94perreaults

[94perreaults]

Does it ever drive you crazy just how fast the night changes?

[94perreaults]

It's my favorite boy's bday today! Everyone wish him the happiest day rn

[94perreaults]

VARIABLES & CONSTANTS l GP94

CHAPTER THREE OF THE PERREAULT PARADOX

SUMMARY: Sophia didn't expected to run into Gabe again. But here he is, crashing into her perfectly planned world once more.

a/n: This should have been out many many days ago, I'm sorry for the delay, I wasn't planning on not posting for three weeks but soon enough I'll be able to be more consistent. I'll try to make up with some Gabe + Sophia imagines or blurbs, and some more stuff that's coming out soon for other players. Still, thank you so much for reading this! I hope you enjoy it! Likes, reblogs and asks are always welcomed!

Variables can change, while constants remain the same — key components in mathematical expressions.

Sophia had a lot of constants. Her Moleskine planner, the exact walk to Sever Hall— six minutes and twenty-three seconds, if everything went according to plan—, and the overpriced icelandic coffee she ordered online because she liked the branding and the caffeine-to-anxiety ratio. Her schedule is color-coded and terrifying, a perfect organized mess on Notion she probably worked on longer than she should’ve. She was a system.. Polished, predictable and efficient.

A variable was not part of the plan. Especially not a variable in the shape of a 5’11 hockey guy with a backwards hat and too many smiles, who had been living rent-free in her head for three days even though he’d technically only been in her life for a few hours. And she felt absolutely ridiculous; she had a never ending list of things to do— from client pitch meetings for the consulting club to late-night study marathons where she lived off espresso and spite. Sophia didn’t have time to think about a boy all day long. And yet — there he was.

Not physically, obviously. But in her head? Fully moved in, redecorated the place, probably rearranged the furniture. She kept thinking of him, and his stupid smile, even when she shouldn’t: in the pause before her next slide deck, when her brain wandered for exactly two seconds too long; in the way her pen hovered during office hours, mid-equation, because she remembered how he looked at her when she laughed.

It was irrational and illogical. And that’s not like Sophia. She kept telling herself it was just her brain being weird, and eventually she’d file him away and forget him soon enough. At least, that was what she hoped for.

Until she saw him again. Not at a bar or in a movie-level romantic setting, ready to profess his love in shakespearean rhymes. Just standing outside Tatte on the Harvard Square, holding a cinnamon bun the size of his face and looking around. For a second, he just stood there, squinting at the chaos of Cambridge on a weekday.

And then he looked up, right at her. And she froze, like a total idiot, because of course he would appear now. He couldn’t have been in Cambridge when she was presentable, calm, or at least looked like she had slept over 3 hours; no, he had to show up when her hair was frizzy from the humidity and she had a stressful amount of unread emails that she couldn’t answer without a cappuccino and a slice of the cinnamon and walnut coffee cake she swore she couldn’t live without. 

Then he smiled; easy and familiar. Like it hadn’t been days since the bar. Like seeing her here wasn’t even a surprise. And then he started walking toward her.

Not in that slow, cinematic way — the kind you watch in movies, where everything moves in soft focus and perfect lighting. Nope. Just casually and confidently. Like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Like walking up to her was easy.

And Sophia couldn’t move. She couldn’t even pretend to dig into her bag or check her phone or pretend she was getting an urgent call. She just stood there watching him walk to her. Once again, just like in the bar that night, just like an idiot— which she liked to think she wasn’t, but right now she was seriously questioning it. 

Her heart did something wildly inconvenient, because Gabe Perreault was walking straight toward her, smiling like he’d been waiting for this exact moment and she had absolutely no idea what to do about it. She felt her heart doing acrobatics inside her chest.

“Hey, Sophia,” he said, grinning like he’d been waiting for her all week. Like this was all part of some long game he was effortlessly winning, and she’d just walked right into it.

She blinked. Her brain, already short-circuiting from caffeine withdrawal and mild existential dread, completely stalled.

 “Gabe.” 

“Wow. Didn’t even get a ‘hey’ back. Brutal.” He feigned offense, hand to chest like he’d been wounded.

She bit back a smile. “Hey.” 

“See? That wasn’t so hard, Harvard.” His smile widened, annoyingly pleased.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” she said, because it was the least embarrassing sentence her brain could come up with.

“Maybe this is fate”, Gabe just shrugged.

“I don’t believe in fate.” She huffed out a laugh, sharp and automatic.

“Of course you don’t,” he said, as if it delighted him. “You probably believe in very complicated math and being exactly three minutes early to everything.”

“I believe in being on time, and that’s at least 5 minutes early” she corrected, because she couldn’t not. 

He raised his eyebrows, clearly amused. “That’s the most terrifying sentence I’ve ever heard. And I once heard one of my teammates say pineapple belongs on steak.”

It earned a tiny, unwilling laugh out of her — which only seemed to encourage him.

“Are you always like this?” she asked, exasperated.

“Like what?” He tilted his head, all mock innocence. 

He had a teasing smile on his lips, aimed at her— the kind that made it way too easy to forget how to stay annoyed and made her smile back. And she hated it. He looked at her like he belonged in her space, like this version of her — the one that smiled too much and forgot to be on guard — was someone he’d known all along.

Sophia cleared her throat, stepped back half a pace. “So, what, you just roam the streets of Cambridge hoping to bump into unsuspecting women and call it destiny?”

“I prefer the term strategic wandering.” He shrugged like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, “I just figured if I wandered long enough, I might find you again. Worked, didn’t it?”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Nothing came out. What was she supposed to do with that? With him just saying things like that? This was supposed to be her regular morning. Not him. Not this. Not her heart doing that inconvenient little flutter thing again while his green eyes scanned her face as if he was reading her, finding out every secret she ever kept.

She should walk away. She knew she should walk away. But instead, she stood there, feet glued to the brick sidewalk, heart doing something absolutely unsanctioned in her chest. And he was still looking at her. Like he knew exactly what he was doing. Like maybe this wasn’t random at all. Still looking at her like she was the one thing he’d actually meant to find.

“You’re not seriously telling me this was on purpose.” She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. 

“I mean, define seriously.” Gabe tilted his head, like he was pretending to consider.

She gave him a look — the one that usually made first-years shrink and group project members remember they had deadlines. But Gabe just smiled.

“Okay, fine,” he said, holding up one hand in mock surrender. “Maybe I didn’t put an airtag in your pocket that night, but I did kind of hope I’d see you again.”

Sophia blinked. The air shifted again, her fingers tightening slightly around the strap of her tote bag.

“Why?” she asked, confused. “Why would you want that?”

“Because you were the best part of that night. And I’ve been wondering what the hell to do about that ever since I let you leave without giving me your number.”

She should’ve said something but her brain short-circuited at “best part of that night.” That felt like a trap. Or worse: the truth. So of course, he filled the silence, like he’d done every time they’d talked so far.

“I figured I could at least ask for your number this time,” he said, casual but not flippant. “Worst-case scenario, you ignore me forever and I cry into my cinnamon bun.”

Sophia looked down, because looking at him was starting to feel like too much. Then back up — because not looking felt worse.

“Do people usually fall for that line?”

“Only the most terrifyingly punctual ones.”

She snorted. “Fine. Give me your phone.”

He blinked. “Wait… seriously?”

“No, Gabe. I’m gonna throw it into the street instead. Maybe some car will run it over, maybe not, who knows? Makes the rejection feel a little more cinematic, you know?”

Gabe barked out a laugh — quick, surprised, delighted. Like she hadn’t yet heard him laugh, yet it felt like something she could grow used to. He handed it over before she could change her mind, and she typed it in — fast, clean, no emoji. Just her name, number, and a period. Professional. Controlled. Like everything else in her life. Except for this. Except for him.

He glanced down at the screen, then back at her like she’d handed him something breakable.

“Thanks,” he said, softer this time.

“Don’t make me regret it.” Sophia shrugged, pretending her heart wasn’t doing something absolutely ridiculous behind her ribs. 

And Gabe smiled at her like he knew it.

…

The drive back from Harvard to her apartment was a blur of noise and motion. She had her phone on speaker, one sibling after another chiming in, but Sophia didn’t mind it a bit; talking to the twins was the fun part of her day. She helped Austin prepare for his debate club while Chloé told her about the article she was writing for the next issue of The Trinity Times, while Taylor Swift played in the background. 

By the time the blonde finally got to her apartment, she swore she could just lay down on the ground and sleep right there. But there was a to-do list waiting — too long to ignore and too loud to forget.

Sophia was exhausted, but it was just another day she had to get through. She kept telling herself in just a few more hours she could crawl into her king-sized bed, sink into her Egyptian cotton sheets, and maybe breathe again. She repeated it like a mantra. Like she had to convince herself to keep going.

She dumped her tote on the floor by the door with a graceless thud, shrugged off her coat, and padded toward the kitchen on muscle memory alone. The only thing she could think of was getting her Icelandic coffee brewing in the pretentious Scandinavian coffee machine she absolutely did not need but had justified to herself with words like precision and efficiency. What it really gave her was ritual. The hiss of steam. The rich, warm scent filling up her otherwise quiet apartment.

The dining table, which hadn’t actually hosted a proper meal in weeks, was a disaster: notes, printouts, case briefs, a color-coded planner open to a week that hadn’t even started yet— already full. She sat with her coffee, picked up a pen, put it back down. Stared at the screen like she was waiting for something— and she was.

Her phone buzzed and her head snapped toward it, too fast, too hopeful. Not him. Of course it wasn’t him. It hadn’t been him all day. Still, every time her phone lit up with a notification, she looked.

She tried not to but failed every time. It was never him, so she gave up and told herself it was nothing. Convinced herself that he wasn’t going to text her and it had just been one of those fleeting, cinematic little moments — sparkling and bright, but ultimately meaningless.

She buried herself in readings, answered two emails, and ignored others. Tried to focus on the words on her screen and forget about the way he’d looked at her like she was something he’d meant to find. She got halfway through reading a 17-page PDF titled “Optimising collective accuracy among rational individuals in sequential decision-making with competition.”and told herself again that it meant nothing. Just some dumb, flirty interaction she didn’t need to overthink.

Even if a tiny part of her kinda hoped he’d show up again. Same reckless grin, same stupid one-liner, same way of looking at her like she was the only thing he’d actually come there to find.

But he didn’t, so she worked.The hours bled together after that — emails, color-coded chaos, one call after another. Her eyes flicked to her phone too often. She hated that. Hated herself a little for it. But the part of her that had stood frozen on the sidewalk like a romance novel heroine hadn’t caught up to the rest of her yet. Until, hours later, her phone buzzed again and she didn’t even look up at first. But when she did and it was him.

GABE: Hey, Harvard. It’s Gabe. You free Friday? I know a nice café on Tremont St we could meet. Thought you might like it ;)

She froze, her thumb hovering over the screen. The room didn’t get quieter, but it felt like it had. The blonde felt like the moment had pressed pause on everything else. Her heart did that stupid little thing again — a skip, a stutter, like it hadn’t been trained for this kind of message. Like it didn’t know what to do with the way she felt just thinking about him. Like the butterflies in her stomach had flown into her veins, rushed up her bloodstream, and were now all squished together inside her heart.

He wanted to see her. Her. On purpose. Outside of the sticky bar they met or the random encounter mid-Cambridge. It shouldn’t have meant that much. It shouldn’t have felt like a decision that could reroute her entire life. And yet it did. 

She stared at the text for way too long, just to be sure it was real and she hadn’t hallucinated it into existence out of pure delusion and wishful thinking. But there it was, undeniably real and impossible to ignore. Gabe had actually texted, with a real plan and real intentions to take her out. But it meant more than that. It wasn’t about taking her out, it was about her letting him. And suddenly, she didn’t know if she was ready for that.

She had her entire life already mapped out —  That wasn’t the plan. She had plans. Plans that didn’t involve a starry-eyed hockey player. She had goals and timelines and five-year visions and post-graduate consulting internships. She didn’t have time to be smiling at her phone like she was sixteen. She didn’t just move things around. She stuck to the plan. It kept her safe. Balanced. In control. She did not, under any circumstances, get distracted. Or improvise. Or fall for boys she met at loud bars and looked at her like she was the only thing that mattered.

And Gabe was impulsive and magnetic and dangerously good at making her laugh when she was supposed to be indifferent and he made her want to mess up her entire schedule to go out with him. Part of her, who had laughed at his stupid attempts at comedy and looked up every single time her phone buzzed, kind of wanted to say yes. This illogical side of her brain wanted to see him again, even if it meant losing her balance. Even if it meant letting him shake up everything she’d carefully arranged to stay steady.

She liked constants. Constants were safe. Predictable. You could build entire systems around them. But even she knew that without variables, the equation never moved forward. Without variables, there’d be no discoveries, no growth. No falling apples. No gravity. No moon landing. Maybe this was her variable. And, in that moment, the part of her brain yearning for her— for once in her life— just do something without a pros and cons list took over.

Her fingers hovered, then typed — SOPHIA: I’d love to.And send.

Just like that, her carefully balanced world shifted for good.

[94perreaults]

I've been so busy the last few days but I just saw how well the posts — that one will one shot, especifically— are doing and just got soooo happy! Hopefully, I'll get something out this week,— maybe TPP chapter 3. (If I don't post it, at least I'll spoil it with a sneak peak later this week lol)

[94perreaults]

loml ll WS2

SUMMARY: From meeting Will Smith at a college party, to losing him.

a/n: Hi! thought it'd be good to post a little one shot. It wasn't supposed to be 3 thousand words long, but I couldn't have written it any shorter. It's inspired by Taylor Swift's loml (and there's some references to other TS' songs, try looking for it!). Anyways, live laugh love Will Smith hockey. . If you read this so far, thanks! I hope you like it! Likes, reblogs and asks are always welcomed! Requests are open, feel free to ask something. Or just talk to me, I don't bite but I am a big chatter. Thanks for reading it! <3

It was a cold day, as it is more often than not in Boston. The kind of cold that settled into your bones and made you question every life decision, like moving across the country for college or choosing an 8 a.m. lecture three times a week.

(Y/N) was just trying to get used to being a college freshman, — the weird, liminal blur between still-a-kid and figure-it-out-yourself. Most days, she floated somewhere in between. As long as she didn’t stay in her dorm with a mug of mint tea, re-reading Clockwork Angel for the third time that semester (even if she was, and always would be, Tessa Gray’s biggest fan), she was already considering it a win for the day. Until she sat in class next to a redhead named Abigail, and soon enough, they were best friends. Abigail talked too fast, wore Doc Martens in the rain, and had an annoying habit of always being right — especially when she said, “You’re coming to this party with me. No excuses.”And (Y/N) did.  She tried to say no, but Abigail had given her that look — the one that said I know what’s good for you, even if you don’t — and thirty minutes later, (Y/N) was tugging on a thrifted sweater and letting herself be dragged into a house that smelled like cheap beer and wet sneakers.

Since the second they got to the house, (Y/N) was looking around, trying to think of an excuse to go back to her tea and her books and the comfort of her dorm and her soft sheets and her worn-in pajamas. She told herself she’d only stay twenty more minutes. And then she was getting back to her comfort zone.

It’s called a “comfort zone” for a reason, and she liked being comfortable. Predictable. Safe.

Until she suddenly heard a loud laugh cut through the hum of music and conversation, easy and unguarded. It didn’t belong here — not in this too-loud, too-damp room full of people pretending to be cooler than they actually were. She turned her head without thinking, drawn to the sound. And there he was: Will Smith. 

He stood in the kitchen, beer bottle in hand. His head was thrown back in laughter, his blonde curls a little flattened from the rain, damp strands catching the light every time he moved. His hoodie was clinging to him in places it probably shouldn’t, the maroon and gold of “BC HOCKEY” stamped across his chest like a warning. He was beautiful in the kind of way boys shouldn't be at eighteen — a little too golden, a little too dangerous, like he was made to break your heart. She should've known then. She should’ve looked away. She didn’t.

And then — as if some cosmic joke was being played — he looked at her. And smiled.

He didn't look away. Instead, he started walking toward her.

(Y/N) panicked for a second — looked behind her like maybe he was smiling at someone else. But no. His blue eyes were locked on her, that stupidly charming grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Hey,” he said, stopping just in front of her. Up close, he smelled like rain and cheap beer and suddenly the smell wasn’t too bad anymore. “You don’t look like you wanna be here.”

“That obvious?” she said, her voice too soft, too honest. She hated that.

He laughed again, not as loud this time. Just for her. “Little bit. But I’m glad you are.”

 “Why?” She blinked. 

“Because now I get to talk to the prettiest girl in the room.” He answered. No hesitation, no thinking twice.

He had her speechless. She opened her mouth. Closed it. She had nothing. Literally nothing. Her brain had turned into static. Maybe to mush. All she knew is that it wasn’t working and she couldn’t come up with a single thing to tell him.

“That line usually works better when the girl responds.”Will tilted his head, amused, a teasing smile on his lips.

“I—uh—sorry,” she stammered, and immediately wanted to melt through the floor.

“What’s your name?” The blonde asked, smiling , like he found her flustered silence endearing instead of pathetic. 

“(Y/N).”

“(Y/N).” He repeated it like it was a secret. Like he planned on keeping it tucked away somewhere safe. “Pretty name for a pretty girl.”

After that, she was hooked. Between shared laughs and getting lost in the impossible blue of his eyes, (Y/N) knew — in that quiet, awful, wonderful way — that she wouldn’t be able to forget him, his smile and his eyes. Not even if she wanted to. It wasn’t just the way he looked at her, like she was the most interesting person in the room — like nothing else mattered but her. It wasn’t even the way he smiled at her, all soft edges and boyish charm, as if he couldn’t help it. It was the way he made her feel like she was seen, really seen, in a way that was rare and terrifying and kind of exhilarating. They ended up talking for what felt like hours, tucked into a corner of the too-small living room, the music from someone’s half-broken speaker vibrating the floorboards. They laughed like they’d known each other forever, like the universe had clicked them into place when their eyes met across that sticky kitchen floor. It felt reckless, the way time kept slipping between them — how suddenly it was 1AM, and she was still hanging onto every word, hoping he wouldn’t stop talking.

And the whole time, (Y/N) couldn’t shake this thought: Oh no. This is going to matter.

Because it already did.

…

It was late when Abigail showed up, telling (Y/N) it was time to go. 

So she stood up, brushing nonexistent lint off her sleeves like it would somehow make her nerves settle, even though her heart was a frantic mess — flutters, panic, and the ache of goodbyes she wasn’t ready for. Will stood with her, just as slowly. His eyes stayed on her like he was trying to memorize her face, like this wasn’t just a throwaway conversation at some dumb college party. Like this mattered. 

He stepped a little closer — just enough for her to notice how tall he was, how his shoulders curved toward her slightly, like the pull was mutual. Ocean-blue eyes looking into hers, she felt like she might sink down and die — like her body wasn’t built to hold this much hope and this much fear all at once. 

“Well, if you come to another party,” Will said, his voice low and a little teasing, “you should find me. I’ll be the guy trying to get your number again.”

(Y/N) hesitated. Her heart was pounding so loud it felt like it echoed in her ribs. 

“You… you don’t have to wait. I can give it to you now.” She said, in the smallest voice, barely above a whisper.

Will blinked. And then — slowly, like it was the best surprise he’d had all night — he smiled. Real and warm and a little dazzled.

“Yeah?” he asked.

She nodded, cheeks burning. “Yeah.”

He handed her his phone and she typed it in, trying not to overthink every letter. When she gave it back, he looked at the screen, then at her.

“I’m gonna text you,” he said, simple and sure. “And not just because I want to flirt with you at parties.”

He stepped back, just enough for her to pass. Just enough for the night to feel like it was folding closed. And as (Y/N) turned to go, Abigail slipped her arm through hers without a word, and they turned toward the door. But she couldn’t help herself, and looked back. Will was still watching her and still smiling.

The cold bit at her cheeks the second they stepped outside, but she barely noticed. Her fingers were already twitching to check her phone, even though it had only been five seconds. Maybe four. Her whole body felt like it was buzzing — like she’d just stepped off a rollercoaster and was still spinning, still reeling, still smiling like an idiot.

Beside her, Abigail nudged her shoulder. “So… what was that?”

(Y/N) didn’t answer at first. She was too busy thinking about the sound of his laugh, the look in his eyes, the warmth in her chest.

“I think I’m in trouble.” (Y/N) answered. 

…

By november, they were inseparable. 

They couldn’t even pinpoint when it happened. There was no dramatic shift, no lightning bolt moment where everything changed. It was slow. One day, Will was just the guy from that party. The one with the ocean-blue eyes and the stupidly charming smile. The next, he was her guy — the one who walked her to class with his hands in his pockets and knew her coffee order by heart. 

Everyone knew. If you saw one of them, the other wasn’t far. They were the kind of pair people started saying in the same breath — Will and (Y/N). (Y/N) and Will. Like a rhythm. Like it made sense.

They had their own quiet world — one built from inside jokes and voice notes at 2 a.m., from text threads that never really ended and conversations picked up like bookmarks during study breaks.

They didn’t rush it. They didn’t have to. They knew. They felt. They didn’t say it, at least not out loud. But it was there. That quiet, soul-softening thing that bloomed when someone looked at you like you mattered. When your hands brushed and the world tilted, just slightly, and it felt like gravity was different around them. Even if they weren’t really together yet,  it didn’t matter. There was a gravity between them that pulled without asking. A closeness that didn’t need a label. 

By November, it wasn’t just Will and (Y/N).

It was them. 

And for once, that didn’t feel like a loss. It felt like coming home.

…

By january, they made it official.

Not in a big, dramatic way. It just happened. She went home for the holidays and Will went to Sweden for the World Juniors. They were still texting 24/7, still sharing the little moments that mattered. She watched all his games. Celebrated the gold medal like it was the most important award in the world. 

But then, as soon as the tournament ended, and he stepped off that plane in Boston, everything was right again. His heart was racing — not from excitement over the gold, but from the thought of seeing (Y/N) again. The first thing he did after getting home wasn’t unpack his gear or hang up his medal; all he wanted was to see her, so he did. 

He didn’t text her to let her know he was back, didn’t make any plans. He just grabbed his bag, hailed a cab, and was on his way to her dorm. The cold air in Boston didn’t even register. All that mattered was that he was this close to her again.

(Y/N) opened the door with that same sleepy smile, her hair a little messy from the nap she’d been taking. Her eyes lit up the moment she saw him, and before either of them could say a word, he pulled her in, pressing a quick kiss to the top of her head, like he couldn’t help himself.

“I missed you,” he muttered, his voice rough from the flight, the long stretch of days apart.

“I missed you too,” she replied softly, still processing the fact that he was right there, hugging her like he was scared she might disappear if he let her go. 

They laid in her bed, close, holding each other tight. It felt right. Just like it was supposed to be. Neither of them said much. They didn’t need to.

His arm was wrapped around her waist, anchoring her to him, like he needed to feel her close. Her cheek rested against his chest, and she could feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her ear. He kept tracing slow circles on her back with the pad of his thumb, like he was memorizing the shape of her in silence.

“I could stay here forever,” he murmured suddenly, voice low and unguarded. “Like this. With you. It’s all I need.”

(Y/N) looked up at him, wide-eyed, the kind of look that made his stomach flip. He wasn’t sure why it tumbled out like that—maybe it was the way she felt in his arms, or how the world always seemed quieter when they were together.

Will had a plan. He was going to take her skating on Frog Pond, or maybe bring her her favorite pastry and a stupid handmade sign that said “Be mine?” Something sweet and a little dramatic—because she deserved that. But now? With her curled against him like she belonged there, looking up at him with those eyes that had undone him from the start? He couldn’t stop himself from saying the words he kept to him like a secret. 

“I like you,” he added, softer now, the words slipping out like a secret. “A lot.”

She blinked, then smiled, slow and full of something that made his heart catch. “I like you too, hockey boy.”

And then she kissed him. Or maybe he kissed her. It didn’t really matter. All that mattered was the way it felt—warm and certain and a little bit magic. And in that moment, the world stopped around them and they were all that mattered. They didn’t talk much after that, just held each other tighter, kisses and quiet smiles exchanged between soft exhales.

It felt right and perfect. 

It felt meant to be. 

…

By march, they were in love.

Completely, fully, unabashedly in love. The love that makes rom coms sweeter, and Taylor Swift songs better. The kind of love people write about and hope for. That wraps around you so slowly and gently you don’t even realize you’re in it—until you do. A love neither of them had ever felt before.

It was in the way he looked at her, like she held the whole universe in her eyes. In the way she said his name — soft, familiar, like home. It was late-night walks, forehead kisses, shared playlists, and the way they looked at each other. It was in everything around them, the way their lives had slowly, perfectly blended — two separate orbits crashing into one shared gravity.

And one night, when the moonlight spilled across her comforter and she was curled up beside him in that perfect, sleepy silence, Will said it.

“I think you’re the love of my life”, He said, looking at her, “ You’re it for me, baby.”

His fingers were tangled with hers. His thumb brushed the back of her hand like it was sacred.

She looked up at him — this boy with stars in his eyes and her name etched into the softest parts of his heart — and smiled like she’d known it all along.

“You’re it for me too.”

And this — them.

They were legendary.

…

By April, it was the beginning of the end.

Not that they knew it yet. Not fully. Not really.

But maybe some part of her heart flinched when the final buzzer rang in St. Paul. Maybe some part of him broke the second the game came to an end with a 2-0 win for Denver. No miracle, no redemption arc, no last-second overtime glory. Just heartbreak, drawn out over sixty minutes. Maybe they both knew it’d never be quite the same again after that.

She was frozen in the stands, heart breaking for her favorite guy. Teary-eyed, fingers clenched, barely breathing as she watched him linger on the ice a little longer than anyone else — gloves still on, like if he didn’t take them off, it wouldn’t be real. Like he could hold time in his hands and stop it from slipping through.

Her chest physically ached watching Will skate off with his head low, shoulders hunched like the weight of the loss had settled deep in his bones. She wanted to scream for him. For how hard he fought. For how much he wanted it. For how much he deserved better than this.

That night, she didn’t try to fix it. Didn’t try to say the right thing. She just held him as tight as she could, like maybe if she held him hard enough, long enough, she could keep the cracks from spreading. But deep down, in that quiet hotel room filled with what-ifs and heartbreak, something shifted. Something small. Something irreversible broke that night. Not between them, but around them. The illusion of invincibility. The timeline they thought they had. The belief that their little world would keep spinning forever.

They didn’t say it out loud — not then. But in the silence between heartbeats, it was there.

…

In may, it all came crashing down.

For most of the month, things didn’t feel quite right. Everything felt off. There was a distance between them that (Y/N) couldn’t ignore.The silence that lingered between their texts, their calls, weighed heavily on her. It wasn’t just the lack of words—it was the absence of him. She could feel him slipping away, little by little, and yet she had no idea why.

At first, she brushed it off. She told herself it was just him processing the sting of losing the National Championship. Or that the World Championship was coming, and he had made the team. She convinced herself that he was stressed, that he had a lot on his plate, repeating it over and over like a mantra. She needed to believe it, needed to reassure herself that they were fine, even if everything around her said otherwise.

She kept trying. She kept texting, kept calling, even though the answers were few and far between. Every time she sent a message, she hoped it would be the one that would get his attention, the one that would make things feel like they used to. But each reply, each silence, only made the space between them feel larger, heavier.

By the time he left for Czechia for the World Championship, the gap between them felt like an abyss. He’d said a quick goodbye, with a brief hug and a distracted kiss on her cheek. Nothing like their usual partings. No promise to keep in touch, no reassurance. Just a simple, “See you soon.”

The USA only made it to the quarter finals, losing to Czechia. And (Y/N) felt terrible, but she thought maybe everything would go back to normal now. She had thought, hoped, that maybe now things would settle. Maybe now he’d have the time to talk to her, to check in. 

But then the news came. From the Boston College Instagram account, no less. A post congratulating Will on signing with the Sharks, complete with a photo of him standing in his parents’ kitchen, the familiar warm glow of home around him. He hadn’t even told (Y/N) he was back yet—hadn't bothered to mention anything about coming home, or catching up, or anything at all. He had barely told her anything. Hadn’t given her anything more than one line answers in weeks.

But there he was, on her phone screen, grinning wide, a pen poised in his hand like it was the most casual thing in the world. His smile was the same as always, the one that made her heart skip a beat, the one that she’d come to know so well. But at that moment, it felt different. It felt like a gut punch—seeing it from an Instagram post instead of hearing it from him. Like he didn’t even consider telling her himself. She stared at the screen, her heart sinking, the words blurring in front of her eyes. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t told her. 

Her hands trembled as she picked up the phone, pressing the call button with shaky fingers. The ringing in her ear felt louder than it should have, each beat of it like a drum in her chest. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. She hoped, desperately, that he would pick up—that maybe, just maybe, this was all some sort of misunderstanding. But the voicemail cut her off before she could even say his name.

She hung up, staring at the screen, her vision blurry. The silence that followed felt louder than any noise. She had trusted him. She had believed in them. And now, it felt like he was slipping through her fingers, fading into the distance without so much as a goodbye. 

(Y/N) sent text after text, each one more desperate than the last, all of them going unanswered. She didn’t know what she was hoping for anymore. Maybe an apology, maybe an explanation. Something. Anything. She just wanted a sign he cared. The silence stretched on, suffocating her. The cold emptiness in her chest only grew.

She couldn’t sleep that night. Instead, she stayed up, staring at the screen as if it might suddenly light up with his name. As if maybe he’d realize what he was doing and call her. As if any of it had meant to him what it had meant to her. But the silence was deafening.

She replayed their last real conversation in her head—tried to pinpoint the moment everything had shifted. Tried to convince herself she hadn’t imagined it all. All the moments they had, when everything felt just right. Thinking back at all the times he had said he would never leave. All the promises he made and how she’d believed every word. 

She kept wondering if she had missed something, or done something wrong. Maybe she had been too much, or maybe not enough. The questions clawed at her in the silence, each one sharper than the last. She couldn’t wrap her head around how he left. How easily he’d disappeared. How effortlessly he’d let her go. As if she hadn’t memorized every corner of his laugh, every tired smile, every late-night confession. Yet, he left as if none of it had ever mattered. 

She went back to their texts, and the photos on her phone, as if it might hold an answer. Something to tell her why he’d given up on her, on them. 

And as the sun started to rise, casting pale light over the room that still smelled like him, she curled in on herself and whispered the only thing she hadn’t yet admitted out loud.

He was the loss of her life.

[94perreaults]

HEADCANONS l GP94

PART OF THE PERREAULT PARADOX

GABE AND SOPHIA HEADCANONS

Sophia doesn’t do PDA, unless she's drunk. All she needs is a little alcohol in her system and  she suddenly becomes very clingy. Gabe is living for it. 

After a hard day, she calls him just to hear him talk about literally anything and falls asleep to the sound of his voice.

Sophia sleeps better when he’s there and she can fall asleep to the sound of his breathing and the weight of his arm slung lazily over her waist.

Gabe talks in his sleep. Religiously. Sophia keeps a notes app full of his funniest quotes—he'll deny all of them if she ever shows it to him.

Gabe’s entire camera roll is a secret Sophia shrine. At one point, there’s probably more pics of her than of him in his phone.

When she’s sick, she pretends she doesn’t need anything. He shows up anyway—with soup, medicine, and she feels so grateful he didn’t listen to her.

He leaves sticky notes on her mirror when she has exams, like: “You’re the smartest person I know” or “Go destroy econ”

[94perreaults]

I have SO MUCH prepared for this Gabe AU and it makes me so excited! I wrote so much about my girl Sophia in the last few months—a girl has to survive econ somehow (I'm so not surviving it)

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the gp94 AU is super cute! love it already and can’t wait for more!!! 💐

THANK YOU!!! <3 I'm happy you're enjoying it and don't worry, there's much more to come!

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OUTLIERS l GP94

CHAPTER TWO OF THE PERREAULT PARADOX

SUMMARY: Somehow Gabe Perreault turns a casual conversation into a two-hour spiral of laughter, flirting, and dangerously soft smiles. Sophia’s night was supposed to be forgettable. Gabe makes sure it isn’t.

a/n: Once again, hi! Having so much ready for this AU in my Google Docs is actually driving me insane. I want to post everything all at once. All the thoughts, headcannons, and chapters. But, it's fine, I'll survive. Very anxiously, but I'll survive. This has more dialogue, which I'm not great at— but I'm trying! I'm a STEM girl, give me some time and it'll be less formal eventually (I hope. Fingers crossed). Sorry for the long notes, I'm a D1 yapper. If you read this so far, thanks! I hope you like it! Likes, reblogs and asks are always welcomed!

In statistics, an outlier is a data point that strays too far from the rest — easy to dismiss, impossible to ignore.

Sophia was great at ignoring things. Unnecessary emotions, distractions, people who didn’t use their turn signals. She had a system. A way of organizing her life into little folders she could close when needed. But, apparently there wasn’t a folder labeled “hot BC hockey guy with questionable fashion choices and a stupid smile.”

Because Gabe Perreault — with his backwards hat, his dumb charming energy, and his stupid perfect smile — refused to stay in the mental box where she put people like him. The kind she didn't take seriously. The kind she rolled her eyes at in dining halls and avoided at parties.

Except she wasn’t avoiding him. She was, in fact, sitting next to him at a sticky bar table with one leg bouncing under the surface and a vodka soda she’d barely touched. 

“Harvard?” he asked, like he already knew the answer.

She nodded, cautious. “How’d you guess?”

“You look like a Harvard girl.”

She tilted her head, narrowing her eyes. “Is that supposed to be an insult?”

“Nope,” he said, smiling. “Just explains why you looked at the beer list like it offended you personally.”

She almost smiled. Almost. “That’s because it did.”

He laughed — warm, loud, too easy for someone she’d just met. Like she’d said the funniest thing he’d heard all night.

“And you?” she asked, “BC?”

“Yepppp,” he said, popping the p like it was charming. (Spoiler alert: It was) “Don’t hold it against me.”

She raised a brow. “Give me a reason not to.”

That grin again — full of confidence and zero shame. “I’ve been told by a few my company’s a solid B-plus.”

And then he smiled again and it was like her brain hit save.

He introduced himself like it was nothing — like they weren’t total strangers in a bar that smelled like spilled beer and teenage regret. Like he did this kind of thing all the time. Maybe he did. But when he looked at her, it didn’t feel like a bit. It felt personal. Focused. Real.

And okay — maybe she didn’t want to like how he asked questions or actually listened when she talked. But there she was, letting him talk to her, joke, make her laugh. Out loud. In public. Like a lunatic.

What was this boy doing to her?

They talked. And talked. Until time stopped behaving like time. Until the bar felt like its own weird little snow globe. He kept smiling at her, and she kept not looking away. Not just because of the smile — but the way it was aimed at her, like she was funny. Like he got her. Like he’d already decided he liked her and was just waiting for her to catch up.

What felt like five minutes turned into an hour. Then two. Somehow, between watered-down drinks and his shameless flirting, they talked the whole night. And the way he looked at her — like he was tuning out the whole bar just to hear her finish a sentence — made something skip in her chest she definitely didn’t have time for. And every time she thought the moment might be over — that the spell might break — he’d say something else, some stupid little thing that made her forget what she was supposed to be doing with her life. Like making the Dean’s List. But any time he’d laughed and looked at her, with the kind of laugh that felt like sunlight breaking through February, she couldn’t think of anything else.

And just when she almost forgot that the world outside this strange, sticky bar still existed, Naomi reappeared in quick steps, with relief washing over her face, like she had been looking for Sophia, like she was worried.

“There you are,” she said, grabbing Sophia by the wrist. “It’s almost two. And I swear someone just tried to sleep with me by offering me some dodgy cryptocoin or something.”

Gabe stood too, hands in his pockets, watching her with that lazy, lopsided grin.

“Hey, Harvard,” he said. “Don’t be a stranger.”

Sophia didn’t promise anything.

But she also didn’t look away until Naomi dragged her out the door.

[94perreaults]

I love to think about how Gabe learns random econ terms because of Sophia. He'll drop something like “that's just game theory, baby” in the middle of a conversation and she’ll just stop and stare. 9/10 times he has no idea what he's talking about and uses it wrong but he thinks it sounds smart. One day Sophia finally sits him down and explains actual game theory and he’s like “wait… that’s what it means??”

[94perreaults]

I love writing AUs soooo much, like I didn't even know which I should post first before posting TPP but now more might come at any point

[94perreaults]

I'm so excited to post more about the Gabe AU, I'm having to control myself to post everything I have ready for it all at once

[94perreaults]

So excited to have finally posted but so nervous. Anyways, if you like it, my asks are open to anyone who wants to talk about it! I'll be busy for a few hours, but I'll come here as soon as possible <3

[94perreaults]

INITIAL CONDITIONS l GP94

CHAPTER ONE OF THE PERREAULT PARADOX

SUMMARY: Sophia tags along to a BC bar to help Naomi avoid her ex, expecting nothing but sticky floors and bad drinks. Instead, she meets Gabe Perreault.

a/n: Hi! Thank you for reading. I had been keeping this for myself for months, thinking If I should create this account, go back to writing and maybe post this. Eventually, I decided to give this a shot. I've been out of tumblr for a while,— since I've stopped being Kpop-obssesed— so this is my comeback. If you read this so far, thanks! I hope you like it! Likes, reblogs and asks are always welcomed!

In math, “initial conditions” are the values that define the starting point of a function or equation — the moment where everything begins.

Sophia Davenport-Hartman did not believe in fate, serendipity, or anything that couldn't be backed up by a well-drawn model. She liked things she understood, things that made sense. That's why she liked math. One plus one will always equal two — and she could tell you exactly why. That's also why she had no excuse for ending up in a bar that's a 15 minute drive away from Cambridge and smelled like cheap cologne, beer, and sweat. TNo model explained that one, no matter how much she tried.

"Remind me again why we’re here?” she asked, quick steps following her shorter friend inside.

Naomi, her best friend and recent dumpee of Thomas, an asshole Harvard computer science major with commitment issues, a God complex, and the emotional depth of a teaspoon, grinned. “Because Harvard bars are infested with exes. BC is fresh territory.”

Sophia grimaced. “So is Chernobyl.”

Sophia stood at 5'8 and looked exactly like someone who color-coded her Google Calendar (she does). Blonde hair in polished waves, sharp posture, blue eyes, pale skin with rosy cheeks. She wore a sleek black satin top, high-waisted jeans, leather boots, and a black leather jacket she probably took from her older sister's closet (as she often did).

Naomi was only five feet, but like Sabrina Carpente said, she left an impression. She was all confidence and chaos. Her long, dark brown hair fell in effortless waves, framing green eyes that always looked like they were up to something. She wore a red halter top, vintage jeans, and heels that barely made a dent in her height.

Even if everything within her was screaming at her to turn around and go back home, Sophia followed Naomi anyway, walking into the chaos of the bar. It was dimly lit, overcrowded, and somehow managed to be both sticky and cold. In other words: her personal hell.

She scanned the room like a disapproving anthropologist,— maybe she had been watching too much Bones, maybe she was becoming too much like Temperance Brennan. Looking around, silently calculating how long she needed to stay before it was socially acceptable to grab Naomi, call it a night and get an Uber.

Twenty-three minutes, maybe. Thirty-five if Naomi started dancing.

Sophia sipped her tragically watered down vodka soda and leaned against a high-top table that wobbled every time someone bumped into it. And then — just as she was deciding if she could fake food poisoning — she saw him.

He was laughing with his friends. Backwards hat. Messy curls. That look—like life was a game he’d already won, and he was just hanging around to enjoy the bonus levels.

He threw his head back laughing at something one of his friends said, full-bodied and unapologetic, like someone who hadn’t had a single existential crisis in his life.

She rolled her eyes and looked away. Then, for some reason she couldn’t quite justify, she felt the urge to look back. So, she did. And he was already looking at her.

Their eyes met just long enough to register the heat of it—before she turned back to her drink, suddenly fascinated by the condensation on her glass. 

Great. Got caught staring at the hot guy like a psycho. Great work, Sophia.

She knew she shouldn't have looked. It was stupid, she knew his type. Overconfident. Underdressed. Overhyped. He was exactly the kind of chaos she avoided.

And yet—there he was, walking toward her. And before she could escape, he was standing in front of her. Tall. Athletic. Looking at her — like she was a particularly interesting variable in an unsolvable equation. Curls escaping from his backwards cap. Curiosity tucked behind sharp green eyes.

With a backwards BC hockey hat.

Of course. A hockey player.

Oh, she thought, one of those.

“Gabe,” he said, offering a hand “Figured I should introduce myself before you spend the rest of the night pretending not to look at me again.”

She blinked.

She didn’t shake hands with strangers in bars. She also didn’t find hockey players cute. Or charming. Or interesting. And yet—here she was, slipping her hand into his without hesitation.

“Sophia.”

And just like that, the equation shifted.

[94perreaults]

THE PERREAULT PARADOX l GABE PERREAULT

Sophia Davenport-Hartman has mastered the art of control — a Harvard junior with a flawless GPA and a strict aversion to surprises. But then along comes Gabe Perreault: a full-blown paradox in sneakers and a backwards hat. A BC hockey star with NHL dreams and a grin that defies logic, he walks into her life and disrupts her perfectly calculated equation.

He’s younger, louder, messier — the kind of chaos she’s spent her life avoiding. But as their lives begin to intertwine, Sophia realizes Gabe doesn’t fit into any of her models. He breaks rules, ignores the margins, and redraws the axes. And somehow he still makes the math work.

MASTERLIST!

CHAPTER ONE: INITIAL CONDITIONS

CHAPTER TWO: OUTLIERS

CHAPTER THREE: VARIABLES & CONSTANTS

[94perreaults]

WELCOME TO LYRA'S WORLD!

lyra. 20. she/her. vancouver canucks & minnesota frost. scuderia ferrari. (un)professional sports commentator. trying to be a consistent writer. born to write romances forced to be a stem girly. english is not my first language. requests: open. come and talk to me at any time about anything!

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