#fnl

This was their routine: Tim gave everything he had on the field, often performing his most spectacular feats when he knew she was watching, and Y/N gave him her attention, but never her access.

She knew his reputation like she knew the Dillon playbook. The midnight drives, the cheap beer, the bar fights, the constant proximity to self-destruction. Her own life was built on careful plans and sobriety, and she refused to be another casualty in the beautiful wreckage of Tim Riggins’ short-lived Texas kingdom. She didn't just see the Friday night hero; she saw the bleary-eyed slump he carried into class on Monday, the defensive shrug when someone mentioned his brother's growing list of troubles, and the reckless abandon that was less about fun and more about evasion.

Tim was persistent. He didn't understand the word 'no,' mostly because few people, especially women, ever used it with him. His initial attempts were loud and public - a stolen kiss after a big win, a handwritten note left on her car, invitations to parties she knew would end with him passed out by the pool.

Y/N deflected all of them with practiced ease, but her resolve was constantly tested by the quiet moments he created.

The most brazen attempt came after the Westlake game. Tim, still in his muddy uniform, cornered her by the concession stand, fueled by adrenaline and victory. "We're heading out to the lake," he murmured, his breath warm and smelling faintly of stale Gatorade and grass. "Come on, Y/N. Don't be boring. I want you there." He’d reached for her hand, but she had slid it into her pocket.

"I'm sure you do," she'd countered coolly, making sure her voice carried. "But I have work in the morning, and unlike you, I can't afford to call in sick because I drank too much cheap beer down by the water. Maybe focus on your post-game recovery instead of your next hangover." The rejection was sharp, public, and undeniable, and he’d retreated with a wounded look she knew was only temporary.

One Tuesday after practice, she was waiting outside the field house for her ride when a familiar truck pulled up, the engine rumble low and steady. Tim leaned against the passenger door, smoking a cigarette, not looking at her.

“Car trouble?” he asked, his voice low and raspy from a hard day of hits.

“No, just early,” she replied, not moving closer.

He took a drag, the orange glow illuminating his intense eyes for a moment. “Coach said you’re tutoring Saracen now?”

“Math. He’s smart, just needs confidence.”

“You’re good at that,” Tim mumbled, exhaling smoke towards the darkening sky.

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Tutoring?”

“No. Giving people confidence. You sit there every Friday and don’t cheer, but you watch every single play. If you weren’t there, I’d probably run out of bounds more often.”

The honesty, unvarnished and unexpected, momentarily lowered her guard. She walked closer, leaning against the bed of the truck, the shared space feeling charged.

“Tim, you don't need my confidence. You need to focus on your scholarship and keeping your head clear,” she said, her voice gentle but firm.

He flicked the cigarette butt onto the pavement and crushed it with his boot. “Always a lecture, Y/N. Never a date.”

“There’s a reason for that. I don't date projects.”

He flinched. The word project clearly stung. He looked vulnerable, stripped of the Riggins armor. “I’m not a project. I just… I need someone to watch the sidelines. Keep me honest.”

“And you think I can do that from the passenger seat of your truck, with a beer in your hand?” she challenged.

He said nothing, only ran a hand through his perpetually messy hair. He knew, deep down, she was right. His attempts to court her were always framed by his recklessness - it was the only way he knew how to live.

The real turning point came not on the field, but at the little coffee shop where Y/N worked weekends. Tim started showing up - not in the evenings, but early Saturday mornings, smelling faintly of soap instead of stale beer. He wouldn't hit on her; he just ordered black coffee, paid his tab, and sat in the corner booth reading a borrowed copy of Lonesome Dove. He was trying.

One chilly evening in November, after a tough game loss, she found him waiting outside her apartment complex, leaning against the cinderblock wall. He looked defeated, his shoulder taped and his jersey missing. He wasn't drunk, but he was worn down.

“We lost,” he stated plainly.

“I know. I saw it,” she replied.

“I wanted to be better. For you, maybe,” he admitted, his eyes fixed on the pavement.

“You were amazing, Tim. You always are,” Y/N said softly. “That’s not the issue.”

He finally looked at her, his expression raw. “Then what is it? Because every time I think I get close, you pull back like I’m going to burn you.”

Y/N sighed, leaning her head against the cool brick wall. This was the moment for the line in the sand. “My father, Tim, he was a good man. Worked the oil fields, loved the Panthers. But he loved the bottle more. I spent my whole childhood watching him promise to be at my recitals and watching him fail. The smell of whiskey, the sound of glass breaking… that’s not romance to me. That’s a home falling apart.”

She looked him straight in the eyes. “You’re really good, Tim. You could have everything. But you use the drinking, you use the partying, as a safety net so you have an excuse when you fail. And won't not love someone who's already planning his own failure.”

The silence that followed was crushing. Tim Riggins, the untouchable star, looked like a kid who'd just been told Christmas was cancelled.

“So you’re saying… if I could… stop?” he managed, the words catching in his throat.

“I’m saying that until you can build something real that doesn’t smell like a dive bar, don’t talk to me about anything but the field.”

The next few weeks were the longest of Tim’s life. He started small. He kept the truck parked on Friday nights. He showed up at the coffee shop every day, reading the books she suggested (starting with Moby Dick, which he confessed was "too much ocean"). He avoided the usual hangouts and instead spent his afternoons working extra drills with Coach Taylor or, surprisingly, fixing things around his brother Billy's trailer.

He wasn't perfect. She heard rumors of close calls, moments of weakness. But he hadn't fully broken.

The last game of the season was a freezing, grueling affair. The Panthers were out of the playoffs, but they played with fierce pride. In the final seconds, Tim laid a hit so clean and loud that the sound echoed off the empty goalposts.

After the game, Y/N waited by the stadium exit, bundled in a heavy jacket. She knew this was the moment of truth. He walked towards her, his face streaked with dirt and sweat, his movements tired but steady.

“We won,” he said, his breath fogging the air.

“You were incredible,” Y/N said, meaning it.

He stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, but far enough that it felt respectful.

“I haven’t had a drink since that night,” he said quietly, his gaze steady. “It’s hard, Y/N. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, harder than carrying the ball through the whole defensive line.”

“I know, Tim,” she whispered. “I see you trying.”

He took a slow, deep breath, and for the first time, he didn't try to charm her or demand anything. He simply offered.

“My cousin needs help fixing up his porch this weekend. He pays in cash and barbeque. No beer. Just work. Want to supervise?”

Y/N felt the wall around her heart finally crumble, just a fraction. This wasn't an invite to a party; it was an invitation into his efforts, into his attempt at a stable life. It was a true effort, grounded in labor and sobriety.

She looked at the most beautiful disaster in Dillon, Texas, and saw a glimmer of the man he was fighting to become.

“I’ll bring the thermos,” she conceded, a slight, hopeful smile touching her lips. “But you have to bring the power tools. And the honesty.”

“Always,” Tim Riggins promised, and this time, she finally believed him. It wasn't love yet, but it was the start of something solid, built brick by careful brick, and maybe, just maybe, it would last.

Saturday was glorious. The porch at Tim’s cousin’s small house outside Dillon was a wreck, but the work was honest and physical. Tim, stripped down to a sweat-damp t-shirt, was focused and efficient. He handled the saw with an intense precision Y/N had only ever seen him apply to football. He didn't look at his phone, he didn't joke about girls, and he didn't complain about the exhaustion.

Y/N, true to her word, supervised. She held the level, ensured the cuts were square, and brought the industrial-sized thermos of black coffee. She talked about college applications, her plans to go to UT to study nursing, and he listened, his head bent, occasionally wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a dusty hand.

He wasn't performing; he was just present.

During the mid-afternoon, when the sun was highest and the work was grinding, he paused, leaning on the railing they’d just installed.

“You’re good at this, Y/N,” he said, genuinely impressed. “You know how to build something that lasts.”

“It’s a different kind of strength, that’s all,” she replied, her voice soft. She caught herself staring at his steady hands and quickly looked away, but the damage was done. Her guard was dissolving. She had spent the entire day focused on a version of Tim Riggins she hadn't dared to believe existed: reliable, dedicated, and kind.

When they were finished, sitting on the newly completed, stable wooden deck eating barbecue from greasy paper plates, Tim looked over at her, his eyes clear and full of a vulnerable hope.

“I want to take you out,” he said, the request sounding far more important than any touchdown celebration. “A real date. Not the lake. Not a party. I want to take you to the Blue Star tonight. Nice place. We’ll eat something that isn’t burgers and watch the sun go down. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Y/N felt a giddy panic, but she pushed her fear down. She had seen him succeed today. She had earned the risk. “Seven,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “And Tim? Don’t mess this up.”

He reached across the table, covering her hand with his calloused one, the contact electric. “I won’t. I promise.”

Y/N spent two hours getting ready. She chose a dress she’d been saving for an event that mattered, doing her hair carefully, a little nervous and a lot excited. At 6:58 PM, she was standing by her window, looking down at the street, feeling a flush of anticipation.

Seven o'clock came and went.

At 7:15, she checked her phone, finding no messages. He's Riggins, Y/N. His truck probably broke down. Give him a minute.

At 7:45, the giddy anticipation had curdled into a cold, heavy disappointment. He wasn't late; he hadn't called. This was the failure. This was the familiar pattern of his life intruding on hers. This was the whiskey smell and the sound of glass breaking.

She didn't cry. She didn't let the anger take her. She just drove.

She drove straight to the beat-up trailer where the Riggins brothers lived. The front yard was a mess of rusty tools and tall grass, and Billy’s old pickup was gone. Tim’s truck, however, was parked haphazardly half on the lawn.

Y/N got out of her car, the elegant little dress feeling horribly out of place on the dusty, dark road. The trailer door was slightly ajar. She didn't knock. She didn't need to.

The air inside was thick and heavy, smelling of stale smoke, something spilled, and cheap, undeniable alcohol.

Tim was sprawled on the couch, face down, one arm dangling toward the floor. An empty six-pack of beer was scattered on the floor by his head, and a cheap plastic cup lay overturned beside him. He wasn't asleep; he was gone. Incapacitated.

The sight hit Y/N harder than any public rejection. It wasn't the broken date that hurt; it was the broken promise.

She walked over to the couch, standing over him, her chest tight with sorrow and fury. She reached down and gently nudged his shoulder. He groaned, a slurring, unintelligible sound, and rolled onto his back, his eyes remaining shut.

“Tim,” she said, her voice low and dangerously controlled. “Wake up.”

He squinted, his eyes barely opening, struggling to focus on the figure standing above him. He didn’t recognize the dress, the careful makeup, or the devastation in her expression. He just saw a shadow.

“Y’N,” he mumbled thickly, a half-smile trying to form on his lips. “You came to the party, huh? Late.”

Y/N felt a terrible, sick finality settle in her stomach. She stared at the man who had worked so hard, so purely, just hours earlier.

“You asked me to trust you,” she stated, her voice shaking slightly but holding firm. “You promised me honesty. You showed me a man today, Tim, who could build something real. And then you chose this.” She gestured to the empty cans and the filth of the trailer.

Tim tried to sit up, confusion clouding his face as the cold reality of the situation failed to penetrate his fog. “Wait. What… what time is it? I was gonna—”

“You were going to pick me up at seven,” Y/N finished for him, her eyes burning with disappointment. “But you didn't, because you couldn't. You chose the safety net, Tim. You chose the failure so you don’t have to risk being the man I saw today.”

She took a slow, deep breath, pulling her purse strap tighter over her shoulder. “My dad chose this over me every time. And I told you, I won’t go through that again.”

She turned, walking toward the door, not looking back at the defeated figure on the couch.

“I told you I don’t date projects, Tim,” she said, pausing at the threshold. “But I made an exception for the boy who was trying. And you didn’t just let me down tonight. You let him down.”

The sound of her car door slamming shut was the last thing Tim Riggins registered before the blackness of his drunken stupor finally claimed him completely. He had traded a future for a night, and he had shattered the one thing that was finally grounding him.

Tim woke the next afternoon to the familiar, punishing crash of a world he’d actively chosen to destroy. His head throbbed, his mouth was dry, and the memory of Y/N’s face - not angry, but devastatingly disappointed - was a sharp, physical pain in his chest that overshadowed the hangover. He wasn't just sick; he was ashamed.

He found the elegant, dark smudge of mascara on the shoulder of his dirty white t-shirt, a ghost of the evening he had ruined. Billy, who had come home much later, simply gave him a tired, knowing glance and walked past.

For the next four days, Y/N was an impossible fortress. She didn't answer his calls or his brief, desperate texts. She had changed her routine. When he drove by her apartment, the parking spot was empty. When he showed up at the coffee shop, she simply clocked out early, handing her apron to a co-worker with a neutral expression, refusing to even meet his eye as she walked past him toward the back exit. She was actively, deliberately denying him the audience he craved, and the silence was more torturous than any shouted argument.

He finally caught her on Thursday afternoon outside the library, books stacked high in her arms. He blocked her path, truck abandoned carelessly by the curb.

“Y/N. Please. Just talk to me,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse, his eyes bloodshot, though clear of alcohol.

She stopped abruptly, adjusting her stack of books, and looked him over with a cool, clinical detachment. The usual spark of pride or challenge was gone, replaced by a weary indifference that chilled him to the bone.

“There’s nothing to talk about, Tim. You made your choice. I don’t deal with broken promises. The deal we had, that you were building something real, is off the table.”

“I messed up. I know I messed up,” he insisted, running a hand over his face. “I got scared. We had a great day, and I started thinking about the Blue Star, about what that meant, a real date, and it just… it felt too big. I panicked. That’s not an excuse, but it's the truth.”

Y/N lowered the books slightly. “Panic is when you freeze, Tim. You didn’t freeze. You called someone, or you went somewhere, and you bought a six-pack. That’s a choice. You chose the easy pain of a hangover over the hard work of trust. And you chose it knowing exactly why that matters to me.”

“I’m still trying,” he whispered, desperate now. “I’ve been back out at my cousin’s, putting in hours. I went to the field house today, I ran extra drills until I thought I was gonna to throw up. I haven’t touched anything, I swear.”

“That’s good,” she said flatly. “That’s what you should be doing anyway. That’s your career. It has nothing to do with me.”

“Everything has to do with you,” he countered, the intensity flaring in his eyes. “You’re the reason I even tried to stop in the first place. You’re the reason I saw that deck built and thought, ‘Maybe I don’t have to be a walking pile of junk forever.’”

She looked at him, searching his face, looking for the lie. She only saw raw, miserable sincerity. The sadness in his eyes was almost too much to bear, but she hardened herself against it.

“You don’t get to hang your choices on me, Tim,” she finally said, her voice shaking slightly. “You do this for yourself, or you don’t do it at all. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a paper due.” She stepped around him and walked quickly into the library, leaving him staring at the curb.

For the next week, Tim's attempts shifted. He stopped chasing her. Instead, he would leave a single, unopened can of black coffee and a small, folded napkin with one word written on it: Sorry. He left one outside her apartment door on Friday. He left another on the counter at the coffee shop Saturday morning, paid for with a twenty, which he left for the tip jar.

On the following Tuesday, Y/N finally found him in the same corner booth he used to occupy, reading Lonesome Dove. He was clean-shaven, and the desperate look had been replaced by a quiet, determined exhaustion.

He didn’t look up as she approached, only closed the book on his finger.

“The library copy of that is overdue,” she said, her voice neutral.

He looked up, meeting her eyes. He didn’t smile, he didn’t plead. He just held her gaze.

“I bought it,” he said, pointing to the worn cover. “I figured I need to read the whole thing.” He slid a small, folded map across the table. It was a tourist map of the Texas Hill Country, and a small area near a state park was circled in sharpie.

“What is this, Tim?”

“It’s a place. About two hours out. I looked it up. It has hiking trails, no bars, and a good view. I haven't messed up in eight days, Y/N. I’ve been working on myself, for myself. But I can't do the rest of the year in silence.” He paused, his expression grim. “I miss talking to you. I miss being… accountable to you. Not romantically. Just human.”

He pushed the map closer to her. “I want you to be the accountability I need. That’s all. I want to try again, just as friends. Lunch hour at the DQ isn’t good enough anymore. I need you to trust me with time and space. I need you to come with me to the Hill Country next Saturday. We talk, we hike, we come back by dinner. No expectations. No promises beyond staying sober and keeping my word. You set the rules.”

Y/N picked up the map. The desperation in her chest warred with the deep desire to see that reliable, focused man from the porch-building day again. This was a bigger risk, a full day, but it showed greater effort than anything he’d done before. He wasn't just offering a friendly lunch; he was offering proof of his control, a test of his commitment, far away from Dillon's temptations.

“If you're late, if you have one single drop of alcohol on your breath, if you try to make a move on me - we're done, Riggins,” she stated, her voice icy and final. “If I feel uncomfortable for one second, I turn around, and you never see me again. Do you understand?”

Tim nodded, the movement sharp and decisive. “Thank you. I understand. Fully. Next Saturday. Seven a.m. I’ll bring the breakfast tacos.”

Y/N slid the map into her purse. “Don't thank me,” she warned, finally stepping toward the counter to start her shift. “You have a week to earn the ride there.”