Murphy’s Law of Hot Neighbors
Summary: Murphy's law states that "anything that can go wrong, will go wrong". Normally you wouldn't believe something like that, but three weeks ago the univers cursed you and your luck changed.
Pairing: Beau Maxwell x Reader
Warning: Things go wrong before they can go right
Note: My first Beau fic and it's 9.1k long?? Sounds about right for my favorite. Hope y'all enjoy! 🫶
You are normally a ten out of ten. You are the girl who walks into a room and commands attention. Confident, impeccably styled, hot as the sun, and fully aware of it as a sharp, ambitious sports journalism transfer.
But there is a force out to get you. A localized curse. And its name is the insanely hot, broad-shouldered guy who lives in your apartment building. Every single time you cross paths with him, the universe strips you of your dignity and turns you into an absolute circus act.
Meanwhile, he is just a massive, sweet-faced golden retriever of a man who keeps catching fleeting glimpses of his breathtakingly gorgeous new neighbor, totally oblivious to your internal mortification.
There is a very specific, carefully cultivated science to being a ten out of ten. It is not just about the genetics you were handed; it is about the execution. It’s the way you carry yourself through the halls of Briar University, a sharp, hyper-ambitious sports journalism transfer who knows exactly which column is going to make the front page of the campus paper. It’s the crisp tailoring of your blazers, the deliberate click of your heels on the linoleum, the absolute certainty that when you walk into a press box or a crowded lecture hall, you command the room. You are confident. You are impeccably styled. You are hot as the burning sun, and you are fully, deliciously aware of it.
Today, however, science has failed.
It is exactly 7:00 AM on a Monday morning. Taking the day off from your internship at the local sports network was, in theory, a stroke of absolute genius. In practice, it has merely granted you the chronological space to stagger through the lobby of your apartment building looking like a casualty from a glitter war.
The previous night had been your sister Amy’s bachelorette party. An event that had started with elegant champagne toasts and ended, somehow, with you leading a conga line through a neon-lit dive bar while wearing a plastic tiara. Now, the bill has come due. You are currently navigating the polished tile floor of the lobby with a gait that can only be described as a pirate limp.
You are missing your left shoe. Your right foot is encased in a black strappy, four-inch stiletto that is actively trying to murder your ankle, while your left foot is clad only in a black fishnet stocking that has given up the ghost, completely torn open at the big toe. There are questionable, sticky drink stains of an ambiguous berry flavor splashed across your once-pristine top. Your lipstick is smudged aggressively near your jawline, looking less like a makeup choice and more like a crime scene. There is a literal, gaping tear in the seam of your skirt that you’re attempting to hold closed with one hand, and wrapped tightly around your waist like a tragic, neon-pink wrestling championship belt is a molting feather boa. Every step you take leaves a sad trail of hot-pink fuzz in your wake.
You look like a survivor of an explosion at a craft store. Your brain feels like it has been pickled in cheap tequila, and the lobby’s fluorescent lights are vibrating directly against your optic nerve.
Just get to the elevator, you tell yourself, staring at the metallic doors like they represent the gates of paradise. Ten more steps. No one is awake at seven on a Monday. The college kids are sleeping off the weekend, the professors aren't leaving yet, you are safe. You can crawl into bed, hibernate for twenty-four hours, and pretend this lapse in your cosmic perfection never occurred.
Step. Fuzz falls. Step. Your bare toe hits the cold tile.
You reach the elevator bank. You press the upward arrow with a finger that still has a smudged hand-stamp from a club called The Thirsty Goat. You let out a long, ragged breath, watching the floor indicator light up. Three. Two. One.
A soft, melodic ding echoes through the quiet lobby. The stainless-steel doors slide open.
And the universe, in all its chaotic, malicious glory, decides to glitch.
Standing inside the elevator car is a man who can only be described as a structural hazard to your sanity. You don’t know his name. And you’ve only caught fleeting, breathless glimpses of him in passing over the last two weeks since you moved into the building. Still, you know exactly what he represents. He is broad-shouldered enough to completely fill the doorway, with a jawline that looks like it was chiseled by a Renaissance master who specialized in making women faint. He’s wearing a pair of heather-gray sweatpants that hang perfectly off his hips, a dark green Briar Athletics hoodie stretched tight across a massive chest, and a backward baseball cap over messy, ooey gooey brown hair. He smells like clean laundry, butterscotch, and pure, effortless testosterone.
He is a walking, breathing reminder that life isn't fair. He looks like a golden retriever trapped in the body of a starting linebacker.
The moment the doors part, his gaze lands on you. He freezes.
For three agonizing seconds, the silence in the elevator bank is absolute. The man pauses, his thick, dark eyebrows shooting straight up into his hairline as his chest expands with a paused breath. His eyes are a warm, ridiculous chocolatey brown and they span the entire catastrophic length of your body. They linger on the neon-pink feather boa wrapped around your waist. They travel down to your single, solitary stiletto. They drop further, focusing on your bare, fishnet-wrapped left foot, where your big toe is poking through the fabric, wiggling slightly against the cold floor.
Your internal monologue shifts into a high-pitched, frantic scream. Oh, my god. No. Not him. Not the insanely hot neighbor. Anyone but him. Fall into a sinkhole. Let the earth swallow me whole. I am a journalist. I am an intellectual powerhouse. I am a ten out of ten. I am wearing a dead pink bird around my midsection.
Desperate to salvage even a single, microscopic ounce of your usual badassery, you choose not to hide. You choose defiance. You draw yourself up to your full, uneven height—which is incredibly difficult when one leg is four inches shorter than the other—and lock your eyes onto his. You tighten your grip on your torn skirt, tilt your chin up, and give him a slow, cool, aggressively casual jerk of your head. It’s the kind of nod that says, Yeah, I’m wearing a boa. What of it? I run this town.
In reality, with the smudged lipstick and the blinking, bloodshot eyes, you probably look like a feral raccoon defending a dumpster.
You pray to every deity in existence that the elevator doors will just close, or that you will spontaneously combust, ensuring you never have to see him again.
Damn, he thinks, his heart doing a weird, unexpected little thud against his ribs as he looks at her. Looks like she had a seriously good time.
He tries to keep his face completely neutral, but his eyebrows have a mind of their own. He’s been seeing her around the building for the past couple of weeks, and every time he does, he completely forgets how to speak. She’s usually so put together. Always in those sharp, killer outfits, looking like she’s about to walk into a boardroom and fire everyone in it. She’s beautiful. Like, intimidatingly beautiful. The kind of girl who makes a guy double-check his own reflection in the lobby glass to make sure he doesn't have food on his face.
But right now? She’s a total mess, and somehow, it’s even worse for his chest capacity.
He takes in the bright pink feathers, the missing shoe, and the little smudge of dark red lipstick right by her jaw. He wonders what she was celebrating. A birthday? A promotion? A random party? He feels a sudden, bizarre prickle of curiosity. Would it be weird to ask her? Yeah, probably. She looks like she might punch me if I say the wrong thing.
Despite the absolute chaos of her outfit, she still has that look in her eyes. That fierce, completely unapologetic glare. Even limping on one heel, she throws him a sharp, confident nod that makes her look kind of like a rockstar who just climbed off a tour bus after a sold-out stadium show.
God, she’s pretty, he thinks, his fingers twitching inside the pockets of his sweatpants. He wants to offer her his hoodie. He wants to carry her to her door so her bare foot doesn't have to touch the dirty tile. He wants to know her name.
Instead, because he is totally paralyzed by how stunning she looks even while falling apart, he just stands there like a giant, broad-shouldered idiot, holding the elevator door open with his hand and staring.
The universe does not operate on a system of checks and balances. It does not grant you a grace period after a total social annihilation to let you rebuild your reputation. If anything, the cosmos is a bored reality TV producer, actively scripting your downfall for its own twisted amusement.
Exactly one week has passed since the Incident of the Neon Feather Boa. Seven days of hyper-vigilance. Seven days of checking the peephole of your apartment door three times before stepping into the hallway, ensuring the coast was entirely clear before you dared to exist in the communal spaces of the building. You had almost convinced yourself that the curse was broken. You had rationalized it: a statistical anomaly. A one-time glitch in your otherwise flawless matrix.
No such luck. The universe absolutely hates you.
It’s a Tuesday evening, and you are returning from the building’s basement gym. Normally, an post-workout glow is a look you can pull off with a sort of effortless, athletic chic. Today, however, you didn't just workout; you soul-crushed yourself. You pushed through a brutal, high-intensity interval training circuit that left you operating on pure adrenaline and survival instincts.
As a result, you are currently dripping sweat. Not a cute, dew-kissed glisten, but actual, literal beads of perspiration rolling down your temples and the back of your neck. Your face is flushed a violent, alarming shade of crimson—the kind of deep, mottled red that suggests your cardiovascular system is screaming for mercy. To make matters worse, you made the executive decision this morning to wear your most compressive, skintight workout set. It’s a neon-accented matching top and leggings combo that you are suddenly, violently convinced highlights every single "ugly" curve you’ve ever overthought while staring into a full-length mirror. You feel exposed, shrink-wrapped, and entirely un-photogenic.
Your breath is still coming in heavy, ragged puffs as you round the corner into the elevator lobby, a water bottle clutched in your damp hand like a weapon.
You stop dead in your tracks.
But the cosmic comedy troupe isn't just content with throwing him in your path; they’ve dialed the contrast up to an abusive degree. The giant from the elevator—the broad-shouldered guy you’re 90% sure plays football for Briar based on the sheer mass of him—is not in his usual relaxed gray sweatpants.
Today, he is wearing a pristine, custom-tailored three-piece suit.
The fabric is a deep, charcoal gray that molds perfectly to the ridiculous taper of his broad shoulders and narrow waist. The crisp white dress shirt underneath is buttoned to the top, a perfectly knotted silk tie sitting against his throat. A matching vest hugs his chest, emphasizing the heavy muscle beneath the formal wear. His usually messy, brown locks have been styled back with a neat, expensive-smelling pomade. He looks less like a college athlete and more like a millionaire CEO who moonlights as an international supermodel. He is a walking billboard for elite masculine perfection.
The contrast between the two of you is staggering. He belongs on the cover of GQ. You look like a swamp monster that has just been dragged out of a bog by its ankles.
A rational human being would turn around, pretend they forgot something in the gym, and take the stairs. But you are a ten out of ten. You are a sharp, proud sports journalist. You do not retreat. You swallow the bitter taste of defeat, square your damp shoulders, and step into the elevator car right next to him.
The doors slide shut with a metallic scrape, sealing the two of you inside the small, mirrored box.
Immediately, the atmosphere shifts. The air becomes heavy, suffocatingly tight. The football player suddenly moves, his massive frame shifting away from you by a fraction of an inch. His broad shoulders go rigid. His entire body tenses up so violently you can practically hear his muscles locking under the expensive wool of his suit. He stares straight ahead at the metal doors, his jaw clamped shut so hard a muscle twinges near his ear. He looks incredibly uncomfortable. Angry, even.
Your stomach drops into your sneakers. A wave of intense, burning mortification washes over you, turning your already flushed face an even deeper shade of purple.
Great, you think, your internal voice dripping with bitter sarcasm. Fantastic. I smell like a locker room after a double-overtime game. He’s dressed for a gala or an athletic banquet, and I am actively polluting his oxygen supply with my post-cardio aura. He probably thinks I’m a sweaty stalker who tracks his elevator schedule.
You glue your eyes to the digital floor indicator above the door, praying for the numbers to change faster. Four. Five. You consciously try to slow your breathing, holding the humid air in your lungs so you don’t pant like a golden retriever next to a guy who looks like a god. Next time, I don’t care if I’ve just run ten miles. I am taking the stairs.
Jesus fucking Christ, Beau thinks, his fingers instantly clenching into tight fists inside his suit pockets. Jesus Christ, don't look. DON'T STARE AT HER!
He is panicking. Pure, unadulterated, catastrophic panic is coursing through his veins, rendering him completely paralyzed. He had just come back from the mandatory athletic department dinner. An event where he’d felt stiff and out of place all night, and the literal second he steps into the elevator to go home, she walks in.
And she is wearing... that.
His brain completely shorts out. The skintight workout gear leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, hugging every single breathtaking, mind-boggling curve of her body. She’s glistening with sweat, her chest heaving as she catches her breath, and the sheer, raw, athletic heat radiating off her is hitting him in waves. She smells like sweet skin and citrus-scented deodorant, a combination that is currently doing dangerous things to his heart rate.
Do not look down, Beau, he chants to himself like a mantra, his eyes practically bulging out of his head as he forces them to lock onto the ceiling seams. Do not look at her chest. Do not look at her waist. Look at the elevator numbers. Look at the elevator numbers!
He can feel the heat rising up his own neck, choking him against his silk tie. He knows he’s standing completely stiff, rigid as a board, but he’s terrified that if he relaxes even an inch, his eyes will betray him and drop down to track the sweat rolling down her collarbone. She is so hot it actually, physically hurts.
Then, he hears how heavy her breathing is. Why is she breathing like that? he thinks, his chest tightening. Is she okay? Did she run all the way up here? Wait... am I breathing loud? Oh my god, I’m acting so weird. I’m standing here like a freak in a suit, staring at the wall and sweating.
He clenches his jaw, desperately trying to project the image of a normal, functioning human being, completely unaware that his tense silence makes him look like he's disgusted. In reality, he's just one second away from whimpering. He wants to loosen his tie, pull his jacket off, and offer it to her. He wants to ask her what her workout routine is just to hear her voice.
Instead, he just stands there, a massive, terrified football player trapped in a pristine suit, silently begging the elevator to move faster before he accidentally looks down and loses his mind entirely.
You are no longer operating under the assumption that you are just having a run of bad luck. No, this has surpassed the realm of coincidence and entered the territory of the supernatural. You are entirely convinced that a medieval witch put a generational hex on your bloodline, or perhaps you accidentally desecrated an ancient burial ground during your move to Briar University. There is simply no other logical explanation for why the universe keeps hitting the pause button on your status as a ten out of ten the exact millisecond your neighbor is within a ten-foot radius.
It’s a rainy Sunday afternoon, and you had decided to lean entirely into comfort. You were in the middle of baking a batch of celebratory cupcakes—a little self-care reward for acing your mid-term sports journalism portfolio profile. Because you had absolutely no intention of leaving the sanctuary of your apartment, you had dressed accordingly.
By "accordingly," you mean you are wearing your absolute ugliest, most faded gray booty shorts from high school track, the ones with the peeling graphic on the thigh. Plus a thin, oversized white tank top that has seen far better days. Your hair, which usually falls in perfect, glossy waves around your face, is a literal, unbrushed rat’s nest. You hadn’t even bothered to comb it post-shower, choosing instead to shove it into a chaotic, structural knot on top of your head that is currently held together by a single, desperate claw clip and sheer prayer.
To top off this masterclass in domestic dishevelment, disaster had struck in the kitchen. While aggressively whipping a bowl of homemade vanilla buttercream, the hand mixer had caught a rogue air pocket.
A massive, globby streak of thick white vanilla frosting and a literal avalanche of rainbow sprinkles had launched directly out of the bowl and splattered right down the front of your tank top, sticking to your chest and stomach like a sugary, multicolored target.
Naturally, that is the exact millisecond your phone buzzes in your hand.
It’s the delivery courier. Your holy grail, a pristine, vintage 1950s Smith-Corona typewriter you had meticulously tracked down on eBay for your long-form feature writing. The typewriter has just been dropped off in the lobby. The courier refuses to bring it up to the fourth floor. It's now or never.
You peer out your apartment peephole. The hallway is dead silent. The building is quiet. Hoping against hope that the coast is entirely clear, you don't even bother putting on shoes. You sprint out the door in just your white tube socks, sliding down the hallway like a baseball player stealing second base, desperate to execute a swift, military-grade extraction of your package.
You take the service stairs to avoid the elevator curse, practically flying down the concrete steps. You burst into the lobby, breathless, frantically sign the courier’s electronic pad, and hoist the surprisingly heavy, bulky cardboard box into your arms.
You turn around to head back to the stairs.
The universe hits you with a cosmic folding chair.
The hot apartment guy, the massive, broad-shouldered football god is standing right there by the wall of metal mailboxes. He’s wearing a backward Briar snapback, a casual black t-shirt that clings to his biceps like a second skin, and shorts that showcase thighs that could clearly crush a watermelon. He has a stack of letters in one hand, but the moment your socks slide onto the lobby tile, his head snaps up.
You freeze. The heavy box is cradled against your chest, but it doesn't do a single thing to hide the fact that you are covered in baking debris.
Your heart drops into your throat. You stand there, a fierce, brilliant, usually terrifyingly confident woman, looking like a rogue toddler who broke into the pantry. The sweet, heavy scent of vanilla extract and artificial strawberry sprinkles radiates off your skin in the warm lobby air.
Knowing you can't run without dropping a hundred-dollar typewriter, you force yourself to lock eyes with him. You offer him a tight, pained, deeply defensive nod of greeting—the universal signal for do not perceive me while silently begging the lobby tiles to open up, swallow you whole, and deposit you into a different dimension.
The Guy by the Mailboxes:
Oh my god, Beau thinks, his fingers locking onto his electric bill so hard the paper wrinkles. She looks SO SOFT.
His brain instantly derails, trains crashing into trains, leaving him entirely speechless. He’s used to seeing her look like a high-powered, unapproachable goddess, but right now? She looks small, incredibly cozy, and so ridiculously cute his chest aches. Her hair is all messy and piled on top of her head in a way that makes him want to reach out and pull the clip loose just to watch it fall.
And then the smell hits him. It wafts across the lobby and it’s warm, sugary, buttery goodness. She smells like frosting. Like an actual, literal snack.
A wild, unbidden thought slams into his head before his filters can catch it: CAN SHE BAKE? NO WAIT… CAN I LICK HER?!
He blinks rapidly, his face instantly exploding into a furious, burning blush that spreads all the way to the tips of his ears. No! That’s creepy, Beau! Jesus Christ, you can’t ask a girl if you can lick her before you even know her name! Even if you really, really want to lick her face! Calm down, Beau! Mom raised a gentleman, not a horndog! He mentally slaps himself, desperately trying to bring his inner golden retriever to heel.
To distract himself from the literal rainbow sprinkles stuck to her chest, he forces his eyes down to the giant box she’s hauling. He notices the heavy vintage lettering stamped on the side of the cardboard.
Wait, is that a typewriter? His eyes widen with genuine, boyish wonder. Who uses a typewriter? That is so cool. She’s like... a character in an indie movie. Like a cool, mysterious writer.
The urge to help her almost overrides his social paralysis. He wants to take the heavy box from her arms. He wants to carry it up the stairs for her. He wants to ask her what she's writing, buy her a coffee at the campus blend, and finally, finally ask for her name.
Ask her name, you idiot! his brain screams. Say something! Anything!
But as he opens his mouth to speak, his eyes accidentally dip right back down to the vanilla frosting smudge on her tank top. He freezes up entirely, his throat locking. He stands there like a giant, muscular statue, holding his mail, staring blankly at her sprinkles while his heart hammers against his ribs like a captive bird.
If there is one thing you are fiercely, aggressively protective of, it is your work. You aren’t just coasting through Briar University's sports journalism program; you are trying to tear down walls. For the last three months, you have been buried alive in a massive, career-making investigative expose detailing the systemic financial exploitation of student-athletes by major NCAA programs. It is a brilliant, ruthless, meticulously researched piece of journalism that could legitimately launch your professional career before you even graduate.
Naturally, because it is the most important thing in your life right now, the universe decides to use it as ammunition.
It’s a crisp Thursday afternoon, and you are navigating the apartment lobby while completely overloaded. You are currently juggling a scalding-hot extra-shot latte in one hand, your overstuffed designer tote bag in the other, and the entire printed, thick rough draft of your expose tucked insecurely under your arm. You are on your way back home coming from a high-stakes meeting with the editor-in-chief of the campus paper, looking sharp, professional, and entirely in your element.
Then, physics betrays you.
As you step toward the elevators, the heavy leather strap of your tote bag violently slips from your shoulder. In a desperate, split-second reflex, your elbow jerks to catch it, which completely dislodges the massive manuscript. To make matters worse, the faulty zipper on your tote bag chooses this exact moment to entirely fail.
Time slows down. Your life flashes before your eyes in agonizing slow motion.
In a horrifying, catastrophic cascade, your heavy notebooks, a dozen clicking pens, your laptop charger, and all fifty-plus loose pages of your printed expose spill out across the floor. The pages catch the draft from the opening lobby doors, sliding and scattering wildly over the polished tile like a flock of frantic white birds.
The only microscopic silver lining in the entire disaster is that through some miracle of muscle memory, you manage to keep your arm perfectly level, saving the hot coffee from spilling. But everything else is currently a disorganized disaster zone at your feet.
"No, no, no," you hiss under your breath, dropping into a frantic, ungraceful squat to start grabbing at the stray papers before they slide under the vending machines.
Then, a shadow falls over you.
You freeze, your hand hovering over page twelve. Standing right in the doorway, mere inches from your scattered life, is a pair of long, devastatingly muscular legs encased in dark athletic shorts. Your eyes slowly, dreadingly track upward. Past the sculpted calves, past a broad, solid chest covered in a tight black Briar Athletics tee, until you find yourself looking right at the chiseled face of Hot Apartment Guy.
You want to cry. You want to drop the coffee and just lay face-down on the tile forever.
But instead of staring or walking away, he immediately drops to his knees right there on the floor with you. Without a word, his massive, heavy-veined hands start scrambling across the polished tile, effortlessly gathering the wildly sliding papers into neat, organized stacks. He moves with an athletic, fluid grace that makes your own panicked scrambling look like a chaotic crab crawl.
"Here," a deep, rumbly, incredibly smooth voice says.
He leans closer, his broad shoulder brushing against yours, sending a sudden, electric jolt straight down your spine. He hands you a thick stack of your retrieved manuscript pages. As you reach out to take them with a trembling hand, he looks up, locking his warm, hazel eyes onto yours, and flashes a smile.
It isn't a smug smile. It is a bright, impossibly warm, open, and devastatingly handsome grin that completely redefines the term heartthrob. He has a tiny, boyish dimple near his mouth, and his teeth are perfectly white.
Your brain entirely, catastrophically short-circuits. The sports journalism prodigy who can interview intimidating coaches without blinking is suddenly wiped from existence. You just stare at his mouth, your lips parting slightly, your mind a vast, empty desert of thought. You are so mesmerized, so utterly paralyzed by the sheer proximity of his handsomeness, that you completely forget to say thank you. You just clutch your papers and blink at him like a dazed deer.
Cute, cute, cute, Beau’s brain repeats like a broken record, his heart hammering against his ribs as he grabs a handful of typed papers. She is so cute when she’s flustered.
He’s trying his absolute best to be a good guy and help her out, but being this close to her is a form of sweet, agonizing torture. Because they are both kneeling on the floor, he gets a direct, unobstructed view of how her clothes hug her perfect curves. Damn, she has the best body I've ever seen. Look at her ass, he thinks, a sudden wave of heat rushing straight to his face. Don't be a dick, Beau. Act cool. Eyes on the paper. Act like a gentleman.
He forces his gaze away from her waist, stacking the sheets of paper tightly against his palm to straighten them out. He looks down at the top page to make sure nothing is ripped, and his eyes instantly catch the bold, typed heading of a plastic folder she had dropped.
Beau freezes for a fraction of a second, his hazel eyes widening behind his backward cap. Y/N. He finally has a name to go with the breathtaking girl who keeps destroying his peace of mind.
But as he hands the stack back to her, watching her gorgeous eyes glaze over as she stares at his face, a sudden, heavy realization slams into his head.
Wait... why is that name familiar? Why do I know that name?
He searches his brain frantically, his smile faltering for just a second as he tries to connect the dots. He knows he’s seen that name before. It wasn’t on a mailbox, and it wasn’t in a class syllabus. It was somewhere important. Somewhere related to the team.
Think, Beau, think! he commands himself, desperately trying to jog his memory while she stares at him, entirely speechless. Where the hell do I know Y/N Y/L/N from?
You have finally reached the final stage of grief: acceptance. You have officially surrendered to the fact that you are spiritually doomed to look like a feral gremlin in front of this man until the end of time. The universe has clearly drawn a line in the sand, and on his side is effortless, godly perfection, while on yours is a continuous loop of physical comedy.
But today? Today actually feels different.
You had spent the morning playing with your young nieces, running around the park and indulging in high-energy aunt duties. For once, you managed to emerge from a chaotic situation entirely unscathed. In fact, you feel incredible. You are wearing a gorgeous, perfectly tailored linen summer dress that nips in flawlessly at your waist, highlighting your curves in all the right ways. The fabric is a crisp, clean bay pink color. Miraculously, there are no stains on you. No spilled matcha, no stray laundry, no rogue vanilla frosting. You are a ten out of ten again. The queen has returned to her throne.
As you pull open the heavy glass doors to enter the apartment building lobby, the universe aligns the stars. He is walking out.
Your paths cross perfectly right in the center of the polished tile floor. The moment his hazel eyes lock onto you, he stops dead in his tracks. His massive, broad-shouldered frame goes still, and his gaze sweeps over your linen dress. Then, he bites his lower lip in a slow, hesitant movement that draws your eyes directly to his mouth. And he looks at you with this incredibly shy, sweet, utterly melting golden-retriever-like gaze. He actually flushes a faint pink, rubbing the back of his thick neck.
Your heart does a violent, ecstatic flip inside your chest.
Oh my god, you think, a wave of euphoric triumph rushing through your veins. He thinks I'm hot. He is actively checked out by how good I look right now. Finally! The curse is broken! I am a goddess!
You offer him a smooth, perfectly practiced, effortless smile as you glide past him. You practically float into the elevator car, your posture impeccable, your chest puffing with a massive surge of renewed confidence. The doors slide shut, and you are entirely alone in the metallic box.
Still riding the high of your absolute victory, you turn around to face the mirrored walls of the elevator to admire your look.
The smile instantly freezes on your face. Your soul leaves your body, exits the elevator shaft, and ascends directly into the stratosphere.
There, staring back at you in high-definition clarity, is the reality of your situation. On your left cheek, stretching from your cheekbone all the way down to your jawline, is a massive, bright green smear of what is very clearly washable Crayola marker—undoubtedly courtesy of your youngest niece’s enthusiastic arts-and-crafts hour.
Horrified, your hands fly to your head, and your fingers brush against a rigid, plastic texture. You turn your head sideways. Clipped aggressively and haphazardly into the back of your hair are about a dozen pastel-colored, neon-pink and baby-blue plastic flower clips. Your nieces must have snuck them into your hair while you were sitting on the living room rug, completely unbeknownst to you.
You look like a walking arts-and-crafts table. You look like you got into a fight with a craft store and lost.
Hot apartment guy hadn't been looking at you with a smoldering, breathless desire. He hadn't been biting his lip because he was overwhelmed by your beauty. He was biting his lip because he was actively trying not to laugh in your face.
The confidence evaporates from your body, leaving you staring at your reflection in absolute, unadulterated despair.
OH MY GOD, Beau thinks, his mind spinning into a frantic, chaotic spiral as he steps out into the afternoon air. Does she have kids? She looks like she’d be so good with kids.
His heart is pounding against his ribs, but it's not just from how beautiful she looked in that dress. Though she looked like an absolute angel. It was the hair clips. Those tiny, ridiculous little pastel flowers stuck all over the back of her head, combined with the bright green streak on her cheek. It was the cutest, most wholesome thing he had ever seen in his entire life. It meant she had been playing, that she didn't mind getting messy, that she had a soft side beneath that fierce, intimidating journalist exterior.
But then, a dark, terrifying realization slams into his brain like a linebacker at full speed.
His stomach instantly drops into his sneakers. He panics, his fingers twisting anxiously in the fabric of his athletic shorts. No, no, I haven't seen a guy around. I’ve never seen a dude come out of her apartment. But what if she has a secret family? What if she’s a single mom?
The sheer weight of the thought makes him break into a cold sweat right there on the sidewalk. He stares blankly at the campus bus passing by, his internal monologue escalating into a full-blown existential crisis.
Oh my god, I am so nervous to be a stepdad, he thinks, a genuinely stressed whimper trapped in his throat. I don’t know if I’m emotionally mature enough for raising kids yet! I'm just a football player! What if her kids don’t like me? What if they think I'm too big and scary? Will she let me be their stepdad if her kids hate me? What if I accidentally ruin their childhood?!
He covers his face with one massive hand, groaning out loud as he walks toward the athletic facility, completely terrified of a fictional family, entirely oblivious to the fact that his gorgeous neighbor is currently trying to scrub green marker off her face with spit.
"Bro, I’m telling you, she’s a beautiful mystery wrapped in a gorgeous enigma," Beau groans, the sound echoing loudly as he thumps his head against the hockey lockers where he is hanging out with Dean. The heavy thud vibrates through the bench area, perfectly matching the sheer frustration rolling off his broad shoulders.
Dean Di Laurentis looks up from taping his hockey stick and gives his best friend the look. The look that clearly says, You're my best friend, but you are incredibly stupid right now. Sitting on the opposite bench, the notorious Briar hockey player looks like a mix of profound boredom and mild amusement. He slowly tears the black tape with his teeth, spitting out a loose thread onto the rubber mat flooring.
"Beau. My man. You have been talking about the girl from apartment 5C for three weeks straight," Dean says, shaking his head as he smooths down the fresh tape on his blade. "Just ask her for her number or shut up. You’re killing my pre-practice vibe. And having a best friend with no game isn't a good look for me. Lock it down like I did with Allie, bro. Or, you know, just skip the poetry and tap that asap. Girls don't want a guy who stares at them like a lost puppy in the hallway. They want execution."
"I can't just ask her!" Beau throws his hands up in the air, pacing the narrow space between the locker rows. He’s still in his practice jersey, his massive frame dominating the room. "She's intimidating, Dean. I don't know who she's going to be from one day to the next. One day she’s a party queen rockin' a neon pink feather boa, the next she smells like a literal bakery and is covered in sprinkles. Then she’s on the floor scrambling over a secret manifesto, and yesterday she had kids' toys clipped into her hair and green war paint on her face!"
Beau stops pacing, running a hand over his face, his hazel eyes wide with genuine, existential panic. He can still vividly picture the green streaks across your cheeks and the little pastel butterfly clips holding back your chaotic mane of hair. "What if she’s a mom? Am I ready to be a stepdad, Dean? I still look for the plastic toy in the cereal box! I'm not financially or emotionally equipped to handle a parent-teacher conference!"
Dean blinks slowly, completely unfazed by his best friend's dramatic meltdown. He leans back against the metal lockers, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. "You'd think Joanna would be the most dramatic Maxwell considering she's in theatre, but here you are. Why the hell would you be a stepdad anyway? You haven't even introduced yourself properly to this girl, Romeo!"
Beau shrugs, his broad shoulders dropping as a soft, helpless look takes over his face. "I want to be prepared for anything. This girl already has my whole heart, Dean. I see her in the hallway, and my brain just short-circuits. I completely forgot how to speak English last Tuesday when she sneezed."
Dean thinks for a second, tossing the roll of hockey tape from hand to hand. "What was her name again? You said you saw it on her papers when you were playing 52-pickup on the lobby floor."
"Y/N Y/L/N," Beau sighs, his voice instantly dropping an octave, his expression going soft and dreamily dazed just saying the syllables out loud. "It’s a pretty name. Elegant. Like her."
Dean freezes. The roll of hockey tape stops mid-air. A slow, wicked, entirely mischievous grin spreads across the hockey player's face. He drops the stick onto his lap, leaning forward with sudden, intense interest.
"Hold on. Y/N Y/L/N? The new transfer student writing for the Briar Chronicle? The one who is currently tearing the athletic department a brand new one with an investigative expose on student-athlete compensation?"
Beau’s jaw drops. His arms fall uselessly to his sides. "What?"
"Yeah, bro. The entire hockey team's been talking about her for days," Dean says, chuckling as he shakes his head in pure amusement. "Apparently, she is absolutely ripping the college administration apart to defend us. She’s exposing the millions the school makes off our jerseys while all we get is free cafeteria meal plans. She is a serious champion for the athletes. Every guy on the team is terrified of her, but they respect the hell out of her. She is seriously awesome."
Dean taps his chin thoughtfully, his eyes gleaming. "Actually, she’s supposed to be interviewing some of the varsity sports captains this week to get player perspectives. Pretty sure your football coach assigned you to talk to her since you're the football captain. Congratulations, Maxwell. Your mystery woman is about to grill you."
Beau stands frozen, his brain desperately trying to process the information. The terrifying, beautiful, chaotic goddess from his building wasn't a secret international spy or a multi-faceted enigma. She was a brilliant, fiercely protective sports journalist. And as he whipped out his phone and checked his email, he was apparently scheduled to sit in a room alone with her tomorrow morning.
On the other side of campus, you were completely unaware of the locker room crisis you had caused. For the past three weeks, your life had been an absolute whirlwind of stress, deadlines, and chaotic family obligations.
All you could think about recently was how transferring to Briar University mid-year was supposed to be a smooth transition. Unfortunately the moment you landed a gig at the Briar Chronicle, you had thrown yourself face-first into the deep end. Your investigative piece on athletic compensation had consumed your entire life. So you were off your game when it came to your appearance.
And of course you thought about how every single time you had looked like an absolute lunatic, he had been there. The Hot Apartment Guy. The massive, broad-shouldered god with sparkling brown eyes who always seemed to appear right when your life was in shambles. He would give you this tense, wide-eyed, awkward look before practically fleeing down the hallway, leaving you to curse your luck. You were convinced he thought you belonged in an asylum.
But later that evening, you are standing by the wall of metal mailboxes in the lobby of your apartment building. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, you are wearing a completely normal, impeccable outfit. You are in a pair of perfectly fitting jeans, a sharp casual blazer, your hair is brushed and flowing, and your face is entirely free of green Crayola marker. You finally feel like yourself again. The ten out of ten is fully restored.
You hear heavy, echoing footsteps approaching the glass entrance doors. You look up, your journalism instincts automatically making you alert.
Through the doors walks the Hot Apartment Guy. He’s wearing his official, heavy Briar Football varsity jacket, his broad shoulders easily filling out the leather sleeves.
He spots you instantly. But instead of the usual shy, tense, awkward look he always gives you before fleeing into the night, his entire face completely lights up. His eyes spark with absolute recognition, and a massive, boyish grin breaks across his handsome face. He doesn't hesitate. He practically bounces right up to you across the polished tile floor, his chest heaving slightly as if he’d just jogged across campus, looking for all the world like a giant, eager golden retriever puppy who just found his favorite human.
He stops right in front of you, his massive frame towering over your space, radiating warmth and the clean scent of laundry and once again butterscotch.
"Y/N?" he asks, his voice incredibly deep, smooth, and entirely certain.
You blink, completely startled by the sudden shift in the matrix. Your mail clutches loosely in your hand. "Uh. Yeah? How do you know my name?"
"I'm Beau. Beau Maxwell," he says, offering a massive, calloused hand toward you. The fierce starting linebacker is suddenly looking a little pink around the cheeks, his tough exterior melting into pure sweetness. "I play football here. I think... well, I actually know for a fact that I'm scheduled to do an interview with you tomorrow morning for your athletic compensation expose."
He rubs the back of his thick neck with his free hand, letting out a nervous, breathless laugh that completely disarms you. "And, uh, I really wanted to clear something up before tomorrow. Because it's been driving me crazy."
"Clear what up?" you ask, your usual sharp, professional confidence instantly returning now that you aren't covered in frosting or wearing toddler hair accessories. You tilt your head, highly amused by his sudden burst of vulnerability.
Beau takes a deep, steadying breath, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with total, unadulterated adoration. He steps just a fraction closer, shutting out the rest of the lobby. "Those pastel flower clips in your hair yesterday. And the green marker. Are they... are they your kids' clips? Because if you have kids, I just want you to know that's totally cool. I'm actually great with kids. I mean, I'm a little nervous about the whole concept of being a stepdad, but I'm a really fast learner, and I can buy a lot of Legos, and I'm really good at building forts—"
"Stepdad?!" you choke out.
A loud, vibrant laugh bubbles right up from your chest, echoing through the quiet lobby. The absolute, peak absurdity of the last three weeks finally crashes down on you in a wave of hilarious clarity. He hadn't been judging you. He hadn't thought you were crazy. He had been planning a fictional family.
"Beau..." you say, wiping a tear of laughter from your eye, your heart warming in a way it never had before. "Those were my nieces' clips. I don't have kids. I was babysitting. Also, we literally just exchanged names two seconds ago, don't you think jumping to 'stepdad' is a bit of a cosmic leap?"
Beau’s entire massive posture slacks with an immense, visible, and utterly hilarious wave of relief. He lets out a long breath, his broad shoulders dropping. "Oh. Thank God. I mean—not that kids aren't great! Kids are awesome! But wow, okay, that makes this way easier."
He steps directly into your personal space, the nervousness completely melting away, replaced by that devastatingly handsome, dimpled smile you remembered from the paper avalanche on the floor. He looks down at you, his eyes dark with a sudden, thrilling heat that makes your breath hitch.
"In that case, Y/N... since we're neighbors, and we're officially breaking the ice, and we have a very important interview tomorrow..." He tilts his head, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rumble. "Can I please take you out for a real dinner tonight?"
You stare up at him, the imaginary curse officially dissolving into the warm evening air, replaced by a sizzling, undeniable chemistry. You slide your mail into your tote bag, taking a deliberate step closer until your blazer brushes against his varsity jacket.
You smile, silently thanking the universe and apologizing for all the cursing you’ve done the past few weeks. "I'd love to, Beau."
"So, no secret manifestos tonight?" Beau asks, his eyes dancing with mischief as he pulls out the chair for you at Luigi’s, a cozy, dimly lit Italian restaurant just a few blocks off campus.
"I left my top-secret documents locked in my desk," you counter, smoothing your skirt as you sit. "Though, if I had known I was going to be dining with the varsity football captain, I might have brought a wiretap to get an early start on tomorrow's interview."
Beau chuckles, a rich, deep sound that vibrates straight to your core as he slides into the booth opposite you. "Please, spare me. I'm already terrified of you. Dean told me you're tearing the administration apart. The hockey guys think you're a hero, and the football team is apparently currently drafting a petition to make you our official honorary mascot."
"Is that so?" You lean forward, resting your chin on your hands, a playful smirk on your lips. "And what does the captain and starting linebacker think?"
Beau’s gaze softens, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the bustling restaurant fade into background noise. "The starting linebacker thinks you're incredible. Seriously, Y/N. I read your introductory column last week. Most journalists just want to write about who scored the winning touchdown or who got caught partying at the fraternity houses. You're actually looking out for us. You see the work we put in."
His sincerity catches you off guard. You're used to athletes being defensive or dismissive of student journalists, expecting shallow questions and media training answers. But Beau is looking at you like you hold the answers to the universe.
"Well," you clear your throat, suddenly feeling a bit breathless. "Someone has to point out that the school is selling your number thirty-three jersey for ninety bucks a pop while you're surviving on mystery meat from the campus dining hall."
"Hey, don't disrespect the mystery meat," Beau jokes, though his eyes remain warm. "It builds character. And bulk."
"Clearly," you murmur, your eyes dipping instinctively to his broad chest before you quickly snap your gaze back to his face. A flush creeps up your neck, and you hope the dim candlelight hides it.
Beau doesn't miss it. The dimple in his right cheek deepens as he leans across the table, his large hands resting near yours. "You know, when you dropped all those papers in the lobby three weeks ago, I wanted to do more than help you, I wanted to talk to you. But every time I get near you, my brain just completely shuts down. I'm used to tackling two-hundred-pound running backs, but a five-minute conversation with a beautiful girl? Absolutely terrifying."
"You didn't seem very terrified when you were offering to buy Legos and build forts for my nonexistent children," you point out, a laugh bubbling up again.
Beau covers his face with his hands, his ears turning bright red. "Oh my god, please let me live that down. I can't believe I said that out loud. I blame my buddy Dean. He told me to just 'lock it down,' and my brain translated that into 'commit to a twenty-year co-parenting plan immediately.'"
"I think it was sweet," you admit, reaching out to gently tap his wrist until he lowers his hands. His skin is warm beneath your fingertips, sending a pleasant shiver through your veins. "A bit intense for a Tuesday evening check-in at the mailboxes, but sweet."
As the waiter brings your food, the conversation flows effortlessly. You find out that beneath the tough, athletic exterior, Beau is incredibly grounded. He talks about his sister Joanna with fierce protection, his face lighting up as he complains about having to watch her experimental theatre productions. He listens intently as you talk about your transfer experience, asking questions that prove he genuinely cares about your answers.
By the time the check arrives, you realize you haven't thought about your article or your deadlines once in the past two hours, and you’ve completely erased the past three weeks of disaster from your brain. For the first time in a month, the weight on your shoulders feels entirely gone.
The walk back to the apartment building is quiet, the crisp evening air wrapping around you both. Beau walks on the street side of the sidewalk, a classic, old-school gesture that doesn't escape your notice. His massive frame shields you from the wind, his shoulder brushing against yours with every step.
"Thank you for dinner, Beau," you say as you enter the familiar lobby. The space looks completely different now. It’s no longer a battlefield, but the place where everything changed.
"Thank you for agreeing to come out with a guy who was too afraid to speak three words to you," he replies, his voice low and intimate in the quiet evening.
You step into the elevator, and he follows, pressing the button for the fifth floor. As the elevator ascends, the tension in the small space shifts, becoming thick with an unspoken, electric energy. You look up at him, noting the way his jaw tethers, his eyes locked onto the floor numbers tracking upward.
When the doors chime open, you walk down the hallway toward your apartment, your heart rate speeding up with every step. You stop outside the door marked 5C.
"Well, this is me," you say, turning around to face him.
Beau stands a foot away, his hands tucked into the pockets of his varsity jacket. He looks down at you, his expression a mix of longing and hesitation. "Yeah. And I'm just right across the hall at 5B. If you ever need to borrow a cup of sugar... or need a baking assistant."
"I'll keep that in mind," you smile, your keys jingling in your hand.
Beau takes a slow step forward, closing the distance between you until you can feel the heat radiating from his body. He reaches out, his large, warm hand gently cupping your jawline. His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, his touch incredibly tender for someone so powerful.
"I'm a football jock who gets it wrong sometimes," he whispers, his eyes dropping to your lips. "But I meant what I said. I'm a really fast learner Y/N."
Your breath hitches as he leans down, his lips meeting yours in a soft, slow kiss. It’s sweet and exploratory at first, but as you let out a soft sigh against his mouth, his grip on your jaw tightens slightly, pulling you closer until your body is flushed against his broad chest. The kiss deepens, becoming warm, consuming, and full of a promise that leaves your knees feeling weak.
When he finally pulls back, his breathing is shallow, a devastatingly handsome smile playing on his lips. He taps your nose playfully.
"Goodnight, Y/N. See you at our interview tomorrow morning. Try not to be too hard on me."
"No promises, Maxwell," you breathless reply, watching him walk across the hall to his own door.
As you slip inside your apartment and click the deadbolt into place, the strength completely leaves your legs. You slide down the heavy wood until you’re sitting flat on the floor, a massive, helpless smile spreading across your face. Your lips still tingle with the warmth of Beau’s lips, and your heart is hammering a frantic, joyful rhythm against your ribs.
Thank you, universe, you think, closing your eyes and letting your head rest back against the door. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.
Then, a sudden hysterical laugh bubbles up in your throat because, realistically, you owed the cosmos a massive apology. You had spent every waking minute of the past three weeks utterly convinced that the universe personally hated you.
Every single time you had crossed that threshold looking like a Victorian orphan or a natural disaster survivor, Beau had been there. You had cursed the stars, the moon, and whatever cruel deity was pulling the strings.
But sitting here now, feeling the lingering ghost of Beau’s hands on your jaw, you realize it was all just a cosmic hazing ritual. The universe wasn't punishing you. It was just testing your commitment to the plot. And as you think, you decide the universe is officially forgiven.
