Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Reader
a/n: sooo i checked my inbox and a lot of you wanted more beau fics… so here i am 😭 and honestly? beau maxwell is 100% a girl dad. like this man would let his daughter paint his nails, boss him around, steal all his hoodies, and he’d still look at her like she hung the moon.
Beau was already awake when you opened your eyes, which was never a good sign.
You could hear him moving around in the apartment, the soft drag of his socks against the floor, the clink of a spoon against a mug, and then the tiny, unmistakable sound of a little voice saying, “Daddy, I want the blue bowl.”
You smiled into your pillow before forcing yourself upright.
“Good morning to me,” you murmured, rubbing at your eyes.
From the kitchen, Beau called back, “She’s been awake for twenty minutes and already said no to eggs, no to toast, and no to me.”
You laughed as you slipped out of bed and padded toward the sound of them. The apartment was small, but it always felt full when both of them were home. Full of shoes by the door, little pink hair ties on the counter, and your daughter’s favorite stuffed rabbit sitting in the middle of the couch like it paid rent.
When you reached the kitchen, your four-year-old was perched in her booster seat with her hair in a half-messy ponytail and one sock slipping down her foot. She was glaring at a bowl of fruit like it had personally offended her.
Beau stood beside her in gray sweatpants and a Briar hoodie, his hair still damp from the shower, looking unfairly good for a man who had been awake before sunrise.
He looked up at you and sighed dramatically. “She’s staging a protest.”
“She’s four,” you said, coming up behind her chair and pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “That’s basically her job.”
She turned her head at once. “Mama, I don’t like bananas.”
You blinked at the bowl. “Since when?”
Beau smirked into his coffee. “A strong political stance.”
You gave him a look. “Don’t encourage her.”
“I’m not encouraging her. I’m respecting her autonomy.”
“That is not autonomy,” you said. “That is a toddler refusing breakfast because she thinks it’ll make her powerful.”
Your daughter perked up at the word powerful, instantly interested. “I am powerful.”
Beau nodded solemnly. “Absolutely. Very powerful.”
You pointed a finger at him. “You are the reason she talks like she’s addressing a courtroom.”
He set his coffee down and walked over to brush his lips against your cheek. “Morning to you too, babe.”
The kiss was brief, warm, familiar. It still made your stomach flip in that annoying, lovely way it had when you were nineteen and the whole world felt too big, too fast, and somehow Beau Maxwell had looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
Now you were twenty-three, in college, raising a kid together, and somehow he still looked at you the same way.
Your daughter squinted between you both. “No kissing. Eat.”
Beau groaned. “She’s right. We’re being scandalous before 8 a.m.”
You slid into the chair beside your daughter and reached for her bowl. “What is this?”
“Strawberries,” she said quickly.
She frowned. “One banana.”
She crossed her tiny arms. “I hate the banana.”
Beau leaned over the counter. “You hated broccoli yesterday and then ate mine when you thought I wasn’t looking.”
She gasped, outraged. “That was mine!”
“You stole it off my plate.”
“That was not sharing,” you said, barely holding back a smile. “That was crime.”
She looked between the two of you, offended on principle. “I am not a criminal.”
Beau lowered his voice like he was letting her in on a secret. “That’s what criminals say.”
Her eyes widened. “Mama!”
You covered your mouth, laughing. “Don’t use your father’s logic against her. She’s too young to process that much nonsense.”
“She can process plenty,” Beau said. “She knows exactly how to get wrapped around your finger.”
At that, your daughter leaned dramatically against your side. “Mama’s finger is nice.”
You kissed her forehead. “I know, baby.”
Beau sighed, hand over his heart. “Wow. So I’m just chopped liver?”
“You’re her favorite when she wants snacks,” you said.
He pointed at the cabinet. “That’s slander. I am beloved all the time.”
He opened his mouth, then your daughter beat him to it.
“Daddy is funny,” she declared, as if this settled the matter. “But Mama is best.”
Beau stared at her in mock betrayal. “I changed your diapers.”
“I bought you the pink shoes.”
“I let you put stickers on my laptop.”
He narrowed his eyes. “And yet.”
“And yet,” she said, entirely serious, “Mama is best.”
You snorted into your hand while Beau dropped his forehead onto the counter. “I’m raising a traitor.”
“You’re raising a very informed child,” you said.
He lifted his head and grinned at you. “She gets that from me.”
“Please. She gets her dramatic streak from both of us.”
That made him laugh, soft and real. The sound always did something strange to the room, like the apartment itself liked him. Like the walls understood this was a good kind of chaos.
You passed your daughter the spoon. “Try two bites of the strawberries and then you can decide if the banana is guilty.”
She considered that. “Three bites.”
She pointed at him. “You are not in charge.”
He looked scandalized. “I am deeply involved in this household.”
“You are,” you said, reaching for your coffee. “Unfortunately.”
The three of you were still at the table twenty minutes later, in the middle of the kind of morning that felt like a hundred other mornings and somehow none of them. Beau had one hand on your daughter’s booster seat while he scrolled through his phone with the other, muttering about practice schedules and class reminders. You were half-listening, half-fighting with the tiny hair elastic in your daughter’s curls.
“Hold still, sweetheart.”
“No, you are absolutely not.”
Beau barked out a laugh. “A baby?”
You looked at him. “Do not laugh at her.”
“I’m not laughing at her. I’m laughing because she said it like she pays taxes.”
Your daughter beamed with the confidence only a four-year-old could possess. “I am big.”
“Big and very important,” you said, finally getting the ponytail to stay. “There.”
She touched the back of her head and nodded with approval. “Better.”
Beau glanced at the clock, then at you. “You’ve got class in twenty. I’ve got practice.”
He made a face. “Don’t sound so pleased about my suffering.”
“I’m not pleased. I’m just thinking about the fact that we are, once again, a family in a constant state of running late.”
“That’s called balance,” he said.
You stood, collecting your daughter’s bowl and setting it in the sink. “Okay, shoes. Backpack. Tiny jacket.”
She groaned immediately. “No jacket.”
Beau and you said at the same time, “Yes jacket.”
She stared up at you both with narrowed eyes. “You are too similar.”
Beau grinned. “That’s why you married me.”
“We are not married,” you said automatically.
He only looked at you with that crooked, easy smile. “Not yet.”
Your face heated even though you’d heard versions of that line a hundred times. Still, every time he said it, it landed like the first time.
Your daughter, blissfully unaware of the tension in your cheeks, climbed down from her booster seat and waddled toward the hallway with the determination of someone on a mission. “I get shoes by myself.”
“That is not how shoes work,” you called after her.
“It is today,” she shouted back.
Beau leaned against the counter, watching her go. Then he turned his gaze to you, softer now. “You okay?”
You nodded, though the word felt too small for what you were. Tired, yes. Happy, definitely. A little overwhelmed, always. But mostly full in that strange, aching way you only understood after becoming a mother in college,young enough that some people still looked at you like you were making it up, old enough that you knew exactly how real all of it was.
“I’m good,” you said. “Just thinking.”
You slid your arms around his waist, and he wrapped his around you without hesitation. “About how weird it is that this is our life.”
He tipped his head. “Weird good or weird bad?”
You looked up at him. “Both.”
He smiled. “Good. I like both.”
From the hallway came a frustrated little voice. “Mama! Shoe is mean!”
Beau closed his eyes. “Here we go.”
You pulled away and headed toward your daughter, Beau following close behind. She was sitting on the floor in the hallway, one sneaker half on and one sock twisted under her heel, as if the shoe itself had chosen violence.
“It’s attacking me,” she said, deeply offended.
You crouched beside her. “The shoe is not attacking you.”
Beau leaned one shoulder against the wall. “That’s because you’re trying to put it on upside down.”
She looked at him in disbelief. “No, I’m not.”
You took the shoe from her tiny hands and turned it the right way. “Yes, you are.”
She paused, then crossed her arms. “Oh.”
Beau laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
She gave him a look that was way too old for her face. “Daddy, be helpful.”
“That is emotionally supportive talking.”
You lost it then, laughing hard enough to have to sit back on your heels. Beau was grinning too, all white teeth and dimples, while your daughter watched you both like she’d created the joke herself.
Eventually, she got the shoes on. Eventually, the jacket went on too, though she complained loudly the entire time. Eventually, you had your bag, her backpack, Beau’s keys, and a half-empty coffee cup in your hands while the three of you made it to the door in one imperfect, familiar wave.
Outside, campus was already alive. Students rushed past with backpacks and iced coffees, bikes rattled over the pavement, and somewhere nearby someone was laughing too loudly at something you couldn’t hear. Briar always felt like it was moving fast, like you had to keep up or get swallowed whole.
But with Beau beside you and your daughter’s small hand in yours, it never felt impossible.
You walked her toward the campus daycare building, the one tucked near the student center with bright murals on the walls and tiny chairs in the front room. Your daughter skipped ahead, then turned back halfway to make sure you were still there.
“Not yet,” you said, smiling.
She ran back and grabbed your leg, hugging it hard. Then she turned and did the same to Beau, burying her face in his hoodie.
Beau bent down at once, wrapping her in both arms. “You have to be nice today, okay?”
She nodded against him. “I am nice.”
He looked up at you over her hair, and something quiet moved between you.
He kissed the top of her head. “We love you, kid.”
She pulled back enough to grin. “I know.”
Then, because she was four and the world should forever be surprised by children, she looked at you both seriously and said, “You two kiss again now.”
Beau straightened slowly, already smiling. “She’s giving orders.”
“I do not take orders from a toddler.”
“You clearly do,” he said.
Your daughter pointed a tiny finger at your face. “Kiss.”
You tried to hold your ground for exactly two seconds before Beau’s mouth twitched and your own expression broke. He stepped closer, one hand settling at your waist, and leaned in to kiss you softly while your daughter watched with solemn approval.
When he pulled back, she nodded like she’d overseen a successful business transaction. “Good.”
Beau laughed under his breath. “Glad we passed inspection.”
You shook your head, though you were smiling now too. “You are both ridiculous.”
He kissed your temple this time, quieter. “Yeah, but we’re your ridiculous.”
And that, more than anything, was the thing that got you every time.
Because this was your life: a tiny hand in yours, Beau’s shoulder brushing yours as you walked to class, a toddler who looked just like both of you and acted like the boss of the family, and the kind of love that had started young and stubborn and somehow grown roots deep enough to survive anything college could throw at you.
Your daughter waved wildly as the daycare teacher opened the door. “Bye-bye, mama! Bye-bye, daddy!”
Beau waved too, then waited until she was inside before letting out a long breath. “She’s terrifying.”
You glanced at him. “She is not.”
He turned to you with that soft, open look that made your chest ache in the best way. “Yeah,” he said. “She is.”
Then he hooked his fingers through yours and squeezed once, just once, like a promise.
“Come on,” he said. “I’ve got practice. You’ve got class. We’ve got a whole day to survive.”
You grinned up at him, already walking beside him again. “With a toddler ruling the world from daycare?”
He laughed and pulled you closer as the two of you headed across campus.
“Exactly,” he said. “Just the way she likes it.”
