead, and the touch goes through her in a soft, aching line. Her eyes sting for no reason.

Garrett notices, because Garrett notices everything when she least wants him to. His smile fades. “Hey,” he says, quieter. “What hurts?”

She frowns up at him. “Am I not good enough to be your girlfriend?”

The words leave her mouth before she even knows they’re arranged that way. They just slip out, small and cracked and awful, and then they’re sitting in the room between the laptop dialogue and the fan noise and the miserable little wet sound of her breathing.

Garrett freezes. His whole face shifts like the question has hit him somewhere he didn’t have padding. His hand stops moving in her hair. His throat works once.

“What?” he says, barely above a breath.

She stares at the drawstring on his hoodie because his face is suddenly too much. “Nothing.”

“No.” His voice is careful now, and that scares her a little, because Garrett being careful usually means something is bleeding. “Baby, what did you just say?”

She presses her cheek more firmly into his thigh, like that might hide her from the consequences of being conscious. “Forget it.”

“I’m not gonna forget it.”

“That’s annoying of you.”

“Yeah, well.” He lets out a rough little breath, his hand sliding from her hair to the side of her face, thumb resting near her temple. “I’m annoying. We know this.”

She closes her eyes. The room rocks a little behind her eyelids, hot and dark. “It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t sound fine.”

“It’s just the fever.”

“Okay.” He says it like he’s willing to accept that and also absolutely not accepting it at all. “Then fever-you can tell me what that means.”

She opens her eyes again, and Garrett’s looking down at her with something so openly worried on his face that it makes her want to laugh and cry and cough herself into a new dimension. 

“I dunno,” she whispers.

His jaw flexes. “That’s not–” He stops himself, visibly, dragging the sentence back before it can come out wrong. When he tries again, his voice is softer. “That’s not how I think about you.”

“How do you think about me?”

The question is too honest. She hears it after she says it and hates herself immediately. If she were well, she would have turned it into a joke. She would have flicked his drawstring and told him to stop looking constipated. 

She would have found a way to walk the whole thing back with enough sarcasm that neither of them had to stand under the full weight of it. But her throat hurts and her body aches and she’s tired in places she didn’t know could get tired, and she cannot find the energy to save him from answering.

Garrett looks down at her. His hand is still against her face. His thumb moves once, slow and restless.

“I think about you all the time,” he says.

Her chest goes tight. He seems to realise, a second too late, how much that sounds like something real. Panic flickers across his face, quick and bright, and then he starts talking again because he’s Garrett and the solution to an emotional landmine is to skate directly over it at speed. 

“That’s not– I mean, I’m not saying it like– fuck.” He tips his head back against the headboard for half a second, staring at the ceiling. “I’m so bad at this.”

“At what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely between them, then winces like the gesture itself is embarrassing. “You. Us. Whatever the fuck I’ve been pretending isn’t us.”

The laptop keeps playing at the end of the bed. Someone on screen laughs. The sound feels insane in the middle of this.

She swallows carefully. “You don’t do girlfriends.”

His eyes come back to her.

“No,” he says slowly. “I don’t.”

Something inside her sinks, dull and expected, and she hates that it still hurts when she saw it coming from the other side of campus.

Garrett’s hand tightens gently at her jaw before she can turn her face away. “Hey. Don’t do that. I’m not done.”

“You paused.”

“I paused because I’m trying not to be an idiot.”

“Ambitious.”

A laugh breaks out of him, quiet and helpless and a little wrecked. “See? You’re dying and you’re still mean.”

“Efficient.”

“Yeah.” His smile flickers, then fades again. “I don’t do girlfriends because I’m busy, and because hockey eats my entire life, and because most of the time that’s been a pretty convenient excuse to not have to be responsible for anyone else’s feelings.” He exhales, eyes dropping to where his thumb is brushing carefully over the hot skin at her cheek. “And you’re busy. You’re busier than me half the time. You’ve got placement and exams and shifts and you scare grown men with your colour-coded notes. I thought…” He stops again, and this time his mouth twists. “I thought this was what you wanted too.”

She looks at him for a long moment. Her vision blurs a little at the edges, which is deeply inconvenient, because she would like to appear less pathetic during whatever this is. “I don’t know what I want.”

Garrett’s face changes. Worried, like he heard the wrong part first. “Hey– baby. What? What do you mean? Do you not wanna do this anymore?”

She sighs, and it shakes on the way out. Her whole body feels wrung out, too hot and too heavy and too open. “No– yes– I don’t… I dunno.” Her fingers curl weakly in the fabric of his hoodie. “I want you.”

His expression cracks so fast it makes her chest ache. “You have me,” he says, immediate and rough, like the answer is obvious enough to hurt him.

She frowns and shakes her head a little. It makes the room sway, so she stops. “Not really.”

Garrett goes very still. She means to say more. There’s more somewhere. It’s sitting behind her ribs, swollen and fever-soft and hard to name. 

She doesn’t want some grand declaration from Garrett Graham like a man being dragged to public execution. She doesn’t want him to suddenly become someone who buys roses at the campus store and says the right thing because he thinks it’s what she wants to hear.

She wants the thing that already exists to stop pretending it doesn’t.

She wants the car doors and the hospital pickups and his hand finding hers when he thinks she’s asleep. She wants the sleepovers that aren’t called sleepovers. She wants him showing up because she didn’t text back. 

She wants to be able to want those things without feeling like she’s the only one stupid enough to notice them.

She wants to say that. Instead her eyes close.

Garrett’s thumb strokes once over her cheek. “Baby?”

She hums faintly.

“Hey. Stay awake with me for a second.”

“Can’t,” she mumbles, already slipping under again. “Too hot.”

“Okay. I know. I know, I’ve got you.” His voice is close now, low and strained and trying so hard to be steady that even half-asleep, she can hear the effort. “Just sleep, okay? I’m right here.”

“Don’t leave.”

His hand settles over hers where it’s twisted in his hoodie, warm and firm. “I’m not leaving.”

She falls asleep to the feeling of his fingers threaded through hers, and her fevered brain doesn’t have the energy to argue.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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His hair was still damp at the edges from his post-game shower, curling slightly where he’d shoved his hand through it too many times, and the dark blue Briar letterman jacket had stayed on for maybe twelve minutes before the house got too hot and he dumped it over the back of a chair.

He was, by every reasonable standard, doing great. His girlfriend was not. His girlfriend had arrived at the party with Allie and a plan that had included one drink, maybe two, and absolutely no consideration for the fact that girls pouring vodka cranberries in hockey houses tended to treat measurements as a loose concept. 

Garrett had been across the living room when she’d taken the first one. He’d been in the kitchen with Tucker when she’d finished the second. By the time he saw her again, she was standing near the bottom of the stairs with one hand wrapped around a red cup, smiling at something Allie said with the bright, floaty concentration of a girl whose whole body had started operating on a two-second delay.

He could notice a winger drifting out of formation from half a rink away with two guys trying to take his head off. He could absolutely notice his girlfriend blinking too slowly under the hallway light, her cheeks warm from alcohol and the heat of too many bodies packed into the house, her mouth glossy and parted slightly like she kept forgetting whether she was meant to be talking or laughing. 

She looked happy, which helped. Loose and giggly and pleased. But she also kept shifting her weight like the floor had become more wobbly than usual, and Garrett had not fought for his life against Harvard’s second line that afternoon just to let his girlfriend get taken out by hardwood.

So he left Logan mid-sentence. Logan didn’t even pretend to be offended. He just followed Garrett’s line of sight, saw her trying to drink from the cup and missing her mouth by half an inch, and winced. “Oh, buddy.”

Garrett pointed at him without looking back. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was gonna say she looks graceful.”

“Die.”

Garrett crossed the room with the easy confidence of someone everyone automatically moved for, red cup of water in hand because Tucker, thank God, had seen the situation unfolding and passed it over like a medic on a battlefield. 

She didn’t see Garrett coming. She was too busy nodding very seriously at Allie, who was holding both her hands and saying something that involved the words no, babe, I’m so serious and eyebrow blindness.

Garrett stepped into her space, close enough that his knee brushed hers. “Hey, baby.”

She turned toward him. For one beautiful second, her face went blank. Then her entire expression rearranged itself into scandalised horror.

“Excuse you,” she said, pulling herself up to her full height, which was less effective than usual because she swayed slightly at the top and had to catch Allie’s wrist. “I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett blinked.

Allie made a noise like she’d swallowed a firework. Garrett looked at his girlfriend. His girlfriend looked back at him with genuine, drunken offence, like he’d approached her in a bar wearing a leather bracelet and too much confidence.

“Uh huh,” he said slowly, because there were moments in life that required leadership and moments that required not laughing directly in the face of the girl you loved while she was doing her best. “That’s great.”

“It is great,” she said, lifting her chin. “He’s very tall.”

Garrett’s mouth twitched. “Good for him.”

“And he plays hockey.”

“No shit?”

“And he’s, like, really good at it.”

Allie had turned away now, one hand clamped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Garrett refused to look at her because if he did, he was going to lose it, and that felt like the sort of thing his girlfriend would interpret as disrespect from a strange man at a party, which apparently he was now.

He held out the cup. “Can you drink some water for me?”

Her eyes narrowed. Suspicious. Wobbly. Deeply loyal to the absent boyfriend currently standing less than a foot in front of her. “Why?”

“Because you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“Baby.”

Her mouth dropped open. “Don’t call me baby.”

“Right. Sorry.” He pressed his tongue to the inside of his cheek, nodding with a level of solemnity he absolutely did not feel. “My bad.”

“My boyfriend calls me baby.”

“Does he?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds annoying.”

“He’s not annoying.” She frowned at him with such force that it seemed to briefly take all her balance with it. Garrett’s free hand shot out to her waist before she could tip sideways into Allie. She looked down at it, then back up at him, appalled. “Don’t touch my waist.”

Garrett removed his hand at once, palms lifting. “Alright.”

Allie, still dying, leaned in and said, “Babe, maybe just drink the water.”

She looked betrayed. “You’re taking his side?”

“I’m taking hydration’s side.”

Garrett offered the cup again. “Just a couple sips.”

She stared at him for another second, clearly weighing the moral implications of accepting water from a man who looked suspiciously like her boyfriend but who she had, for reasons unclear to everyone except the vodka, decided was not. 

Finally, she took the cup with great caution, like he might use the transfer to propose something criminal, and drank.

Garrett watched her swallow three obedient little sips, then nodded. “Good girl.”

The look she gave him could have killed a weaker man. “Nope.”

“Right. Yep. Forgot.”

“My boyfriend says that.”

“Bet he does,” Garrett muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

She handed the cup back, pleased with herself and still indignant, and then immediately turned toward Allie like the conversation had been handled.

Garrett stood there for half a second, holding the water, staring at the side of her face.

Dean appeared beside him like he had been summoned by humiliation itself. “Hey, man.”

Garrett didn’t look over. “Do not.”

Dean’s grin was audible. “She knows you’re her boyfriend, right?”

“She’s drunk.”

“She just told you she has a boyfriend.”

“Yeah, Dean, I was here.”

Dean leaned around him to look at her, delighted. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

Garrett finally turned his head and gave him a flat look. “That’s sad.”

“No, what’s sad is getting rejected by your own girlfriend.” Dean clapped him once on the shoulder and immediately stepped out of reach. “Tough shift, captain.”

Garrett pointed at him. “I will put you through a wall.”

“Wow.” Dean called over his shoulder, already retreating. “Her boyfriend would never.”

Garrett took a slow breath through his nose and looked back at her. She was laughing at something Allie said now, one hand pressed to her own chest, head tipping forward so her hair fell around her face. 

She looked ridiculous. Beautiful and unsteady and way too warm in the cheeks, standing under the hallway light like the world had gone pleasantly fuzzy and she trusted it not to hurt her because she hadn’t yet noticed Garrett had been replaced by some guy bothering her with cups.

His annoyance softened before it could become anything real. Fine. He could work with this.

For the next twenty minutes, Garrett kept orbiting. That was the only word for it. He didn’t hover, because hovering would get him accused of being controlling by Dean, and probably by her if she remembered how to form an argument. 

He orbited. Close enough to keep an eye on her, far enough that she didn’t look up and accuse him of trying to steal girlfriend privileges from Garrett Graham, who was both beloved and missing.

She danced with Allie in the living room, mostly from the waist up because her coordination had started giving its two weeks’ notice. 

She complimented Tucker’s shirt with extreme sincerity even though Tucker was wearing the same plain black t-shirt he wore to every party. 

She told Logan he looked so tall tonight, which made Logan look down at himself like height might have happened recently and without his permission.

Garrett found her again near the back door, rubbing both hands over her bare arms.

The house was hot, but the door kept swinging open whenever someone stepped out to smoke or yell into the yard, letting in cold spring air that slipped over her skin and made her shoulders inch up toward her ears. 

Garrett saw the little shiver move through her before she did. He grabbed his letterman jacket off the chair and came up behind her, careful this time, no hands first. Just the jacket, warm from the room and heavy with him, settled over her shoulders.

“There,” he said, low near her ear. “You’re cold.”

She froze.

Garrett closed his eyes for one second. “Please don’t.”

She shrugged the jacket off so fast it nearly hit the floor. Garrett caught it by the collar.

“Nope,” she said.

“Baby.”

Her head snapped around. “I said no.”

Garrett looked at the ceiling. The ceiling offered no help. “You’re shivering.”

“I only wear my boyfriend’s jacket.”

“This is your boyfriend’s jacket.”

“No, it’s not.”

“It literally has my name on it.”

She squinted at the embroidered Graham on the chest like letters were a personal challenge. “Lots of people are named Graham.”

“Not on this team.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do, actually. I’m the captain.”

Her face twisted with immediate doubt, like that was exactly the sort of lie a jacket predator would tell at a party. “You’re the captain?”

Garrett stared at her. “Oh my God.”

From the couch, Logan made a strangled sound into his beer.

She pointed at Garrett’s chest, very serious now. “My boyfriend is the captain.”

“Yeah, I’ve heard great things.”

“He’s very hot.”

“Is he?”

“So hot,” she said, and then sighed, soft and dramatic and so genuinely fond that Garrett’s irritation had nowhere to land. “Like, stupid hot. It’s actually kind of annoying.”

Garrett’s face moved before he could stop it, warmth pulling at his mouth. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “And he has really nice hands.”

Logan choked.

Garrett didn’t look away from her. “Good hands are important.”

“They are,” she agreed solemnly. “And he’s not some random guy trying to give girls jackets.”

“Right.” He held up the jacket between them, helpless now. “Can I just–”

“No thank you.”

“You’re gonna freeze.”

“I’ll wait for Garrett.”

“You do that,” he said, because love was standing in a hockey house holding your own jacket while your drunk girlfriend faithfully rejected you on your own behalf. “Sounds like a plan.”

She smiled at him then, bright and polite. “Thank you for understanding.”

Garrett looked at her for a long moment, then at the jacket, then back at her. “Anytime.”

He walked away to the sound of Logan losing the fight against laughter so badly he had to bend over his own knees.

“You’re not helping,” Garrett said.

Logan wiped under one eye. “I’m sorry, man, but she’s loyal as hell.”

“She thinks I’m a stranger.”

“She thinks you’re a stranger with bad intentions. There’s a difference.”

“Great. That makes it better.”

Tucker came up beside them, looking far too amused for somebody usually committed to being the reasonable one. “You know, technically, this is a very good sign for your relationship.”

Garrett gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“She’s hammered and still refusing men for you.”

“She refused me.”

“Exactly. Nobody is safe.”

Dean reappeared then, because joy, unfortunately, had a way of finding him. “I just heard she wouldn’t wear your jacket.”

Garrett’s jaw tightened. “You heard wrong.”

Dean grinned. “Did I?”

“I’m gonna kill you before playoffs.”

“No, you’re not. You’re too busy getting friend-zoned by your girlfriend.”

Garrett shoved him in the chest. Dean laughed all the way into the kitchen.

By the time Garrett found her again, she had somehow migrated to the old armchair near the stairs, sitting sideways with her knees tucked up and Dean perched on the arm like some kind of terrible emotional support animal. 

Her bare arms were folded tight over her chest now, because she was still cold and still deeply committed to jacket monogamy. Her face had changed too. Gone softer around the edges, bottom lip pushed out, all the earlier moral outrage curdled into something wounded and grumpy.

Garrett stopped a few feet away. Dean saw him first and his grin turned wicked. “Oh, thank God.”

She frowned up at Dean. “What?”

“Nothing.” Dean patted the top of the chair. “Your night’s about to improve.”

She slumped deeper into the cushion, still looking at Dean. “I haven’t seen Garrett all night.”

Garrett blinked.

Dean pressed his lips together so hard his whole face went strange.

She kept going, mournful now, eyes glossy from alcohol and the kind of drama that only really existed after midnight in a crowded house. “He’s, like, disappeared.”

Garrett slowly looked at Dean.

“He had a game,” she said, to no one in particular, or maybe to Dean’s knee. “And I wanted to tell him he played really good.”

“He knows,” Dean said, voice suspiciously tight.

“No, but I wanted to tell him.” She rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, then stopped halfway as if remembering makeup existed. “And there’s this guy who keeps talking to me.”

Garrett’s eyebrows went up.

Dean made direct eye contact with him and looked like he might actually pass away.

“He keeps calling me baby,” she muttered. “And trying to make me drink water.”

Garrett bit the inside of his cheek.

“Sounds awful,” Dean managed.

“So annoying,” she said. “Like, okay, hydration police. I have a boyfriend.”

Garrett stepped closer then, because there were only so many times a man could be called the hydration police by the love of his life before he had to intervene. “Hey, baby.”

Her head lifted. The transformation was immediate and almost violent. Her whole face opened, bright and relieved and suddenly so happy to see him that it genuinely knocked the joke sideways in his chest. “Garrett!”

He froze. “Hi?”

“Baby!” She reached both arms out toward him from the chair, nearly tipping herself forward in the process. Garrett crossed the last step fast and caught her by the hands before she could slide off the cushion. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said again, slower this time, looking down at her. “You recognise me now?”

She frowned like he’d said something deeply strange. “What are you talking about?”

Dean made a sound that might have been a cough if he had not immediately turned away with his shoulders shaking.

Garrett stared at her. “Nothing.”

She squeezed his face, delighted and fully unaware of the damage she’d caused him tonight. “I missed you.”

His mouth softened despite himself. “Yeah?”

“Yes.” She tugged at him, needy and uncoordinated, until he stepped properly between her legs where she’d moved to sit properly in the chair. Her knees bracketed his thighs, her fingers curling in the front of his shirt like now that she had found him, she intended to physically prevent further abandonment. “You were gone for so long.”

Garrett looked at her for one second, then over her head at Dean, who was wiping tears out of the corner of his eye. “I was around.”

She shook her head, very firm. “No.”

“No?”

“No. There was just this guy.”

Garrett nodded, face serious. “Right. The water guy.”

She gasped softly, looking up at him with genuine alarm. “You saw him?”

Dean slid off the arm of the chair. “I need to go tell Logan something immediately.”

Garrett didn’t even try to stop him. His hands had settled at her waist now, thumbs pressing lightly over the fabric of her top because she was still swaying in tiny increments even while sitting down. “Yeah, baby, I saw him.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Oh, I should?”

“Yes.” Her voice dropped into a whisper that wasn’t remotely quiet. “He was flirting with me.”

Garrett’s eyes flicked over her face. “Was he?”

“He kept calling me baby.”

“That’s crazy.”

“And he tried to give me his jacket.”

“What a dick.”

She nodded, relieved that he understood the severity. “I know.”

Garrett’s grin finally broke free, slow and helpless. He stepped closer until her forehead could tip against his stomach, and when it did, she sighed like the entire night had been restored to its proper axis by the smell of his shirt. 

He looked down at the crown of her head, at the way her hands had found the hem of his t-shirt and held on loosely, and brushed his fingers once over the back of her hair.

She had rejected him all night. She had accused him of being a stranger, declined his water on principle, refused his jacket with the ferocity of a woman defending a sacred oath, and still somehow the inside of him went soft at the way she leaned into him now, trusting and warm and gone enough to be ridiculous but not gone enough to forget where she wanted to end up.

“Baby,” he murmured.

“Mhm?”

“You wanna get outta here?”

Her head lifted at once. “Yes, please.”

“Yeah?” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, watching the way her eyes followed his face now with no suspicion at all. “You done?”

“So done.” She nodded, then winced faintly at the motion like her brain had moved one direction and her skull another. “Can we go home?”

“Yeah, we can go home.”

“And maybe get McDonald’s?”

Garrett laughed under his breath, and the sound made her smile like she’d won something. “Sure, baby.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But you gotta stand up first.”

She looked down at her own legs with sudden doubt. “Okay.”

“Confident.”

“I can do it.”

“I know you can.” He took both her hands and backed up half a step, giving her room. “Come on. Up we go.”

She stood with the intense focus of someone attempting a field sobriety test on a ship. Garrett’s hands went to her waist at once, steadying her as her knees straightened and her body tipped forward into his. 

He didn’t make a show of it. Didn’t laugh when she grabbed his forearms and blinked hard at the room. He only held her until she found the floor again, fingers spread warm and firm at her sides.

“There we go,” he said softly. “You good?”

She nodded, then thought about it. “Mostly.”

“Mostly works.” He leaned around her just enough to grab his letterman jacket from the back of the chair “Can I put this on you now, or are we still being loyal to your boyfriend?”

She looked at the jacket. Then up at him. Then back at the jacket.

“That’s yours,” she said, like he was the one struggling to keep up.

Garrett pressed his lips together. “Yeah.”

She smiled, sweet and pleased. “Okay.”

He slid it over her shoulders. This time she pushed her arms into the sleeves with immediate enthusiasm, even though they swallowed her hands completely. 

Garrett zipped it halfway because she was too busy smelling the collar with a happy little hum that did absolutely nothing for his ability to remain normal.

“You smell good,” she told him.

“Thanks.”

“Like Garrett.”

“Crazy coincidence.”

She nodded, accepting that, and slipped her hand into his when he offered it. Her fingers were warm and clumsy between his, squeezing twice like she was checking he was real. He squeezed back once and started guiding her through the house.

The party kept moving around them. Someone called his name from the kitchen and Garrett lifted his free hand without stopping. Logan appeared near the doorway, took one look at them, and grinned.

“She found you,” he said.

Garrett pointed at him. “Not a word.”

She turned toward Logan, solemn and slightly off-balance. “There was a guy bothering me all night.”

Logan’s mouth opened. Closed. He looked at Garrett, then back at her. “No way.”

She nodded. “Way.”

Garrett kept walking. “Let’s go.”

Behind them, Logan said, “Hope your boyfriend handles that.”

She turned around while still moving, which forced Garrett to catch her by the waist and redirect her like a shopping cart with a bad wheel. “He will!”

“I’m sure he will,” Logan called, voice cracking around laughter.

Outside, the cold hit her properly. She shrank into the jacket at once, shoulders rising, Garrett’s hand still wrapped around hers while they moved down the front steps and along the path toward his car. 

The night was damp and dark around the edges, grass glittering faintly under the porch light, the music dulling behind the shut door until it became a pulse more than a song. She walked close to him, not quite straight, occasionally bumping into his side and then apologising to his arm.

“Baby,” she said halfway down the walk.

“Yeah?”

“That guy was so annoying.”

Garrett glanced down at her. “Still thinkin’ about him?”

“He was talking to me all night.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“He was kind of hot, though.”

Garrett stopped walking.

She stopped too, delayed, then looked back at him with wide innocent eyes. “What?”

He stared at her. “Hot?”

She nodded, very serious. “But not as hot as you.”

“Uh huh.”

“And he had your jacket.”

“My jacket?”

“Yeah.” Her brows pulled together. “Actually, that was weird.”

Garrett looked up at the sky for patience. “So weird.”

“You should talk to him, baby. I’m serious.”

“Oh, I will.”

“Good.” She nodded once, satisfied, and started walking again. “Don’t fight him though. You had a game.”

His mouth twitched. “Right. Wouldn’t wanna overdo it.”

“And you already won.”

“I did.”

“You were really good,” she said, and the words came out softer now, slipping under the joke with no warning at all. Her fingers tightened around his. “I forgot to tell you.”

Garrett’s steps slowed by a fraction. He looked down at her, at her messy hair and flushed cheeks and his too-big jacket hanging off her shoulders, at the careful way she was watching the pavement. “Yeah?”

“Mhm. You did that thing.” She lifted their joined hands vaguely, as if the thing might be available in the air somewhere. “Where you went really fast and then the other guy was stupid.”

Garrett laughed, warm and surprised. “That was my favourite play.”

“It was good. I’m real proud of you.”

“Thanks, baby.”

She leaned into his arm, pleased. “You’re welcome.”

At the car, he opened the passenger door and turned her gently by the hips before she could attempt entry at a dangerous angle. “Alright. Watch your head.”

“I always watch my head.”

“You don’t.”

“I have one.”

“Having one and watching it are different.”

She ducked into the car with exaggerated care, one hand on the roof, one hand still gripping his. Garrett waited until she was seated, then crouched slightly and drew the seatbelt across her. 

She looked down at him while he clicked it into place, her expression suddenly soft and sleepy. “Baby.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m so glad I found you.”

His hand paused on the belt for half a second.

She sighed, sinking back into the seat, eyes half-lidded now that the car’s quiet had started wrapping around her. “I missed you tonight.”

Garrett looked at her in the blue dashboard glow, and something in his chest pulled tight and fond and a little ridiculous. “Missed you too.”

“There was this guy–”

“I heard.”

“–and he kept trying to give me water.”

“So rude.”

“Exactly.” Her head tipped against the seat, eyes closing for one beat before opening again. “Can you get me nuggets?”

Garrett smiled and brushed his thumb over her knee before standing. “Yeah, babe. I’ll get you nuggets.”

“And fries.”

“Obviously.”

“And a Sprite.”

“You need water.”

She made a face. “The guy said that too.”

Garrett leaned one arm on the open door and looked down at her, trying very hard not to smile too much because she would see it and accuse him of something. “The guy sounds smart.”

She frowned. “Don’t compliment him.”

“My bad.”

“You’re my boyfriend.”

“I am.”

“And I love you.”

The words came out simple and softened by vodka and sleepiness and the warm cocoon of his jacket around her, but real enough that Garrett felt them land under his ribs.

He bent and kissed her forehead. “I love you too.”

She smiled, eyes closed now. “Good.”

“Good,” he murmured, brushing her hair back from her face before shutting the door. 

He walked around the front of the car with a grin he couldn’t quite get rid of, hearing the muffled thump of the party behind him and the faint sound of her shifting around in the passenger seat like she was trying to get comfortable in sleeves three sizes too big. 

When he got in, she was already curled toward his side, cheek against the seat, looking at him with heavy eyes and total, trusting recognition.

Garrett started the car. She reached blindly for his hand. He gave it to her.

For a minute they sat there in the dim quiet before he pulled away from the curb, her fingers woven through his, his thumb moving once over her knuckles. Then she inhaled like she had remembered something important.

“Babe?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re gonna talk to that guy, right?”

Garrett smiled at the road, the house falling behind them, McDonald’s glowing somewhere ahead like a drunken little lighthouse.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’ll give him a stern talking-to.”

“Good,” she mumbled, already drifting. “Tell him I have a boyfriend.”

His grin widened.

“Trust me, baby,” Garrett said, squeezing her hand once as he turned out onto the street. “He knows.”

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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He kisses like an athlete too, which is deeply annoying information to have about him because it makes too much sense. Confident, paced, unfairly good at changing pressure right when she starts thinking she’s adjusted to him. 

One hand is braced beside her head, the other curled around her thigh, thumb pressing absent little circles into skin like he doesn't know it’s making her thoughts get weird and slippery around the edges. He’s still wearing his t-shirt, which feels rude considering she’s in a bra and skirt and whatever dignity survived the trip up the stairs is now lying somewhere dead near his laundry basket. 

His chain has slipped out from under his collar while he kisses her, warm gold catching against the side of her throat every time he grinds down into her and makes her breath come out embarrassingly thin.

“Garrett,” she gets out, though it doesn't have much purpose beyond giving her mouth something to do when his is suddenly leaving it.

He hums like he’s heard her and decided to take it under advisement at a later date. His mouth drifts to her jaw, then lower, slow and pleased and entirely too smug about the way her body moves before she can stop it. 

He kisses down her throat, over the spot where her pulse is doing something humiliating, then lower still, along the top edge of her bra, and she should probably let him. She should probably enjoy the fact that Garrett Graham, Briar hockey captain, walking campus hazard, has decided her chest deserves sustained attention. 

But the second his mouth leaves hers properly, some spoiled little part of her lights up in objection.

“No,” she whines, which is not her proudest moment, and is made worse by the fact that Garrett pauses against her skin like he’s trying not to laugh. She reaches down and gets her fingers in his hair, gentle but insistent, tugging him back up until his face appears over hers again, curls mussed, mouth shiny, eyes bright with the kind of amusement that makes her want to either kiss him harder or shove him off the bed. “Come back.”

His grin spreads slowly. “Bossy.”

“You stopped kissing me.”

“I was kissing you somewhere else.”

She pouts. “Wrong somewhere.”

He gives one of those little laughs that starts in his chest before it reaches his mouth, warm and low and stupidly pleased, and then he comes back happily, because that’s the worst part of Garrett. 

He has all this cocky-boy resistance in theory, all this mouth and attitude and captain-of-every-room energy, and then she asks for him directly and his body gives him away before his ego can file an appeal. He kisses her again, deep enough that the complaint evaporates under her tongue, and for a few seconds she forgets about the chain entirely.

Then he pulls back to sit up on his knees, one thigh planted on either side of her hips, and reaches behind his neck for his shirt.

“Oh,” she says before she can stop herself.

Garrett pauses with the hem already half up his stomach, eyebrows lifting. “Oh?”

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

His teeth catch at his bottom lip. “I was about to ask if you needed a minute to process.”

She narrows her eyes at him, which would probably have more force if she were not lying under him with her skirt bunched around her waist and her hands already drifting up his exposed stomach. “You’re so annoying.”

“Yeah, but you’re still looking.”

And she is. Tragically. Openly. With no legal defence. The shirt comes off the rest of the way and lands somewhere near the chair, and Garrett is there above her in the soft lamplight, shoulders broad from hockey, stomach tight under her palms, chain resting against his chest like it’s been placed there for the express purpose of ruining her life. 

It's not even that fancy. That’s the insulting part. Just a gold chain. Simple. Warm from his skin. Sitting right at the base of his throat.

Her hands slide up his stomach, over the hard shift of muscle when he breathes, and she catches her bottom lip between her teeth without meaning to.

Garrett’s grin softens into something more dangerous because he knows. Because Garrett is many things, but oblivious is not one of them, especially not when a girl is looking at his chest like she’s discovered a new academic field.

“Baby,” he says, amused.

She doesn't answer. She hooks two fingers under the chain and pulls. Garrett comes down with it, one hand shooting to the mattress beside her head, the other catching her waist as he laughs into the space above her mouth. “Jesus. Okay.”

She smiles, breath already uneven again. “Come here.”

“I was here.”

“Closer.”

His mouth hovers over hers, his chain trapped between her fingers, the metal a little warm, a little slick where it’s been resting against his skin. “You always this demanding?”

She tugs again, smaller this time, mostly because she likes the way his eyes drop to her mouth when she does it. “Only when you’re slow.”

Garrett stares at her for one beat, and then the smile goes all bright and helpless at the edges, like she’s pleased him against his will. 

“Yeah,” he murmurs, bending until the chain brushes her collarbone and his mouth is almost on hers again. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

The second time is quieter, though quiet in the hockey house is a relative concept and mostly means no one is actively breaking furniture within their line of sight. They're downstairs on the couch after dinner, the living room dim except for the television throwing blue-white light over everyone’s faces and the standing lamp Tucker keeps insisting gives the room ambience, which Dean keeps calling divorced dad lighting. 

A movie’s on, something Logan picked with the confidence of a man who would be asleep within twenty minutes, and sure enough he’s already slumped in the armchair with his head tipped back and one socked foot on the coffee table, snoring faintly through the loudest action sequence anyone has ever failed to respect.

Garrett’s stretched out behind her on the couch, one arm tucked under her head like a pillow, the other lying heavy over her waist. She’s settled half on top of him, half against him, legs tangled beneath the old throw blanket that smells faintly like fabric softener and Garrett’s laundry detergent and whatever popcorn crime Dean committed earlier. 

The whole room has that late-night, lived-in warmth to it. Empty bowls on the coffee table, Tucker leaning on the other end of the couch with his phone in one hand and his attention somehow still half on the movie, Dean sprawled on the floor with his back against Allie’s legs while she runs her fingers lazily through his hair like she’s rewarding a large, badly behaved dog.

Garrett’s chain has worked its way out again. She doesn't mean to start fiddling with it. Her hand is just there, resting against his chest, and the chain is right under her fingertips, cool at first and then quickly warming up. 

Her thumb catches the tiny curve of one link. Then another. Then she’s sliding it back and forth lightly against his skin, not really thinking, only listening to the movie and the steady sound of his breathing under her cheek and the occasional thud of Dean kicking the coffee table because he refuses to understand where his legs end.

Garrett lets it happen for a while. Long enough that she forgets she’s doing it. Long enough for the metal to move in a tiny, repetitive drag under her fingers, a private little rhythm tucked beneath explosions and the muffled rain starting against the windows. 

His chest rises under her palm. His hand at her waist flexes once, absent, and she shifts closer without lifting her head. Then his fingers close around her wrist. Warm and sure, stopping the motion.

She glances up. “What?”

Garrett looks down at her with the deeply patient expression of a man being tortured in a way he’s not allowed to enjoy too obviously. “You’ve been doing that for ten minutes.”

“Doing what?”

His eyes flick to the chain. Then back to her. “That.”

“Oh.” She looks down at her hand, caught in his like evidence. “Was I annoying you?”

“No.”

“You stopped me.”

“Because,” he says, lowering his voice as Dean makes a disgusted noise at the movie and Allie tells him to stop talking before she smothers him with a cushion, “you keep touching my neck, and I’m trying to be a decent citizen in a communal living space.”

Her mouth twitches. “Your neck?”

“My chain is on my neck.”

She bites back a smile. “That’s very scientific of you.”

“I go to college.”

“For hockey.”

He sucks at his teeth, a grin spreading across his face. “For hockey and the pursuit of knowledge.”

She laughs into his chest, and he immediately looks pleased with himself in that quiet Garrett way, like making her laugh while half the room is asleep counts as a personal win. 

His hand slides from her wrist to her fingers, lifting them to his mouth. He kisses her knuckles once, soft and warm, then again, slower, like he can get away with it because nobody’s looking directly at them. The contact sends a stupid little wave through her, low and gentle, a sudden looseness in her ribs and the sense that her body has settled another inch into his.

“Stop playing with it,” he murmurs against her hand.

“I didn’t know it was an activity with rules.”

“It is now.”

“Sounds controlling.”

“Sounds like you’re too hot for your own good and I’m a responsible man.”

She lifts her head just enough to look at him properly. “You’re so full of shit.”

Garrett smiles like that’s his favourite thing she’s said all day. “A little, yeah.”

Then he threads his fingers through hers and brings their joined hands down to rest against his stomach, trapping her there with him. Garrett’s hand stays wrapped around hers. Firm. Warm. His thumb moves once over the side of her finger, slow enough that it feels accidental and deliberate at the same time.

The third time, she should know something’s wrong with the whole arrangement because Garrett offers it too easily. It's the morning of her exam, a big one, the kind that has lived in the back of her head for three weeks like an unpaid bill and ruined several perfectly good evenings by existing near them. 

She’s already eaten half a banana, stared at her notes until the words lost meaning, changed shirts twice, and accused Garrett of breathing too loudly while he sat on her bed watching her spiral with the sort of affectionate calm that made her want to throw a highlighter at him.

“You studied,” he says, for maybe the fourth time, lying on his side with one elbow propped under him and his curls still damp from the shower. “Like, a disgusting amount. I know because you made me quiz you last night and I learned things against my will.”

She stands in front of the mirror, smoothing her top down and then immediately undoing the smoothing because now it looks too deliberate. “That doesn’t mean I know it.”

“That’s actually exactly what studying means.”

“No, studying means I knew it at midnight in your bed while you were half asleep and kept pronouncing things wrong on purpose.”

“I was keeping morale up.”

She turns to glare at him, and he grins at her from the bed, annoyingly gorgeous and unhelpfully relaxed, his chain sitting against his bare collarbone because he hasn’t put a shirt on yet. Which is also rude. Honestly, the whole morning has been a campaign of emotional terrorism.

“I’m serious,” she says, and the words come out thinner than she wants.

His face changes then. The grin doesn't disappear entirely, because Garrett without some amount of grin would be genuinely concerning, but it settles. He sits up properly, feet hitting the floor, and reaches for her when she comes close enough. His hands land at her hips, warm through the fabric, thumbs pressing once like he’s reminding her she has a body and it's standing here, not drowning somewhere in the imagined future of a badly answered essay question.

“I know you are,” he says. “I also know you’re gonna kill it.”

“Don’t say that.”

“What, kill it?”

“Yes.”

“Fine. You’re gonna… respectfully and academically dominate.”

“Garrett.”

He laughs under his breath and tugs her closer until she’s standing between his knees. Then, with the sudden seriousness of someone remembering an ancient ritual and not a bit he came up with seven seconds ago, he reaches behind his neck and unclasps the chain.

She looks down at it. “What are you doing?”

“Good luck.”

Her eyes lift to his. “What?”

He holds it up between them, gold catching the morning light from her window. “It’s lucky.”

She stares at him. “Your chain is lucky?”

“Extremely.”

“You’ve never said that.”

He looks almost offended. “I don’t tell everyone my deeply personal athletic superstitions.”

“You told Dean you had to wear the same socks for playoffs.”

“That was different. He touched them.”

“That feels like a public health issue more than a superstition.”

Garrett ignores this, and gestures for her to turn around. She does, suspicious but too nervous to fight him properly. He stands behind her, and for a second the mirror catches both of them: her in exam clothes and stress, him shirtless and too calm, chain hanging from his fingers. 

He lifts it around her neck, his knuckles grazing the sides of her throat as he brings the clasp together. The metal lands cool against her skin, heavier than she expects, and something in her chest gives one stupid little pull.

“There,” he says, hands settling briefly on her shoulders. “Guaranteed.”

She touches the chain with two fingers. “Guaranteed?”

“Yeah.”

“If I fail, I’m blaming your jewellery.”

“If you fail, I’ll fake my death and start over somewhere chainless.”

She laughs then, finally, and it comes out shaky but real. Garrett’s eyes meet hers in the mirror, his mouth tipped in a way that’s half smug and half proud of having pulled the sound out of her. 

He bends and kisses the side of her head, quick, easy, like he doesn't know the chain suddenly feels like some ridiculous little anchor against her collarbone.

“Go,” he says. “Ace it. Then come back and be unbearable about it.”

She does ace it.

She walks out of the exam hall two hours later with the weird, floating, slightly manic clarity of someone who knows the questions landed exactly where she needed them to, who wrote until her hand cramped, who remembered the thing from the bottom of page seven that she had absolutely expected to die with no audience. 

She calls Garrett from the sidewalk and says, “I think I nailed it,” and he shouts so loudly through the phone that a girl walking past looks over in alarm.

“Tell the chain I said thank you,” she says later that night, when she’s in his room again, sitting cross-legged on his bed with takeout containers open between them and his hoodie swallowed over her exam clothes because the adrenaline crash has finally arrived and brought a mild existential fog with it.

Garrett looks up from stealing one of her fries. “What?”

“The chain.” She taps it where it still sits at her throat. “Your ancient family luck charm.”

There's a pause. It's tiny. Almost nothing. But Garrett Graham has many gifts, and hiding guilt from his girlfriend while his mouth is full of stolen fries is not one of them.

Her eyes narrow. “Garrett.”

He chews slowly.

“Garrett Graham.”

He swallows. “Okay, before you get mad–”

“Oh my God.” She sits up straighter. “It’s not lucky?”

“It’s, uh, lucky adjacent.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I’ve worn it to some good games.”

“You told me it was extremely lucky.”

“I was trying to get you out of your head.”

“You lied!”

“I motivated.” He points at her with a fry. “And you crushed your exam, so actually, where’s my thank you?”

She stares at him for one second. Then another. The chain’s warm now from her skin, and the fact that he made it up should be annoying. It is annoying. 

It's also so Garrett that something in her gives up and goes soft around the edges despite herself, because he saw her standing in front of the mirror two seconds from vibrating through the floorboards and decided the solution was to hand her something of his and make it sound official enough for her nervous system to believe him.

“You’re unbelievable,” she says.

His grin comes back immediately, bright with relief and bad ideas. “But effective.”

“You’re never getting this back.”

“Baby, I look really good in that chain.”

“I look better.”

He studies her for a second, eyes dropping to where the gold sits against the oversized neckline of his hoodie, and his mouth does something slower. 

“Yeah,” he says, voice rougher. “You do.”

Her fingers move to the chain. His eyes track the motion. The takeout goes forgotten between them, steam thinning in the cartons, the lamp laying warm light over his bed and the stupid little lucky-not-lucky object at her throat.

She crawls toward him, slow enough to make his brows lift.

“What?” he asks, though his hands are already moving to her waist when she pushes the cartons aside with the care of someone who doesn't want to get sauce on his sheets but absolutely does want to ruin his evening in other ways.

“You want a thank you?”

Garrett’s mouth opens, then closes. He tilts his head, trying for casual and missing by a heroic distance. “I mean, I’m not gonna say no to gratitude.”

“Good,” she says, and leans in to kiss him once, soft enough that he follows when she pulls away.

His hands tighten on her hips. “Good?”

“Mhm.”

Then she slides off the bed onto her knees between his legs, and Garrett goes very, very still. For once in his life, he doesn't have a comeback ready.

She looks up at him, the chain hanging forward from her neck, gold swinging slightly in the space between them, and his eyes drop to it like he’s experiencing several personal revelations at once.

“Still think it’s lucky?” she asks.

Garrett exhales through his nose, a smile breaking helplessly at one corner of his mouth as his hand comes up to brush her hair back, careful and warm and already a little wrecked. 

“Baby,” he says, voice low with absolute reverence and zero shame, “I’m about to start fucking worshipping it.”

The fourth time is after a home game, which means the hockey house is operating at a volume level that could probably be reported to local authorities if local authorities hadn't long ago made peace with the fact that Briar hockey players were simply going to make too much noise. 

The living room is packed in that loose, post-win sprawl of bodies and beer and boys shouting over one another from distances that don’t require shouting at all. Someone has put the game highlights on the television and every single person in the room is pretending they're not watching themselves while absolutely watching themselves. 

Logan is arguing with a guy from the second line about whether his assist should have been cleaner, Tucker is sitting on the arm of the couch with a beer in hand and the calm expression of a man who played very well and doesn't need to scream about it, and Dean is stretched in the middle of the room like a Renaissance painting sponsored by bad decisions, loudly explaining to Allie that his defensive effort has layers.

Garrett’s on the couch below her, sitting with his legs spread, one arm hooked along the back cushions, hair still damp from the post-game shower and curling messily. He looks good in the obnoxious, lived-in way he always does after a win. Tired under the eyes, mouth lazy with satisfaction, hoodie pushed up at the forearms, chain glinting at his throat every time he turns his head to answer someone. 

There's a faint bruise starting near one cheekbone and stiffness in the way he holds his shoulders that he’s pretending doesn't exist because men who willingly block shots with their bodies have a complicated relationship with the concept of pain.

She’s standing behind the couch with her arms looped around his shoulders, her cheek resting against the side of his head, close enough that when he laughs she feels it before she hears it. The room smells like beer and aftershave and pizza grease and wet pavement dragged in from outside. 

Her chin is tucked near his temple, and his hand comes up every so often to touch her wrist where it crosses his chest, as if checking she’s still there even though she’s been draped over him for fifteen minutes like an affectionate scarf.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs near his ear.

Garrett tilts his head slightly toward her. “I got checked into the boards by a guy built like a refrigerator.”

“I saw.”

“You also yelled ‘get up’ at me.”

“You did get up.”

He huffs. “Supportive.”

“I’m very motivational.”

He smiles, eyes still on Logan across the room. “Yeah, Coach, you’re a real asset.”

She presses her thumb into the muscle at the top of his shoulder before he can get too smug, and his mouth shuts in the middle of whatever he was about to say. There’s a small drop in his posture, a breath leaving through his nose, his head tipping forward half an inch because the pressure hits somewhere useful.

“Oh,” she says softly, pleased. “There he is.”

“Don’t sound so happy about my suffering.”

“I’m happy about being right.”

He hums quietly. “You usually are.”

She starts working at his shoulders properly, thumbs pressing slow circles into the hard knots there, fingers sliding under the edge of his hoodie collar. Garrett tries to keep participating in the conversation around him, because Garrett Graham could be dying and still find time to chirp a teammate, but she feels him lose focus by degrees. 

His answers get shorter. His hand drops from his beer to rest loosely on his thigh. When she presses into the muscle beside his neck, he makes a low sound under his breath that is almost nothing and somehow still deeply satisfying.

Dean notices, of course. Dean would notice a private moment through drywall.

“Oh, that’s cute,” he says from the floor, voice carrying with surgical precision. “Captain’s getting a little spa treatment.”

Garrett doesn't open his eyes. “You jealous, Di Laurentis?”

“Of a shoulder rub? No. Of your girlfriend looking at you like you just returned from war? Little bit.”

Allie leans around him. “He did get slammed pretty hard.”

Dean points at her. “See? This is why I date women. Compassion.”

Tucker takes a sip of beer. “You date Allie because she tolerates you.”

“That too.”

She ignores them, and keeps working her thumbs into Garrett’s shoulders. The only problem is the chain. It keeps getting in the way, slipping under her fingers every time she moves toward the base of his neck, catching lightly against her knuckle, dragging sideways over his skin. She shifts it once. Twice. The third time, Garrett reaches up without looking, catches her wrist, and then lifts his other hand to the clasp.

“Here,” he says.

She pauses. “What?”

He takes the chain off in one smooth motion, turning his head enough to glance up at her with that soft, amused look that always feels worse when other people are around because it's not performative. It's just his face, open for one second before he remembers to make a joke. “Here, baby. Wear it before you strangle me with it.”

The room hears baby. Naturally. The room reacts with the dignity of wolves spotting an injured deer. Logan’s head snaps over. “Oh, wow.”

Dean sits up so fast Allie has to move her knees. “Did he just give her the chain?”

Tucker’s mouth twitches. “Big night.”

Garrett points vaguely at all of them without turning around. “Everybody shut up.”

No one shuts up. That would go against the entire founding philosophy of the house.

She bends down anyway, smiling despite herself, hair falling forward over one shoulder. Garrett lifts the chain around her neck from where he sits, reaching back and up, his fingers careful as they brush the sides of her throat. It's an awkward angle, and he fumbles once with the clasp.

Dean gasps. “He’s putting jewellery on her. In public. Garrett Graham has fallen.”

“I will throw this beer at you,” Garrett says.

“No, you won’t. Your girl’s wearing your chain and touching your shoulders. You’re domesticated now.”

Logan lifts his cup. “RIP to a slut.”

Garrett finally opens his eyes and looks over. “I’m still alive, asshole.”

“Physically,” Logan says. “Spiritually, you’re picking baby names.”

She laughs into Garrett’s hair before she can stop herself, and his hands settle briefly at her collarbone once the clasp is done, thumbs brushing over the chain where it sits against her skin. 

The touch is quick. Almost hidden. But his eyes stay there for a second too long, and the whole loud room blurs slightly at the edges in that private way it sometimes does around him, even when Dean is three feet away preparing to be the worst person alive.

The chain is warm from Garrett’s skin when it lands against her throat. Something about that should not matter as much as it does.

Garrett’s head tips back until he can look up at her. “Good?”

She nods, fingers touching the chain. “Good.”

“Can I have my massage now, or are we hosting a ceremony?”

“Ceremony,” Dean says immediately. “I have a speech.”

“No one wants that,” Tucker says.

“I do,” Logan contributes, raising a hand.

Garrett groans and drops his head forward again, but she can see the grin at the corner of his mouth, tucked away where the boys cannot fully get to it.

She goes back to his shoulders, the chain now resting against her instead of him, rising and falling gently with her breathing as she works the tension out from under his hoodie.

The boys keep going, because of course they do.

“Whipped,” Dean says.

“Tragically,” Logan adds.

“Clinically,” Tucker says, which makes Allie laugh so hard she almost spills her drink.

Garrett lifts one hand just enough to flip them off without opening his eyes. “Keep talking. I’m cutting all of you from the power play.”

“You can’t cut me from the power play,” Dean says. “I am the power play.”

She leans closer, thumbs pressing into Garrett’s neck, and murmurs, “They’re not wrong, you know.”

His eyes open slightly. “Careful.”

“What?” she says, voice innocent near his ear. “You gave me your chain in front of everyone.”

“You were choking me with it.”

“I was massaging your shoulders.”

“Poorly.”

She pinches him lightly.

He laughs, catching her wrist and bringing her hand down just long enough to kiss the inside of it, quick and warm and entirely too natural for a room full of men actively trying to ruin his reputation. Then he lets her go and sinks back against the couch, shoulders finally loosening under her hands.

Across the room, Logan makes a wounded noise. “Oh my God. He kissed her hand. We lost him.”

Dean presses his beer to his heart. “He was so young.”

Tucker, dry as dust, says, “He died doing what he loved. Pretending he wasn’t in love.”

Garrett’s jaw ticks once, but the smile wins. She feels it more than sees it, the small shift under her cheek when she bends down again and rests against him for a second, her arms around his shoulders, his chain warm at her throat, the whole loud, stupid house moving around them.

“Love is a strong word,” Garrett says, which is exactly the sort of thing Garrett says when everyone is looking and the truth has wandered too close to the middle of the room.

She smiles against his cheek. “Mm.”

His hand comes up and covers her forearm, fingers curling there, thumb sweeping once over her skin in a slow little pass that says more than his mouth is willing to risk with Dean waiting to pounce.

Around them, the boys keep chirping, the television keeps replaying Garrett’s goal from the second period, someone in the kitchen shouts about beer pong, and the chain rests against her collarbone like a tiny, ridiculous victory.

Garrett turns his head just enough that his mouth brushes near her temple, hidden from most of the room by the angle of her body.

“You look good in it,” he says quietly.

Her hands pause on his shoulders for half a second.

Then Dean yells, “I can see you whispering sweet nothings, Graham,” and Garrett closes his eyes like he’s begging a very unhelpful God for patience, and she laughs so hard into his hair that the chain jumps lightly at her throat.

❄︎ ❄︎ ❄︎

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