🌙

19 i support women’s rights & wrongs🧘🏽‍♀️

[kafurscoffin]

Hello everybody.

Please share resources and don’t keep silent about Palestine. Dedicate your day for them today. Do not ignore them, do not let their voices go unheard.

Here are some resources you can share around:

daily click

esims for Gaza

call for a ceasefire

donate feminine hygiene kits

learn about Palestine

Education, sources, donations

Shut it down for Palestine

Please do not ignore this post, share as much information and resources as you can for Palestine.

[kooksandpearls]

garrett graham ❄︎ wanted you.

pairing – garrett graham x nursing student!reader summary – after a head injury at clinical, garrett graham gets to be the one doing the looking after for once. warnings – head injury, concussion, facial bruising, blood, medical care, patient aggression, emotional distress, caretaking, strong language notes from me – we're getting somewhere my loves!!!! based on this ask, hope u enjoy! <3 word count – 11.9k

navigation – masterlist |

The car smells like hospital hand sanitiser and Maria’s vanilla air freshener and the coppery, unpleasant trace of blood she’s pretty sure is still stuck somewhere under her nose.

She sits very carefully in the passenger seat with her bag clutched in her lap and the discharge papers folded into the front pocket because Maria had put them there for safekeeping after watching her try to read the same paragraph three times and then ask, quietly and with genuine confusion, whether nausea was spelled with an o. The answer is no. Apparently. She knows that. Usually.

Her head throbs with every tiny vibration of the road, a dull, spreading pressure behind her eyes and across the bridge of her nose, pulsing in time with her heartbeat like her skull has decided to develop a second career as a bass drum. The split in her lip keeps reopening every time she moves her mouth too much, which is rude, considering she would very much like to continue pretending this is all fine and fine people generally require functional lips for lying.

There’s dried blood under her nose. She can feel it there, tight and flaky against her skin, the way she can feel the swelling beginning to gather beneath both eyes, heavy and hot and humiliating. 

Her scrub top is folded in a plastic bag somewhere near her feet because the front of it’s torn and streaked with blood from the first few awful seconds before anyone could get to her, before security and Maria and Steph from triage had managed to pull her backwards by the waist while the patient screamed so loudly the whole department seemed to go airless around it.

It wasn’t his fault, not really. He was frightened and out of it and nobody expected him to come up that fast, one second curled tight on the bed with his voice climbing, the next swinging blind and hard enough that his elbow caught her straight across the face. 

She remembers the crack of pain before she remembers making a sound. Then her own cry seemed to set him off worse, his hand catching a fistful of her scrub top before she could step back, the brutal pull forward, the bed rail coming up too fast.

Her nose had hit first. Or her mouth. Or her forehead. It’s all a little rearranged now, bright flashes and metal and Maria shouting her name and someone saying, “Security, now,” with enough force to make the whole bay move.

She knows it wasn’t anyone’s fault. She knows psych presentations can turn quickly, knows agitation isn’t always a straight line with warning signs and a polite little interval where everyone gets to reposition themselves safely. 

She knows all the rational things. She also knows her face hurts badly enough that thinking in full sentences feels like pushing through wet cement, and she is, medically speaking, having a really fucking shit time.

Beside her, Maria drives like a woman who’s spent twenty years transporting compromised student nurses and actual glassware with equal care. One hand on the wheel, eyes on the road, her voice soft enough not to scrape against the inside of her skull when she says, “How’s the head, honey?”

She exhales through her nose and immediately regrets it because her nose doesn’t wish to be involved in breathing at this time. “Super normal. Love having one.”

Maria makes a small sound that could be a laugh if it wasn’t wrapped so tightly in concern. “Nausea?”

“Not worse.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

She lets her head rest back against the seat and keeps her eyes on the blurred glow of streetlights sliding across the windscreen. The movement makes her stomach roll faintly, but not enough to tell Maria about, because Maria has already done enough. 

Maria had stood in the consult room while Dr. Patel checked her pupils and her nose and the swelling around her cheekbones, one warm hand resting between her shoulder blades every time she tried to make a joke and ended up going quiet instead. 

Maria had found her spare hoodie from the locker room and helped her into it when lifting her left arm made pain streak down through her shoulder. Maria had said, very gently, you’re not catching the bus after getting your bell rung in my department, like that settled the matter.

“A little,” she admits. “But I’m not going to vomit in your car.”

“Kind of you.”

“I’m very thoughtful.”

“You’re concussed.”

She sighs softly. “Also that.”

Maria’s eyes flick over her in the dim light, quick and practised. “You remember what Dr. Patel said?”

She does. Mostly. The words have been looping vaguely around the edges of her head since he handed her the paperwork. Mild concussion. No fracture. Neuro obs stable. X-ray clear. Rest. No driving. No placement until reviewed. Come back if vomiting, worsening headache, confusion, unusual drowsiness, changes in vision, weakness, seizure, or if anything feels wrong enough that you’re trying to talk yourself out of seeking help.

No being alone tonight.

That last one had landed harder than the rest, somehow. Maybe because the ED had been too bright and too busy and she had been sitting there with a wad of gauze under her nose, feeling like a leaking appliance. Maybe because the doctor had said it in that professional, non-negotiable way that made arguing feel childish. Maybe because the idea of someone watching her because her brain had been knocked around made her feel suddenly, horribly small.

“Wake me every few hours,” she says. “Check I’m not getting weirder.”

Maria’s mouth tips. “You said weirder.”

“That’s the clinical term.”

“It’s not.”

“It should be. Easier to spell than altered level of consciousness.”

Maria actually laughs that time, but it fades quickly. “You can’t be home alone.”

“I know.”

“And you’re not going to pretend you’re fine and sit in your dorm by yourself because you feel embarrassed?”

Her eyes drift shut for half a second, then open again when the darkness makes her head swim. “I’m not embarrassed.”

Maria’s silent.

She sinks a little lower in the seat. “Okay. Maybe a normal amount.”

“There is no normal amount of embarrassed after being assaulted by a patient at work.”

“It wasn’t assault.”

Maria sighs. “Honey.”

“He didn’t know what he was doing,” she argues.

“That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt.”

Her mouth twitches before she remembers her lip is split. Pain snaps bright and sharp through the swollen skin. “Ow. Fuck.”

Maria’s hand lifts slightly off the wheel like she wants to reach over, then thinks better of it. “Don’t smile.”

“That’s bleak advice.”

“Currently medical advice.”

She presses her tongue carefully to the inside of her lip and tastes blood again. The whole evening keeps arriving in pieces. The patient’s arm. The bed rail. Maria’s face above hers, too close and too worried. Someone cutting away the torn edge of her scrub top. 

Her own hands shaking in her lap while she tried to tell everyone, very reasonably, that she could finish the shift if they just gave her a second. As if she hadn’t been bleeding on her own shoes.

The thought makes heat rise under the bruising in her face, which is unfair because her face has already suffered enough. “God,” she mutters. “Everyone saw.”

Maria sighs, not impatient, but close to something sad. “Yes, everyone saw that you got hurt.”

“I’m the student.”

“Yes,” Maria nods.

“I’m supposed to be useful.”

“You were useful all day.”

“I ended the shift with a concussion and a bloody nose.”

“You ended the shift injured because an unpredictable situation escalated. That’s not a performance review.”

She knows that. She does. She would say that to anyone else. She would put her hand on another student’s shoulder and mean it completely. She would tell them they were in the wrong place at the wrong second and that sometimes you can do everything right and still get hurt because hospitals are not made of lesson plans and perfect outcomes.

Unfortunately, she’s not another student. She’s herself. And herself currently has blood in her hoodie sleeve because she keeps forgetting not to touch her face.

They hit a bump in the road, not even a large one, but it sends pain blooming through her skull with such immediate nastiness that she sucks in a breath through her teeth and grips the strap of her bag.

Maria notices. “Almost there.”

She opens her mouth to ask where there is, and then remembers campus, her dorm, her room, the bed with the old sweatshirt shoved under the pillow, the roommate who is not there. Her stomach drops so abruptly it makes the nausea worse. “Shit.”

Maria glances over. “What?”

“My roommate’s not home.”

“Tonight?”

“She’s at her sister’s. Like, hours away.” She closes her eyes, then opens them again because the inside of her head does not enjoy visual privacy right now. “Fuck. I forgot.”

“Okay.” Maria’s voice stays calm. That is possibly the worst part. “Do you have someone else? A friend you could stay with?”

She thinks of Lucy first, because that’s the correct answer. Lucy would absolutely let her stay. Lucy would probably panic and then overcorrect into a level of cheerfulness that could qualify as a secondary head injury. Monique would be better, quieter, but Monique has an exam tomorrow and lives across campus in a building where the lift is always broken, which feels like a personal attack under current conditions.

Then her brain, unhelpfully and immediately, supplies Garrett.

Garrett’s room with the lamp on. Garrett’s hand at the back of her neck. Garrett’s voice low in her ear telling her to stop studying and sleep. Garrett sitting on the edge of her bed taking off her shoes after a bad shift. 

Garrett looking at her like competence is something he can be proud of even when she feels like she’s wearing it badly. Garrett, who has been hit in the head enough times that concussion protocol is probably written somewhere in his bones.

Garrett, who’s not technically her boyfriend, except the technicalities feel very stupid when her head is throbbing and her lip is bleeding and she wants him so badly it makes her chest ache worse than her shoulder.

“Yeah,” she says, and her voice comes out softer than she means it to. “Uh. Yeah. I have someone.”

Maria doesn’t look smug. That’s probably part of why she is a good preceptor. “Address?”

She gives her the hockey house. The words feel bigger in the car than they should. Maybe because saying his address out loud to Maria feels like she’s accidentally handed over evidence. Maybe because the last time Maria saw Garrett, he’d been standing in the ED hallway with panic sitting badly under his skin while Logan asked what day it was for the third time. 

Maybe because Maria now knows exactly where to take the concussed student nurse with the split lip and the ruined scrubs, and that place is apparently Garrett Graham’s house.

Maria only nods and changes lanes.

The hockey house is lit up when they pull onto the street, every downstairs window glowing warm and yellow into the cold, the porch light flickering faintly over the steps. There are cars out front, some vaguely familiar. The sight of it loosens something in her chest. At least someone’s home. At least there’s a couch, and people who know what pupils are supposed to do, and Garrett somewhere inside if the universe has decided to be kind after all the other things it did tonight.

Maria puts the car in park and turns toward her. “Wait. I’ll help you.”

“I can walk.”

“I didn’t ask,” Maria responds.

She huffs, which hurts less than smiling. Maria gets out first and comes around, opening the passenger door before she can argue again. The cold hits her face and instantly makes her nose ache in a new and innovative way. 

She climbs out slowly, one hand braced on the car door, shoulder protesting when she reaches for the strap of her bag. Maria takes it from her without comment.

“Rude,” she murmurs.

“Concussed.”

“Everyone keeps saying that like it explains everything.”

“It explains a lot.”

The walk up the path feels longer than it should. The porch steps require more concentration than she likes, which annoys her because she’s watched drunk freshmen navigate these steps while carrying open cups and zero dignity. Her sneakers scrape lightly over the boards. 

Somewhere inside, someone yells something that might be, “You’re cheating,” followed by Dean’s voice saying, “It’s not cheating if the game lets me do it,” which feels like an argument that has existed in this house for generations.

She knocks once because lifting her hand twice seems excessive. There’s a crash inside. A hockey house crash. Male voices overlap, loud and irritated and completely unaware of the fact that sound is currently a weapon. She winces before she can stop herself, one hand coming up toward her temple and hovering there uselessly.

Maria’s mouth tightens. “You okay?”

“Yep.”

The door opens on Logan in sweats and a faded Briar shirt, hair a mess, controller in one hand, expression halfway to annoyed until he sees her. Everything drops out of his face.

He says her name once, startled and low, and then, “What the fuck happened?”

The room behind him seems to quiet in stages. Maybe because of his voice. Maybe because she’s standing on the porch looking like an ED discharge summary with legs. 

She becomes suddenly, viciously aware of herself: the bruising already shadowing beneath her eyes, the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood dried under it despite Maria helping her clean up, the split lip, the hoodie zipped crooked because raising her shoulder hurts. She hadn’t thought much about how she looked in the car because looking required mirrors and mirrors required courage she didn’t currently possess.

Then Garrett appears behind Logan, and the whole night rearranges itself around the look on his face. He must have been in the living room. His hair’s damp at the edges like he showered not long ago, curls loose over his forehead, sweatpants low on his hips, a dark t-shirt pulled tight across his shoulders. 

He steps into the doorway with his mouth already forming some question, probably a chirp, probably something warm and annoying about why she’s showing up with supervision. He sees her, and all the colour leaves his face, as if something has reached into him and taken it by the roots.

His eyes move over her once, too fast and not fast enough. Nose. Mouth. Bruises. Hoodie. The stiff way she’s holding her shoulder. Maria beside her with the bag and the paperwork. Back to her face, where his attention catches and stays.

She tries to smile. It’s a mistake immediately. Pain sparks through her lip, and she winces instead, which feels like the saddest possible version of flirting. “Hi,” she says.

Garrett doesn’t answer.

Logan steps back at once. “Jesus. Come in. Fuck. Come in.”

Warmth and sound and the smell of boys and pizza and laundry detergent roll over her as she steps into the house. The living room lights make her eyes sting. Dean and Tucker are on the couch, controllers in hand, the TV paused mid-game like they’ve both forgotten the concept of winning. Dean’s mouth opens. Tucker’s face changes quietly, which somehow feels worse.

“Holy fuck,” Dean half-yells.

The words hit too loud. She flinches before she can make herself not do it.

Tucker moves instantly. “Dean, get the lights, man.”

“What? Oh. Shit, yeah.” Dean scrambles for the lamp with the guilty urgency of a man who’s suddenly remembered inside voices exist. The room drops into a dimmer yellow, the overhead going off, the TV brightness turned down under Tucker’s quick hand. It changes the whole house at once, softens the edges, takes the blade out of the light.

Maria watches all of it with a look that would be approving if she weren’t still too professional to be obvious about it. 

“She’s had a head injury,” she says, voice calm, eyes moving to Garrett because everyone’s eyes move to Garrett, because this is his house and not-his-girlfriend has arrived at his door concussed and bleeding. “Mild concussion. X-ray was clear, no nasal fracture, but she needs monitoring overnight. No alcohol, no driving, no being alone. Keep the lights low, noise down. She can sleep, but someone needs to check on her as per the discharge instructions. If she starts vomiting, gets more confused, can’t be woken, worsening headache, vision changes, weakness, anything that feels off, take her back in.”

Garrett nods slowly. He’s still staring at her.

Logan, maybe because Garrett looks like he’s briefly lost access to language, reaches out and takes the paperwork from Maria. “Yeah. We’ve got it.”

Maria turns back to her, and her face softens in that way that makes the back of her throat go tight. “I’ll see you in a couple days, honey. Not tomorrow. Rest tomorrow.”

She nods carefully. Even that tiny motion makes pressure throb through her skull. “Thanks for driving me.”

“Text me when you wake up.” Maria’s eyes flick toward Garrett again. “And listen to them for once.”

That almost makes her smile. She resists, heroically. “No promises.”

Maria gives her shoulder the gentlest squeeze, nowhere near the painful side, then lets herself out. Logan closes the door softly behind her, like the whole house has been put on medical quiet time. 

For half a second, nobody moves. Then Dean says, much quieter this time, “Who the fuck did that?”

She lets out a breath that doesn’t quite make it to a laugh. “Hi to you too.”

Dean’s on his feet now, controller abandoned on the couch, all his usual lazy beauty sharpened into something pissed and bright. “I’m serious.”

“I know.” Her head’s beginning to pound harder now that she’s standing still. The adrenaline from getting out of the car, climbing the steps, seeing Garrett’s face, all of it drains down through her body and leaves her feeling oddly hollow. 

Garrett notices, his hand comes to her elbow, barely touching at first like he’s afraid pressure might break something. The warmth of him lands through the hoodie and her body, traitorous and exhausted, turns toward it before her pride has any say.

She steps into him. She leans forward and presses her forehead against his chest because the angle is the only one that doesn’t put pressure on her nose, one hand curling weakly in the soft fabric of his shirt. 

Garrett tenses under her for a fraction of a second, like seeing her had knocked him out of himself and her touching him is what pulls him back in wrong. Then his arms come around her.

Careful. So careful it almost makes her cry. One hand settles at the back of her head without pressing, fingers spread wide over her hair, the other around her waist, holding her there with a gentleness that feels nothing like the boy who body checks men into boards for sport and everything like the one who once took her UGGs off because outside shoes didn’t belong in bed.

She closes her eyes, just for a second. Garrett’s voice, when it finally comes, is rough enough that she feels it against her cheek. “Baby.”

“I’m okay,” she says into his shirt, because she’s decided to start lying as a hobby.

His hand flexes once at her waist. “You’re bleeding.”

“I’m not actively dying.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

She manages a weak shrug. “Clinically significant distinction.”

Logan exhales behind them, shaky in a way he probably wishes nobody noticed. Tucker moves around them quietly, collecting controllers, turning the game off properly, lowering the TV volume until the room becomes mostly the hum of the refrigerator and distant campus noise through the windows. Dean’s still standing there looking like he needs something to hit and has, unfortunately for everyone, found only furniture.

Garrett pulls back enough to look at her, but not far enough that she loses him. His eyes scan her face again, slower now. It’s almost worse than the pain. The way his gaze catches on the swollen bridge of her nose, the blood at one nostril, the split in her lower lip. He looks wrecked by it. Offended, almost, like her body has done something behind his back.

“Come sit down,” he says.

She wants to make a joke about his captain voice. She really does. It’s right there, familiar and easy. Unfortunately, her brain loses the sentence halfway through assembling it, and by the time she finds a piece of it, Garrett’s already guiding her to the couch.

Dean moves a cushion out of the way. Tucker places another behind her back. Logan stands nearby with the paperwork in one hand, reading it with a frown so intense it looks like he’s preparing for finals in head trauma. 

They all shift around her with this strange, quiet purpose that makes her chest feel too full and her face feel too sore to hold whatever expression she wants. Garrett crouches in front of her and reaches for her sneakers.

She blinks down at him. “What are you doing?”

His mouth barely moves. “Taking your shoes off.”

“I can take my shoes off.”

He looks up at her, and there is something in his face so taut and helpless that the argument falls apart in her lap. “Can you let me?”

Oh. That’s not fair. That’s wildly not fair.

She swallows and looks away first. “Yeah.”

Garrett unties her sneakers one at a time, slow with the laces, careful of the way moving her leg pulls faintly at her shoulder. He sets them neatly beside the coffee table. When her feet are free, she curls her legs up onto the couch without thinking, tucking herself sideways into the cushions because upright feels like an idea designed by people whose skulls are not currently full of angry bees.

Garrett’s hand hovers near her knee, then settles there. “Did you want water?”

She nods, then instantly regrets the movement. Pain washes across her forehead, hot and thick. Her eyes squeeze shut. “Ow. Fuck. Yes, please.”

Garrett rises. Her hand moves before she decides to move it, fingers catching the loose fabric of his sweatpants at the thigh, barely enough to stop him if he wanted to go. But he does stop. Immediately. She opens her eyes. Garrett’s looking down at her hand on him. Then he looks at Logan.

Logan’s already moving. “I’ve got it.”

Garrett sits beside her instead. He does it carefully, couch dipping with his weight, his thigh warm along the outside of her curled legs. He doesn’t crowd her face. Doesn’t pull her in too fast. Simply sits close enough that she can feel him there, his hand returning to her knee, thumb still because even his restless touching has gone cautious.

Dean hasn’t let the original point go. He sits on the edge of the coffee table across from her, elbows on his knees, all dramatic cheekbones and very real anger. “No, seriously. Who the fuck did this?”

She opens her mouth. The first answer is too long and falls apart before she can get to it. Her head gives one hard pulse. She shuts her eyes briefly, tries again. “A patient.”

Dean stares at her. “A patient did this to your face?”

“He was really agitated,” she explains as Logan comes back with water. He hands it to Garrett, not her, which would be annoying if her hands didn’t feel vaguely unreliable. “It escalated. He didn’t mean it.”

Dean’s expression says that this isn’t helping his blood pressure. “He didn’t mean it.”

“No.” She lets Garrett pass her the glass, taking it with both hands because one feels optimistic. The cold of it is nice against her palms. Her lip stings when she drinks, water catching briefly at the split, but her throat is dry enough that she keeps going anyway. “He was out of it. Psych presentation. It wasn’t– nobody did anything wrong.”

Tucker returns from the kitchen with an ice pack wrapped in a tea towel and offers it out with both hands like a peace treaty. “For your face. Or your shoulder. Or… wherever. I don’t know. I’m not the medical one.”

She takes it and immediately loves him a little for the towel. “Thanks, Tuck.”

Logan, reading from the discharge sheet now, says, “It says shoulder strain?”

“Logan.”

“What? It does.”

“Stop reading my lore out loud,” she huffs.

Dean gives her a look. “Your lore says shoulder strain and concussion.”

She lets her eyes close for a moment. “My lore is private.”

“Your lore showed up bleeding on our porch.”

She would like to laugh. She really would. Instead, the corner of her mouth twitches, pain bites through her lip, and her eyes water instantly. “Ow. God. That’s so annoying.”

Garrett’s hand comes up, stops short of her face. His fingers curl in midair before he lets them drop. “Your lip’s split and you’ve still got dried blood under your nose, baby.”

The baby does something terrible to her. It always does, but right now it’s worse because his voice is stripped down to the bone. He’s looking at her like he’s trying to keep himself from shaking by cataloguing every visible injury.

She shrugs with one shoulder and immediately regrets that too. Pain tugs from the side of her neck down into the joint, sharp enough that her breath catches.

Garrett sees it. His jaw flexes. “Don’t shrug.”

“I forgot.”

“How do you forget your shoulder hurts?”

“Concussion,” she says, because if everyone else gets to use it as an explanation, so does she. “It looks worse than it is. Promise. I’m just drained. And foggy. I keep losing my train of thought, which is the rudest symptom. Like, I was mid-sentence with Dr. Patel and just fully misplaced the rest of it.”

Tucker’s mouth softens. “That sounds scary.”

She looks down at the glass in her hands. The condensation has started to wet her fingers. “Mostly annoying.”

She lifts the ice pack toward her face, but her shoulder protests halfway up and makes the movement jerky. Garrett catches the pack before she can pretend she meant to do that.

Her eyes flick to him. “I can hold an ice pack.”

“I know.” His voice is quieter now. He shifts closer, one knee turning toward her on the couch, the wrapped ice pack careful in his hand. “But how many times have you looked after me, huh?”

She has no good answer for that. Too many. Not enough. In locker room hallways, in his bed, on this exact couch with bruises over his ribs while he tried to convince her hockey was a sufficient medical explanation for all bodily damage. She’s pressed ice to his cheek and taped his fingers and made him take painkillers and once threatened to call Maria for backup if he said manageable one more time.

Garrett’s mouth moves faintly, not a smile, but close enough to hurt. “Let me.”

She lets him. Garrett lifts the ice pack to her face with a care that makes her throat tighten, angling it over the bridge of her nose and the swelling beginning to spread under one eye without pressing too hard. 

The cold hurts first, a bright, mean sting over bruised skin, then settles into something almost relieving. Her breath comes out shaky despite her best efforts.

“Too much?” he asks.

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” She shifts her gaze past him because his face is currently unmanageable. Dean and Tucker and Logan are all watching her with varying degrees of poorly concealed worry. Dean looks like he’s biting the inside of his cheek hard enough to draw blood. Logan still has the discharge paper. Tucker has both hands shoved into the pocket of his hoodie like he doesn’t trust them not to hover. “What?”

Dean blinks. “What?”

“You guys look like this every week and I don’t stare at you.”

Logan snorts, but it comes out thin. “That’s because we’re hot when we’re bruised.”

She manages an eye roll, which is a win. “You’re concussed half the time and deeply irritating the other half.”

“Range,” Dean says automatically.

She points weakly toward the TV with the hand not holding her water. “Relax. Go back to your video games.”

Tucker’s brows pull together. “No, but– but it’s different.”

Her eyes move to him.

He looks briefly embarrassed, then pushes through it anyway. “It’s you.”

Her chest does that awful thing again, too soft and too sore at the same time. She looks down because taking that directly from Tucker feels unfairly intimate, like he’s handed her something warm without warning.

“I’m okay,” she says, and it’s not entirely true, but she tries to make it sound close enough. “Really. I was observed. I had neuro obs. I had scans. No fracture. Nothing’s broken. Just bruised and concussed and mildly tragic.”

“Mildly?” Dean asks.

“Moderately if you keep fucking yelling.”

His face changes instantly. “Sorry.”

The apology is so immediate that she almost smiles again and has to stop herself like a responsible person. “It’s okay.”

Garrett’s hand holding the ice pack is steady. His eyes have barely left her face, and the longer she sits there under that attention, the more she realises he still hasn’t really said anything. Not like Garrett. Not a joke, not an actual question, not one of the bossy little comments that usually lands him in trouble and somehow still gets her to drink water.

His silence has weight. It sits beside her on the couch, pressed into the careful line of his shoulders.

She turns her head just enough to look at him. “You’re being weird.”

His eyes flick to hers. “I’m not.”

“You are.”

His mouth presses together. For a second, he looks younger than he usually does. Less Briar captain, less untouchable campus landmark, more boy on a couch holding an ice pack to a girl’s swollen face with fear making a mess under his skin.

He swallows. “Do you want me to loosen your hair?”

The question is so small and practical that it nearly undoes her. Her hair is still claw-clipped from placement, half-fallen now, strands tugging at her scalp from where it got pulled in the scuffle and then shoved messily back while she was being assessed. She had forgotten about it until he said it, and now she can feel every tight little pull at the roots, all of it feeding into the headache sitting behind her eyes.

“Yes, please,” she says.

Garrett lowers the ice pack and hands it to Tucker without looking. Tucker takes it like an assistant in surgery. Garrett turns slightly toward her, one hand moving behind her head, not touching at first. “Tell me if it hurts.”

“It all hurts.”

His face does something awful.

She softens her voice. “I’ll tell you if it hurts more.”

“Okay.” His fingers find the clip carefully. He’s taken her hair down before, usually with far less medical purpose and far more smugness, but now every motion is slow, almost reverent. The clip gives, and the weight of her hair loosens down her back. The relief is immediate enough that her eyes flutter shut without permission.

Garrett catches that too. “Better?”

“Mhm.”

He combs the fallen strands away from the side of her face with his fingers, avoiding the swelling, avoiding the blood, avoiding every place that might make her flinch. His thumb brushes once near her temple, feather-light. 

She opens her eyes and finds him looking at her. “I’m okay,” she says again, quieter this time. “Really.”

Garrett doesn’t argue. That might be worse. He only nods once and takes the ice pack back from Tucker, pressing it carefully to her face again.

For a while, the room adjusts around her. Dean sits back down, but he doesn’t pick up the controller. Tucker goes to the kitchen and returns with a straw for her water like a man who’s discovered a side quest and intends to complete it properly. Logan reads the discharge instructions twice, then starts setting alarms on his phone without announcing it, because subtlety, in this house, is sometimes just everyone pretending they cannot see love doing administrative tasks in sweatpants.

She drinks water through the straw because lifting the glass is annoying and because nobody makes a thing of it. Garrett keeps the ice pack steady. Every so often, he asks a question in a voice too even to be casual. Headache worse? Nausea? Vision okay? She answers as best she can. Same. Little bit. Yeah, mostly. 

When Dean shifts too fast and the couch creaks, he freezes like he’s committed assault by upholstery. That makes her huff something dangerously close to a laugh, and Garrett immediately murmurs, “Careful,” like her face is now a team responsibility.

The fogginess comes in waves. Sometimes she’s fully in the room, tracking Dean’s quiet rage and Tucker’s gentle fussing and Logan’s forced calm. Sometimes the edges blur a little, slow, like her thoughts are moving through syrup. Garrett’s thigh is warm against her curled legs. His arm rests along the back of the couch behind her, a soft barrier between her and the world. 

She leans into him by degrees until her shoulder touches his chest and her head tips carefully toward the place beneath his jaw that smells like soap and boy and safety.

She doesn’t mean to get sleepy. She has discharge instructions that say she can sleep, she knows that, but the idea of giving in with everyone watching feels embarrassing in a new, stupid direction. Still, her eyelids grow heavy. The headache spreads and dulls under the cold. The room is dim. The boys are quiet. Garrett is warm.

At some point, Dean says softly, “You want me to call Lucy or someone?”

She tries to answer. The name gets halfway through her head and then wanders off. “Tomorrow,” she murmurs.

“Okay,” Dean says, and for once there’s no joke attached.

Garrett shifts beside her. “Baby?”

She makes a small sound that could mean what or I’m alive or don’t make me move, depending on how generous he feels.

“You getting sleepy?”

“No.”

There’s a pause.

Logan says, very quietly, “That was the least convincing thing I’ve ever heard.”

She opens one eye to glare at him, but the room tilts slightly with the effort, so she closes it again. “Your face is least convincing.”

“Strong comeback.”

“Thank you.”

Garrett’s lips brush her hair. It’s quick, maybe accidental, except nothing Garrett does with her feels accidental anymore, no matter how hard both of them have tried to label it otherwise. “I’m gonna take you upstairs, okay?”

Her eyes open properly at that, or as properly as they can. “I can walk.”

“I know.”

“You keep saying that and then doing the thing for me anyway.”

His mouth curves faintly for the first time all night. It’s tiny and tired and painfully Garrett. “Yeah.”

She should argue. She’s built a respectable portion of this entire situationship on arguing with Garrett Graham while letting him do exactly what she wants him to do. But her shoulder aches, her face throbs, and her legs feel like they belong to somebody who’s spent the day being chased by weather. 

More than that, she wants him. She wants his hands steady under her thighs, his chest close, his room dark and warm around them. She wants to stop being the student who got hurt and start being the girl Garrett carries upstairs because the floor feels too far away.

“Okay,” she whispers.

Dean looks at the TV like he’s never been interested in anything more. Tucker suddenly finds the water glass fascinating. Logan folds the discharge papers with great concentration. Nobody says a word.

Garrett slides one arm behind her back and the other beneath her knees with the same careful strength he uses for everything he takes seriously. “Shoulder?”

“Fine.”

His eyes flick to hers.

“Not worse,” she corrects.

He nods once and lifts her.

It does hurt, a little. Her shoulder pulls, her head pulses, and the movement makes nausea roll faintly through her stomach. But Garrett holds her so close and so steadily that the discomfort never gets sharp enough to scare her. Her hand curls in the front of his shirt, her face turning carefully toward his neck because pressing into his chest would bump her nose and she’s learned at least one thing tonight.

Dean’s voice follows them, low and rough from the couch. “G.”

Garrett stops at the foot of the stairs but doesn’t turn fully, like turning her too much might hurt.

Dean’s eyes move over her once, then to Garrett. Whatever he’d been about to say gets swallowed down and changed into something smaller. “We’re downstairs if you need anything.”

Garrett’s hold tightens by a fraction. “Yeah.”

Tucker adds, “I’ll bring up more ice in a bit.”

“And meds when she’s due,” Logan says, lifting the papers slightly.

She wants to tell them they’re all being ridiculous. She wants to say she’s fine, to make some joke about the Briar hockey team turning into a poorly licensed urgent care clinic. But her throat feels thick, and her eyes sting in a way that has nothing to do with the swelling, and for once the joke doesn’t come quickly enough to save her from feeling it.

So she only says, “Thanks, guys.”

Dean nods, jaw tight. Tucker gives her a small, worried smile. Logan says, “Anytime,” like he means it and hates that there’s a reason to.

Garrett carries her upstairs slowly. The stairwell is dim, the house clutter softened into shadows: a hoodie over the railing, someone’s shoes kicked near the landing, a dent in the wall nobody has confessed to making. 

His breathing is steady beneath her ear. His arms don’t shift, don’t tremble, don’t let her feel for one second like she’s heavy or inconvenient or anything other than something he’s decided belongs safely against him.

Halfway up, she murmurs, “Garrett?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re still being weird.”

This time, his breath leaves him in something almost like a laugh. It brushes warm over her hair. “Yeah, baby,” he says, voice low enough that it belongs only to the stairs and the dark and the careful space between them. “I know.”

His room is already dim when he gets there, like he’d been in it before everything happened and left the lamp on low beside the bed, the shade turning the walls a warm, soft yellow that doesn’t stab behind her eyes. 

The window is cracked just enough to let in a thin line of cold air, shifting the edge of the curtain and carrying in the far-off sound of campus on a weeknight, car doors and laughter and somebody shouting down the street like the world has not personally offended her face.

Garrett nudges the door open with his shoulder and steps inside carefully, like the room might have developed hazards in the ten minutes since he last saw it. One of his hoodies is thrown over the desk chair. There’s a textbook facedown on the bed that he must have been pretending to read earlier, a roll of hockey tape on the nightstand, his phone charger twisted into a knot on the floor. 

The ordinary mess of him sits around them so gently that it makes something behind her ribs go weak. His room. His bed. His detergent and the clean soap smell of his skin under the faint cold of the hallway.

For the first time since the bay, since the rail, since the white burst of pain and Maria’s hand firm between her shoulder blades, her body seems to understand that it’s stopped moving.

Garrett lowers her onto the edge of the mattress with so much care it almost becomes annoying. One arm stays behind her back until she’s properly sitting, the other at her knees, and even after he lets go he keeps his hands there for a second, hovering near her like he’s not fully convinced gravity has been handled.

She blinks down at him because he’s crouched in front of her now, broad shoulders between her knees, face tipped up, eyes moving over her again with that same awful, quiet attention. 

She can feel what he’s seeing before he says anything. The blood dried tight beneath her nose. The swelling already darkening around the bridge of it. The split in her lip, tacky and sore. Mascara smudged under both eyes from the crying she doesn’t remember allowing herself to do properly, only the wetness and the sting and Maria saying, breathe for me, honey, nice and slow.

Garrett swallows. His hands rest lightly on her calves, thumbs still. “Did you want to wipe your face?” he asks, voice careful. “You’ve got, uh…” His eyes flick down, then back up, and his mouth tightens around something he doesn’t let out. “Some mascara under your eyes. And some blood still.”

She knows he’s trying very hard not to sound like the sight of it is putting his organs in the wrong order. She loves him a little for the effort, which is a thought she cannot touch right now because her brain is concussed and reckless and clearly looking for loaded weapons.

She nods once, then immediately remembers that nodding is no longer a neutral activity. The headache flares behind her eyes, thick and punishing. “Ow,” she says, small and irritated.

Garrett’s hands tighten on her legs. “Hey.”

“I’m good.” Her tongue touches the split in her lip and she tastes metal again. “Can you?”

His face changes. Barely. A little fracture through the tight worry, something softer underneath it. “Course.”

He stands, and the second his hands leave her, her body reacts before her mind catches up. Her fingers snag in the hem of his t-shirt, clumsy and sudden, and the movement pulls through her bad shoulder so sharply that a soft, wounded sound slips out of her before she can bite it down.

Garrett freezes instantly. Entire body going still. “Hey. Hey, you’re good.” He turns back toward her, one hand coming carefully to her wrist, covering her fingers where they’re twisted in his shirt. “I’m just going to the hallway, yeah? Bathroom’s right there. Two seconds.”

She knows that. Obviously she knows that. She’s been in this house enough times to know the bathroom is six steps from his door and usually contains at least one towel on the floor and Dean’s body wash in a place where it doesn’t belong. She knows Garrett’s not leaving. She knows the door is open, the house is full, Logan’s downstairs reading concussion instructions like the exam is tomorrow.

Still, her fingers don’t let go right away.

Her head hurts. Her mouth hurts. Her shoulder is a hot, sharp line down one side of her body. And the small, rational part of her brain that usually handles dignity and sarcasm is sitting in a dark room somewhere with a blanket over its head, because all she can think is that she wants him where she can reach him.

Garrett’s thumb moves once over her knuckles. “I’ll keep the door open.”

She nods more carefully this time. “Okay.”

He waits until her fingers loosen, then steps backward instead of turning right away, eyes on her the whole time. It would be funny, maybe, if it didn’t work. If she didn’t feel her ribs unclench slightly because she can still see him, because he backs into the hallway like she’s a wild animal he’s trying not to spook and not a nursing student with blood under her nose and one of his sleeves somewhere in her fist.

He disappears only when he reaches the bathroom, and even then he keeps talking. “Still here,” he says, and the water starts a second later, soft against porcelain. “Just getting a washcloth.”

“I know,” she calls back, then winces because even her own voice feels too loud inside her skull.

Garrett comes back with the washcloth damp and folded in one hand. His other hand shuts the door halfway, enough to soften the rest of the house into a distant murmur. The mattress dips when he sits beside her, turned toward her with one knee bent on the bed. 

He smells like clean skin and laundry and something faintly sweet from the kitchen downstairs, and she has to swallow around the childish, humiliating urge to press her face into his chest and stay there until her body stops feeling like it has been borrowed from a car crash.

“Here we go,” he says.

The cloth touches just beneath her eye first.

She stiffens on instinct, because everything has hurt tonight and her body is no longer trusting innocent objects, but Garrett pauses immediately. “Too cold?”

“No.” Her voice comes out thinner than she likes. “Just surprised.”

“Okay.” His face stays close, intent in a way that would normally make her flustered for more interesting reasons. “I’ll go slow.”

He does. He wipes the smudged mascara from beneath one eye with feather-light strokes, the washcloth barely dragging over skin, then folds it to a clean corner and does the other side. He works like he has been given something fragile and a little dangerous. Like every movement is being negotiated with the injuries on her face and the dull heaviness behind her eyes. 

His jaw flexes when the cloth comes away grey-black with makeup and faintly pink with old blood, but he doesn’t comment. He only turns it again and brings it to the place under her nose.

“That might hurt,” he murmurs.

“It already hurts.”

His eyes lift to hers. “Yeah.”

She looks down at his wrist, at the veins there, at the old tape mark near his thumb, at the little scrape over one knuckle from practice or a game or some Garrett-related misuse of his own body. Usually she would notice and ask. Usually she would press her thumb near it and say, what’s this? and he would say, nothing, and she would call him annoying and make him let her look anyway.

Tonight she just watches his hand hold the cloth and lets him clean the blood away. The dried parts tug where they have hardened on her skin, and she sucks in a breath through her mouth when the washcloth brushes too close to the swelling at the bridge of her nose. 

Garrett stops every time, waits for the little movement of her fingers in his shirt to settle, then continues. He wipes around the split in her lip last, his mouth flattening when fresh blood beads at the edge.

“You’re gonna bruise like hell,” he says, almost to himself.

She tries not to smile. It becomes a tiny, crooked thing anyway and immediately hurts. “Hot.”

His eyes flick back to hers, and for the first time since she arrived, something almost like Garrett moves across his face. Small. Tired. There and gone. “Yeah, baby. Real intimidating.”

“Good. I’ve always wanted to look tough.”

“You already look tough.”

“That’s because you have questionable standards.”

“No,” he says, and the softness in it makes her look away first. “I don’t.”

The room goes quiet except for the dull throb of the house underneath them, the creak of something downstairs, Logan or Dean moving around, the low murmur of the boys trying and failing not to sound worried through the floor. Garrett folds the washcloth over itself and sets it on the nightstand, then looks down at the rest of her.

The hoodie Maria put on her is zipped to her collarbone, dark fabric stained rusty near the cuff where she must have touched her face. Her scrub pants are still on, wrinkled and creased from the shift, one knee smudged faintly with something she refuses to identify. There is a hospital sticker on her shoe that nobody noticed until now, bright and stupid and stuck to the edge of the sole.

Garrett’s gaze catches on the blood at her sleeve. “You want out of these scrub pants?” he asks quietly. “And your hoodie has blood on it, baby.”

She looks down, as if this is new information. Her brain takes a second to make sense of the stain. “Oh.”

“It’s okay.”

“Yeah,” she says after a moment. Then, because the word seems to have scraped something loose on the way out, she adds, “Sorry.”

Garrett’s head lifts. “Why the fuck are you sorry?”

The sharpness of it makes her blink. He says it too quietly, all the force held under his tongue. But it lands somewhere tender anyway. She presses her lips together and immediately regrets that too. “Ow.”

Garrett’s expression softens, but his eyes stay fixed on her. Waiting.

She sighs, and it comes out shaky enough that she would like to file a formal complaint with her nervous system. “Because you…” The thought keeps slipping. She can see it, vaguely, but reaching for it makes her head pulse harder. “You didn’t sign up for this. I should’ve gotten Lucy or Monique. Or stayed with Maria, or– I don’t know.”

“No.” Garrett shakes his head once, and then stops himself, like maybe he’s remembered that head movement isn’t anyone’s friend right now. His hand comes to the side of her face, careful of the bruising, thumb brushing just below her temple where the skin is untouched. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re apologising for coming here.”

Her throat tightens. She looks at his shoulder because his face is too close and too much and still not close enough. “I just didn’t want you to feel like you had to.”

“Had to what?”

“Look after me.”

For a second, he only stares at her. Then he exhales through his nose, rough and almost disbelieving, and his fingers slide into her hair at the side of her head, holding it back from her face like the gesture can stand in for all the things he’s trying not to say too fast or wrong. “You think I’m sitting here because I feel obligated?”

She has the very strong, very pathetic urge to cry, which is inconvenient because crying would involve her face. “I don’t know.”

“Baby.”

She closes her eyes.

“Hey.” His thumb moves once. “Look at me.”

She does, reluctantly, because Garrett’s voice has gone into that low place that usually gets him what he wants and because her resistance is currently running on fumes.

His face is steadier now. Still pale underneath the warm lamplight, still tight around the edges, but steady in the places he’s offering to her. “I want you here.”

Her breath catches around something that hurts in a completely separate way from her nose. “Are we…” She stops, partly because the sentence is embarrassing and partly because she loses the middle of it for a second. The fog rolls in, cottony and irritating. She blinks, and Garrett waits. He doesn’t hurry her. Doesn’t fill the gap with a joke. Just keeps his hand at her face until she finds the rest. “Are we okay?”

His expression breaks so gently it makes her chest ache. “Course we are.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He brushes her hair back again, knuckles barely grazing the side of her neck. “We’re okay.”

She nods carefully. A tiny movement. “Good.”

Garrett’s mouth lifts at one corner, soft and sad and warm all at once. “Good?”

“Yeah.” Her fingers curl in his shirt again. This time, she doesn’t pull. “Because I really…” She swallows. Her throat is dry. Her head is thick. The truth comes out before she can dress it up in something safer. “I just wanted you.”

Something in him goes still. A held breath somewhere in the centre of him, then he nods, and the smile that comes with it is small enough that it feels private, even with the door half open and the boys downstairs and the whole house softly rearranged around her injury. “I know the feeling.”

She sniffs, because her body is committed to making the worst possible choices, and pain snaps up through her nose so sharply her eyes water. “Ow. Fuck.” She presses two fingers near the side of her face. “You do?”

Garrett’s smile shifts. “You want me to say it again while you look like you’re about to sneeze blood?”

“Maybe.”

“I know the feeling,” he says, and this time he doesn’t look away. “Because who better to nurse me back to health than you, huh?”

The laugh that escapes her is tiny and breathless and immediately followed by a wince, but it’s real. “I’m not even good at it today.”

“That’s okay.” He leans in and kisses the top of her head, nowhere near the bruising, lips warm against her hair. “I’ll cover this one.”

He gets up slowly this time, one hand staying in hers until the last possible second, then moves to his dresser. She watches him pull open drawers. 

He finds a pair of grey sweatpants first, soft and old and definitely his, then a zip-up hoodie because it will not need to go over her head. She can see the moment he chooses it for that reason. The little pause, the glance back at her shoulder, the jaw tight enough to tell on him.

When he comes back, the clothes folded over his arm, he crouches in front of her again. “Alright. We’ll do this slow, okay?”

She nods, then corrects it into a verbal answer before her head can punish her. “Okay.”

“Pants first.”

“Romantic.”

His mouth twitches. “I’m known for it.”

He helps her stand only as much as she needs, one hand at her good elbow, the other at her waist. The room sways faintly when she gets upright, unpleasantly loose at the edges, and Garrett’s hand firms at once. “Dizzy?”

“Little bit.”

“Sit?”

“No, I’m good. Just…” She looks down at the drawstring of her scrub pants, then at him. “This is a very low dignity moment for me.”

Garrett’s gaze flicks up, and there it is again, the smallest spark of him through the worry. “Baby, you’ve fallen asleep drooling on my chest after telling me I had slutty veins.”

She frowns. “I said that?”

“You did.”

“That does sound like me,” she accepts. 

“Exactly. Dignity’s been dead.”

She huffs, almost laughing, and he helps ease the scrub pants down her legs without making a production of it. Nothing in his face changes in the way that would make her feel watched, despite the fact that he’s, technically, undressing her in his bedroom. 

His touch stays practical, warm, almost painfully respectful. He holds the sweatpants open for her one leg at a time, keeps a hand at her hip while she steps in, then draws them up slowly over her thighs.

They’re too big, of course. They sit low on her hips and pool at her ankles in a way that would be funny if everything didn’t hurt. Garrett ties the drawstring in a loose knot and pats it once.

“There,” he says. “Very fashionable.”

“Shut up. I’m concussed.”

“I know. That’s why I’m letting you get away with that tone.”

Her mouth threatens a smile, so she bites it back and looks down at herself instead. The hoodie is next. Garrett reaches for the zipper, then stops. “Where’s the top?”

She blinks at him. “What?”

“Your scrub top.” His voice stays even, but not naturally. 

Her mind searches the department and comes back with torn fabric, scissors, someone’s gloved hands. “Um.” She rubs her fingers against the seam of his sweatpants, trying to make the thought stay still long enough to look at it. “Um. Bag. Maybe. They had to cut it off, I think.”

Garrett’s jaw tenses. It’s quick. A muscle jumping once, his mouth going flat, his eyes dropping away from her face for half a second like he needs to put the reaction somewhere she can’t see it. But she sees it anyway. She’s concussed, not blind.

When he looks back up, he’s forced something lighter onto his face. It’s not quite convincing, but the attempt is so Garrett it makes her ache.

“Damn,” he says. “Liked that pair.”

She stares at him. “Pair?”

“Set. Outfit. Whatever.” He lifts one shoulder, careful to keep his voice mild. “Made your ass look great.”

The giggle escapes before she can stop it. Immediately, pain blooms across her lip and nose, and she presses her fingers to her mouth with a muffled, “Ow. Don’t flirt with the concussed.”

Garrett’s smile is barely there, but warmer this time. “Can’t help it.”

“You should try.”

“I’ve been trying for months. Terrible at it.”

That one sits in the room longer than it should. Her eyes lift to his, and for a second, neither of them moves. Then Garrett clears his throat softly and reaches for the zipper of her hoodie.

“This one’s gonna suck,” he says. “I’m sorry.”

That’s somehow worse than if he had lied. “Okay.”

He unzips the bloodstained hoodie slowly, easing one side down her good arm first. That part is fine, or close enough. The bad shoulder is different. Even with the zip-up, even with him going painfully slowly, the fabric drags over the sore joint and catches near her elbow, and the strain of lifting even a fraction sends pain snapping hot and deep through her shoulder and up the side of her neck.

She makes a sound she hates. Small and broken enough that Garrett’s whole face changes.

“Stop, stop, stop,” he murmurs immediately. His hands freeze, one holding the fabric, the other at her waist. “I’ve got it. You’re okay. Don’t move.”

Her eyes burn fast. Too fast. The pain isn’t even the worst she has felt tonight, which somehow makes crying more insulting, like her body has chosen this as the point to become unreasonable. A few tears slip out anyway, hot and humiliating over her swollen cheeks.

“Sorry,” she whispers.

Garrett’s eyes flash. “Do not.”

“I know. I know, I’m just–” Her breath catches in that horrible little pre-sob way, and her face hurts too much to do anything with it. “It hurts.”

“I know.” His voice drops, low and steady. He shifts closer, bracing her gently with his own body while he works the sleeve down by tiny increments. “I know. I’m sorry. Almost done. There you go. Good girl. That’s it.”

The praise lands somewhere stupid and warm under all the pain, and she would make fun of him for weaponising it if she were not currently trying not to cry into his shirt. The hoodie finally comes free, and Garrett gets his zip-up around her without making her lift her arm higher than necessary, guiding the sore side in first, then the other, then drawing the soft fabric closed around her body. It smells like him immediately. Clean laundry, cold rink air, skin.

The relief of being out of the hospital clothes hits harder than she expects. She folds forward into him.

Garrett catches her like he has been waiting for it, one arm firm around her waist, the other cradling the back of her head before she can tip into the wrong angle. “There we go,” he murmurs into her hair. “Got you.”

She nods against him, but it’s barely a movement. “Hurts.”

“I know, baby.”

“I’m being a baby.”

“No.” His hand spreads over her back, broad and warm through the hoodie. “You’re being concussed with a fucked-up shoulder.”

She breathes against him for another minute, letting the warmth of him settle over the sharper edges. His heart is steady under her cheek. Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s just what she needs it to be. Either way, his arms stay around her until her breathing evens out, until the tears stop sliding hot under her eyes, until she can pull back without feeling like she might tip sideways into the nightstand.

Garrett helps her lie down against his pillows. He has her on her back at first, then adjusts when she makes a face, turning her slightly onto her good side with slow hands and a pillow tucked near her shoulder so it isn’t pulling strangely. He moves like he’s learning her injury as he goes, like the map of her pain matters enough to memorise. It makes something soft and sore press up behind her ribs.

When he climbs in beside her, he doesn’t pull her in immediately. He waits, lying on his side facing her, one arm bent under his head, the other resting near the blanket between them. Giving her space to decide how much contact feels possible. Which is very considerate of him and also deeply annoying because she has no interest in space.

She curls into him as best she can, awkwardly, her bad shoulder protected between them, her forehead carefully finding the safe hollow below his collarbone. Garrett lets out a breath that sounds like he has been holding it since the front door.

“There,” he says softly. “That okay?”

“Mhm.”

His hand comes to her hair again. Fingers sliding slowly from her temple back over her scalp, loosening what the clip and the shift and the panic left behind. The motion sends a dull, pleasant ache through her, somewhere under the headache, a different kind of heaviness.

She sighs before she can stop herself. “Feels nice.”

Garrett’s thumb moves near her hairline. “I’ll keep doing it then.”

She lets her eyes close.

For a while, the room stays still around them. The lamp glows behind her eyelids. The house below makes small, careful sounds, a cabinet closing softly, footsteps pausing in the hallway and then retreating, the quiet evidence of three hockey players trying very hard to be normal about the girl in Garrett’s bed with a concussion. 

Her head throbs anyway, steady and deep. Her lip pulses. Her shoulder aches in its own miserable rhythm. But Garrett’s hand keeps moving through her hair, slow enough that her breathing starts to follow it.

She’s almost asleep, or something near it, when Garrett speaks. “What happened?”

His voice is quiet. He asks like he’s been holding the question in both hands for too long and needs to set it somewhere.

She opens her eyes to the dark cotton of his shirt. Her brain takes a few seconds to come back online. She breathes out slowly through her mouth because her nose is still a disaster. 

The memory is there at once, too close and too bright around the edges, and her body reacts to it before the words arrive. Fingers curling lightly in the front of his shirt. Shoulder tightening, then complaining. The ghost of the rail coming up fast.

Garrett’s hand pauses in her hair. “You don’t have to.”

“No.” Her voice is quiet. “It’s okay.”

He starts moving his hand again, slower now.

“It was a psych patient,” she says. “He was really agitated. Not like… violent, at first. Just scared, I think. Curled in on himself, wouldn’t really let anyone near him. Maria was with me. We were trying to keep the room calm, but the ED was so busy and loud and everyone was stretched thin, and he just…” She stops, trying to find the order of it. Everything feels slippery when she looks too directly. “He lashed out. His elbow got me in the face. Accidentally, I think.”

Garrett’s chest goes very still under her cheek.

“And I cried out,” she continues. “I don’t know. It just hurt and it surprised me, and I think that freaked him out more. Or the noise did. Or maybe he just didn’t know what was happening.” She swallows. Her throat feels raw. “He grabbed my scrub top before I could move back. Pulled me forward. My nose hit the bed rail. Or my mouth did. I’m not sure. It happened really fast.”

Garrett’s arm tightens around her, then loosens immediately like he’s afraid of hurting her. His hand remains in her hair, but the fingers have gone still.

“Security came in,” she says. “Another nurse pulled me back. Steph, I think. Or maybe Maria. Both, maybe. I don’t know. I remember Maria saying my name a lot.” She looks down between them, though there is nothing to see but the dark fold of his shirt and the edge of his hoodie on her body. “He didn’t mean it.”

Garrett is quiet for long enough that she starts to wonder if he has stopped breathing.

Then he says, “You keep saying that.”

“He didn’t.”

“I know.” His voice is rough, scraped thin at the edges. “I know he didn’t, baby. I just…” He takes a breath. It moves carefully through his chest. “You got hurt anyway.”

The words land with the same awful simplicity as Maria’s had in the car. That doesn’t mean you didn’t get hurt. She closes her eyes, because everyone has decided to be kind in the exact way she cannot defend against.

“I know,” she whispers.

Garrett’s hand finally moves again, fingers sliding over her scalp, then down to the nape of her neck where he can touch without brushing bruised skin. “Is this how you feel?”

She opens her eyes. “What?”

“When I come home after a game all bruised and shit.” He shifts just enough that she can feel him looking down at her, though she doesn’t lift her head to meet it yet. “Is this what it feels like?”

A tiny breath leaves her. Not quite a laugh. More tired than that. “You mean do I also go weird and silent and look like I might throw up?”

“Yeah.”

“Then yeah.” Her fingers smooth over the fabric of his shirt because she needs something small to do. “Kind of, I guess.”

Garrett doesn’t answer.

She turns her face slightly, enough to look at the line of his jaw in the low light. He’s staring at the wall beyond her head, mouth set, brows drawn, hair falling messily over his forehead. He looks angry and young and helpless, which is such a strange combination on him that it makes her chest ache.

“It’s different,” she says softly. “You’re playing a game you love. You know the risks. I know that. And you guys are all… insane about pain, which I’ve accepted against my will.”

His mouth twitches without humour.

“But I don’t enjoy seeing you hurt.” Her voice goes quieter around the admission. “Even when it’s normal hockey hurt. Even when you’re smug about it and standing in the kitchen telling me it’s fine while your ribs look like someone used you as a doorstop. It still makes my stomach feel weird.”

Garrett’s eyes come down to her then. She tries to hold the look for a second and manages maybe half. His attention is too raw tonight. Too stripped of the things he usually wears over it.

“I know you’re tough,” she says, looking at his collar instead. “I know you can take it. I know half the time you think me worrying is funny or hot or both, because you have a very damaged sense of romance.”

“That’s fair.”

“But I still…” She frowns slightly, the thought losing shape, then finding it again. “I still hate it. Not because I think you’re weak. Because you’re not. Obviously. It’s just your body, you know? And I like your body.”

Garrett’s eyebrows lift faintly.

She narrows her eyes at him. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to become insufferable.”

“Maybe a little.”

“I have a concussion. Be kind.”

His face softens again, the almost-tease folding back into something warmer. “I’m being so kind.”

“You’re doing okay.”

“Glowing review.”

She breathes out through her mouth, and for a moment the room feels almost normal. Almost. Garrett’s hand in her hair. His chest under her cheek. The two of them managing to find the familiar shape of each other even through the bruising and the blood and the fear still sitting somewhere near the foot of the bed.

Then Garrett’s thumb brushes the side of her head again, light and careful, and his voice drops. “I hated seeing you like that.”

She looks at him this time.

He doesn’t look away. His eyes are dark in the low light, all the usual teasing stripped out of them. “At the door,” he says. “I hated it.”

“I know.”

“No, I don’t think you do.” His mouth tightens, then releases. “You were standing there with blood on your face and Maria next to you and you looked at me like you were sorry. Like I was gonna be upset that you came here.”

Her throat works. “I didn’t want to be too much.”

Garrett makes a sound under his breath, small and rough. “You got hurt.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re allowed to be too much.”

The sentence is so simple it feels dangerous. Her eyes sting again, and she presses her face carefully into his chest before the tears can do anything stupid to her already stupid face.

Garrett’s arm comes around her, careful of her shoulder, his hand settling between her shoulder blades where he can hold without hurting. “Especially here,” he murmurs into her hair. “Especially with me.”

She doesn’t answer. She can’t, really. Not without crying, and crying hurts, and she’s tired of things hurting. So she only curls her fingers more tightly in his shirt and lets him keep his hand in her hair.

After a while, she says, very quietly, “I’m really tired.”

“I know.” Garrett kisses the top of her head. “You can sleep.”

“Logan set alarms.”

“Of course Logan set alarms.”

She manages the faintest smile. “He looked very serious.”

“He loves a protocol.”

“He does have the head injury experience.”

Garrett huffs a soft laugh against her hair, the sound loosening something in the dark. “Unfortunately.”

She lets her eyes close again. The headache is still there. The bruising is still swelling around her nose, hot and heavy. Her shoulder still aches beneath his hoodie. None of it has gone away.

But Garrett’s fingers keep moving through her hair, and his body is warm where hers has gone cold and wrung out, and downstairs the boys are quiet in a way that makes the whole house feel like it is holding its breath around her.

“Garrett?”

“Yeah, baby?”

“If I say something weird, it’s the concussion.”

His hand pauses for half a second. “Okay.”

“And if I say something nice.”

His mouth brushes her hair. “Also concussion?”

“Probably.”

“Got it.”

She’s quiet long enough that he likely thinks she’s drifted off. Maybe she has, a little. The edge of sleep is soft and close, pulling at the corners of the room, blurring the pain into something thick and manageable. Then she murmurs, “You’re good at this.”

Garrett’s chest rises slowly beneath her cheek. “At what?”

“Looking after me.”

His fingers resume their movement through her hair, slower than before. “Yeah?”

“Mm.”

His voice, when it comes, is barely more than warmth in the dark. “Only because you taught me how.”

to be notified when i post new fics, follow @kooksandpearls-library and turn on notifications! i no longer use a taglist for garrett fics.

[alliehayesgf]

this was so sweet

[newobsessionweekly]

Terms and Conditions

Main Masterlist | Off Campus Masterlist

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Fandom: Off Campus

Summary: You convinced yourself you were the exception to his rule. But when Allie Hayes crashes into his life, you realize you were never playing the long game—you were just warming the bench.

Angst / Hurt-Comfort

Warnings: not proofread, angst, explicit language, sexual references, heartbreak.

A/N: I am so, so sorry it took me over a month to post this request! My finals lasted for almost a whole month and I was so stressed I couldn't even exist. And then right after that, I went to visit my parents in my hometown, and then I had to move apartments and it was absolute chaos. I feel so bad for making you guys wait this long. But I really hope you enjoy this fic! Now that the chaos is over, I will be back with more fics. Anyway. Feedback is much appreciated. Take care of yourselves and lots of love!

Words:

Playing with fire is for amateurs. Fucking Dean Di Laurentis? That was like striking a match in a room full of gasoline.

Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis. Christ, even his name was exhausting.

Every girl with a pulse at Briar U knew the deal. He was the hockey team's resident golden boy. A walking, talking wet dream with a trust fund, an eight-pack, and these devastating, smoky green eyes.

He was also the undisputed king of casual hookups. Dean always got what he wanted. And ninety-nine percent of the time, that meant someone female, flexible, and completely gone before the morning coffee finished brewing. You knew the rules. You were well aware of the track record. You knew exactly what you were getting into when you let him slide his hands under your shirt.

But human beings are fundamentally stupid, hopelessly optimistic creatures. Somewhere between late-night poli-sci study sessions and lazy Sunday mornings drinking coffee in Garrett’s kitchen, you managed to convince yourself you were the exception to the rule.

It started out platonic enough. You were just another fixture in the hockey house, a girl supposedly immune to the legendary Di Laurentis charm. At least, that was the bullshit lie you sold him.

But then the sarcastic banter started to shift. It bled into lingering touches. The heavy weight of his warm palm resting flat against your lower back. His whiskey-rough voice murmuring filthy jokes in your ear over the thumping bass at Malone's.

When you finally crossed the line, it wasn’t just a quick, meaningless fumble on those god-awful couch cushions. It was supposed to be a one-time thing. An itch scratched. But one time turned into two, and two turned into a dangerously comfortable routine.

It didn't feel like a hookup. It felt... significant. Intimate.

The mornings were what really screwed you over. Instead of the awkward, panicked rush to grab your clothes and sneak out before the rest of the house woke up, he wouldn't let you leave.

He would just groan, reach out with a heavy arm, and drag you right back against his bare, sculpted chest. He'd tangle his legs with yours, press a soft, lingering kiss to your spine, and mumble, "Stay. Just five more minutes, baby doll".

In those rare, unguarded moments, stripped of his usual cocky swagger, you didn't feel like a temporary distraction. You felt devastatingly permanent.

That was the trap. That was how you justified the blurred lines. You told yourself you weren't just another notch on his bedpost because you were more than that. You were his best friend.

You were the one he bitched to about Frank O'Shea, the hardass defensive coordinator who was dead-set on making his senior year a living hell. You were the one who knew the actual scores of his LSATs. You listened to him vent about his looming Harvard Law future.

To the rest of Briar, Dean was still playing the field. But to you? It felt like an exclusive, unspoken secret.

You’d find yourself staring at the ceiling of your dorm room at two in the morning, your heart doing a pathetic, frantic little backflip every time your phone buzzed with a filthy, late-night text from him.

I’m not a puck bunny, you’d tell yourself, stepping over his discarded Timberlands in the hallway. We have a real connection. He just needs time to pull his head out of his ass.

God, you were a fucking idiot.

You fell for him. Hard, fast, and entirely without a parachute.

You fell for that cocky-as-sin grin. You fell for his surprisingly sharp intellect. You fell for the rare moments when he’d look at you like you were the absolute only girl in the crowded room.

You spoon-fed yourself the delusion that it was only a matter of time. Surely, the playboy would eventually wake up and realize the girl he actually wanted was already right there, sitting next to him on the couch.

You thought you were playing the long game. You didn't realize you were just warming the bench.

The illusion didn't just shatter; it exploded in your face, piece by agonizing piece the weekend Allie Hayes crashed at the hockey house in full-blown crisis mode.

She was nursing a broken heart over her ex, hiding out in Garrett's empty bedroom. Logan had even fired off a group text explicitly warning Dean to keep his dick in his pants.

You thought you were safe. Allie was Hannah’s best friend. She was the definition of off-limits.

But since when did Dean Di Laurentis ever give a shit about the rules?

For weeks, their hookups were a heavily guarded secret. Allie was adamant about keeping everyone out of their business, preferring to keep it strictly under wraps.

But you knew Dean better than that. You noticed the subtle, damning little details.

You saw the dark, purplish hickey blooming on his neck the morning after she stayed over. You noticed the way he was suddenly glued to his phone, staring glassy-eyed at the screen while he waited for her to text him back.

And then Dean dragged you into the kitchen, his green eyes burning with a frustrating mix of panic and utter exhilaration.

"I'm screwed," he whispered, leaning back against the counter. "I hooked up with Allie."

Your stomach plummeted straight to the linoleum. "What?"

"It's a secret, so keep your mouth shut," he warned, raking a hand through his blond hair. "But I can't get her out of my head. I even sat through this terrible French soap opera called Solange just to hang out with her".

He said it with a laugh. A helpless, ridiculously besotted laugh.

Then he started dropping the nicknames. Baby doll. Allie-Cat.

The exact same lazy, affectionate nicknames that used to make your own stupid heart flutter.

You had to stand there, plaster a supportive best-friend smile on your face, and listen to the guy you were hopelessly in love with talk about falling for someone else. It felt like taking a slapshot straight to the ribs without any padding.

The absolute worst part was that you couldn't even openly hate her. Allie was so frustratingly sweet, completely oblivious to the fact that she was actively destroying you. There was no villain here. Just you, completely alone in your grief.

So you just... faded out.

You started taking your coffee to go. You hauled your ass to the campus library to study instead of camping out at the guys' kitchen island. When Dean tried to rope you into his usual flirty banter, you shot back short, clipped answers and kept your eyes glued to your textbooks.

You honestly thought you were doing a bang-up job of acting like a ghost.

But you forgot who you were dealing with.

"She's fine, Dean. Leave her alone," Tucker's drawl echoed in the hallway one afternoon.

You froze, your hand hovering over the doorknob.

"She's been dodging me for weeks, Tuck," Dean argued, sounding genuinely frustrated. "I just want to see what's wrong."

"What's wrong is that she's swamped with midterms. Give her some space." Tucker smoothly stepped into Dean's path, effortlessly acting as your own personal human shield.

You backed away, your chest tight with unshed tears. Tucker knew. John Tucker noticed absolutely everything.

Logan, on the other hand, was far less subtle.

A few nights later, while Dean was busy sneaking into Allie's dorm room, a loud knock rattled your door.

It was Logan and he didn't bother waiting for an invitation. He just pushed right past you, armed with two pints of Ben & Jerry's and a pair of plastic spoons.

He took one look at your pathetic, red-rimmed eyes and let out a heavy sigh.

"You look like absolute shit," Logan stated, tossing a pint of your favorite kind onto the mattress.

"Thanks. You really have a way with women," you croaked, wiping furiously at your wet cheeks.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked, dropping his massive frame onto the edge of your bed.

"No."

"Cool." Logan popped the lid off his ice cream like it was just another Tuesday. "Then we won't talk about it. Put on a movie."

He sat next to you in comfortable silence, eating his ice cream while you let the tears finally fall.

The boys knew.

They saw exactly what Dean was too hopelessly blind to see. And they were quietly circling the wagons to protect one of their own.

It was a chaotic victory party at the hockey house, and the bass rattled the floorboards. You were standing by the kitchen island, forcing a laugh at something Fitzy was saying, doing your absolute damnedest to pretend your heart wasn't actively bleeding out all over the linoleum.

Then, a large, familiar hand wrapped around your bicep.

You spun around, the breath catching in your throat.

Dean's jaw was set in a hard line. His blond hair was a tousled mess, and those smoky green eyes were flashing with a volatile mix of frustration and hurt.

"We need to talk," he demanded, his voice dropping an octave to cut through the pounding music.

Before you could even object, he was pulling you through the kitchen. He shoved open the sliding glass door and dragged you out onto the back patio. The frigid spring air immediately bit at your bare arms, but at least the bass was muffled out here.

"What the fuck is going on with you?" Dean demanded.

He crossed his arms over his broad, perfectly sculpted chest.

"You’ve been ghosting me," he accused. "And tonight, you completely walked away when Allie said hi. What is your problem?"

The sheer, blinding oblivion of the man was staggering.

"I don't have a problem, Dean," you lied, fighting to keep your voice perfectly even. "I'm just busy."

"Bullshit."

He stepped closer, crowding your space until that familiar, spicy cologne wrapped around you. It made your chest physically ache.

"You’re my best friend," he pushed, a rare edge of desperation bleeding into his tone. "We used to tell each other everything. Now you won't even look at me."

He ran a hand through his hair, looking genuinely distressed. "Allie thinks you hate her. And I'm starting to think you hate me."

"I don't hate Allie," you whispered. Your hands were shaking so violently you had to cross your arms to hide them. "And I don't hate you. But things change, Dean. You're... you're with her now."

"So?" He threw his hands up in the air. "Garrett and Logan have girlfriends, and you still hang out with them! Why am I the only one getting frozen out?"

The absolute unfairness of it snapped whatever fragile restraint you had left.

"Because Garrett and Logan weren't fucking me, Dean!"

The words ripped out of your throat before you could swallow them back down.

Silence slammed onto the patio, heavy, suffocating, final. The only sound left was the muffled vibration of the music inside the house.

Dean froze.

The anger instantly drained from his perfectly chiseled face. It was replaced by a devastating, agonizingly slow realization.

His green eyes widened as he stared at you.

You could practically see that pretty head of his piecing together the timeline, the sudden distance, the lame excuses. The way the rest of his teammates had been subtly shielding you from him for weeks.

"You..." Dean started, his voice dropping to a horrified whisper. "Wait. You..."

"Don't," you choked out.

You wrapped your arms tighter around yourself, feeling like you might actually shatter. The humiliation burned the back of your throat like acid.

"Just don't say it, Dean. I knew the score. I knew who you were. It's my own stupid fault for catching feelings while you were just getting your rocks off."

"Baby doll, I didn't—" He reached out, his hand actually trembling as he stopped inches from your arm. "You're my best friend," he whispered, his voice cracking, looking at you like you had just betrayed him. "You're the one constant I have. I swear to God, I never would have touched you if I knew it would ruin this."

It was the final nail in the coffin. He didn't regret breaking your heart; he regretted crossing a line that jeopardized his own comfort. The physical intimacy that meant everything to you had meant absolutely nothing to him.

The sliding glass door screeched on its track as it was abruptly shoved open and Garrett Graham stood in the doorway.

His broad shoulders blocked the light from the kitchen, his dark eyes flicking from your tear-stained face to Dean’s horrified expression.

As the team captain, Garrett knew exactly when a play was going south.

"Step back, D," Garrett ordered.

His voice wasn't yelling, but it carried a lethal authority that left zero room for argument.

"G, this is between us," Dean pleaded, looking utterly panicked. "I just need to fix this."

"You can't fix this tonight, man. Open your damn eyes and give her some space."

Garrett stepped out onto the patio. He gently placed a warm, solid hand on your back. He didn't look at Dean again. He just looked at you, his expression softening into total empathy.

"Come on," Garrett murmured. "Let's get you out of here."

You didn't fucking dare to look back at Dean. Because if you looked over your shoulder and saw him standing on that patio—frozen, horrified, looking at you with pity instead of love—you would actually shatter into a million jagged pieces.

Garrett's palm on your back was a steady, grounding weight. He bulldozed a path right through the swarm of drunken frat boys and puck bunnies. He didn't stop until the heavy front door slammed shut behind you.

The freezing air hit your lungs like crushed glass, and you finally let out a ragged, ugly sob.

"I've got you," Garrett murmured. His voice was surprisingly gentle for a guy who spent his life smashing people into the boards.

Tucker was already waiting by Garrett's Jeep in the driveway. Because of course he was. John Tucker always knew exactly where he needed to be.

He took one look at your face, immediately shrugged out of his heavy winter coat, and draped it over your trembling shoulders as he opened the back door of the Jeep and guided you inside.

"G, you driving?" Tuck asked quietly.

"Yeah. Let's get her out of here."

The interior of the Jeep smelled like rich leather and cold winter air. You curled into a miserable, pathetic ball in the backseat, pulling Tucker's massive coat around you like a suit of armor. You squeezed your eyes shut, but it did absolutely nothing to stop the hot tears tracking down your cheeks.

Garrett started the engine, the heater roaring to life. He shifted the car into drive, but before pulling out of the driveway, his dark eyes met yours in the rearview mirror.

"You want me to go back in there and kick his ass?" Garrett asked. His tone was deadpan and entirely serious. "Because I will. Logan is probably already tearing him a new one, but I'm more than happy to take a swing."

A wet, broken laugh scraped its way out of your throat. "No. Don't punch him. It's not... it's not his fault he didn't fall for me, G."

"It's his fault for being a blind, selfish idiot," Tucker corrected from the passenger seat. "He led you on, whether he meant to or not."

You rested your forehead against the cold glass of the window, watching the hockey house disappear into the darkness. The brutal reality of it was settling deep into your bones, heavy and hollow.

It was over.

Whatever messy, undefined, agonizingly beautiful thing you had with Dean Sebastian Kendrick Heyward-Di Laurentis was dead. He was going to move on with Allie Hayes, and you were going to have to figure out how to exist in a world where you weren't his favorite secret anymore. You had to go back to being just a friend.

It was going to hurt like a fucking bitch. You were going to have to mourn a breakup for a relationship that never technically existed.

But as Garrett reached back to adjust the vents so the warm air hit you directly, and Tucker quietly turned up the radio to drown out the heavy silence, a tiny, fractured piece of your heart clicked into place.

You hadn't won the guy. You had lost the golden boy to the blonde girl with the broken heart.

But looking at the two massive, fiercely protective hockey players guarding your front seat, you realized you hadn't lost everything. You had played with fire, and yeah, you'd gotten burned. But you had walked out of the ashes with a family.

[alliehayesgf]

this was fucked uppppp but i love me some angst

[puckmegirl]

MAGIC MIKE (ft. John Logan)

blurb: after a wild girls’ night out with hannah and allie to a local magic mike show, logan bites off more than he can chew when he shows up to pick up his tipsy girlfriend who’s feeling handsy…

warnings: fem!reader, suggestive, alcohol, established relationship, abs abs abs

John Logan prided himself on being an impeccably patient and responsible boyfriend.

You, however, incessantly challenged that on a daily basis.

Tonight was no different.

Allie, heartbroken and possessed by the recent breakup with Sean, exploded into action and dragged you and Hannah to a Magic Mike show run by a local dance company.

“Support the arts! Dance lives matter!” Allie all but chanted as the three of you had gotten ready in the dorm.

You and Hannah, in much need of a girls’ night, and of course, determined to help your friend recuperate after the messy separation, took it all with an easy stride and a mischievous craving for tantalizing fun.

Hence why the three of you were now stumbling outside the theatre post-show. All giggles and airy thoughts.

Logan arrived not long after your first call of distress.

Distress, perhaps, was not a fitting word for someone who so willingly submitted to the promising rush of the three pinkity drinkities you consumed.

“Hello?” You had hiccuped.

Logan could hear the knowing smile you had on your face even through the speaker.

“I take it girls’ night was a success?” He asked, already getting up from bed and putting on a jacket.

“A slam dunk, a home run, a goal in the net,” you replied with a breathy laugh.

“Where are you?”

He heard some rustling, your voice getting fainter as you presumably turned to speak to your friends. “Allie, where are we?”

Allie squinted at the sign, “It says Lexington and 6th Street.”

You returned to your phone, “Between Lexington and 6th.”

“By Rockside theatre and arts center!” He heard Hannah’s voice chime in.

Logan nodded despite you being unable to see it. “I will be there in 15 minutes. Are you girls outside or inside?”

“Outside,” you replied, watching as Hannah had to wrestle Allie’s phone away before she broke the 36 hour rule with Sean.

“Can you go back inside for me, please?” Logan asked nicely. You could hear the rumbling growl of his jeep’s engine starting.

“Back where the shirtless boys are? Tempting.”

You could practically picture the fond eye roll he probably made at your remark. “Back where it’s safe, gorgeous.” He clarified.

“The place is closed now, silly.”

He hummed in thought. “Okay. Sit tight. Don’t wander without Allie and Hannah.”

True to his word, he arrived 15 minutes later. You raised your arms up in celebration at the sight of the familiar car pulling up in front of you three.

He stepped out the jeep and rounded around to you. Your arms remained upright, awaiting your welcome hug. “Logan!”

He pulled you in with a soft kiss on your head. His eyes quickly assessed your whole body, silently running a prompt diagnostic to evaluate what level of tipsy you were currently exhibiting. His conclusion? A solid 4/10. Manageable.

His gaze turned to the other two musketeers; Hannah at a 3, and Allie at a striking 9. Not so manageable.

“Come on, let me get you guys back to the house,” Logan said, gesturing his head to the jeep.

Hannah shook her head, “Garrett’s coming to take Allie and I back to our dorm.”

“Guess I’m all yours,” you said in the sexiest tone you could muster in your state, running a finger down Logan’s chest.

Logan let out a huff of amusement and looked at the girls. “He say when he’s coming?”

“Should be another 10 minutes,” Hannah replied, now holding Allie’s head that kept lulling off to the side.

Logan, being the responsible and excellent man that he was, planted himself right there against the wall of the theatre and waited until Garrett arrived. He was not leaving Hannah and Allie to wait alone, in the dark, at night. Over his dead body.

“Aww, thanks, Logan,” Allie cooed, swaying in her step.

“Do you wanna wait in the car, Al? You’re moving very precariously,” he suggested, glancing at her from top to bottom with caution and care.

She shook her head, “Fresh air soothes me.” Though Logan didn’t think her statement was entirety factual, he let it slide, nodding politely.

You giggled, “You should’ve seen her on stage, Loge. She was a star.”

Logan raised his brows, “Oh yeah?”

Hannah nodded with an impressed smile, “Allie gave those boys a run for their money.”

Logan always knew Allie belonged on a stage, so hearing this was not shocking at all. He gave a supportive smile, “I bet.”

Allie raised her head off Hannah’s palm and looked at you and Logan, “Your girlfriend was the real stunner. Two of the dancers wanted her to come up for crowd work, but she declined both times.”

Logan froze.

He had to remind himself that he was not a possessive man so easily threatened by other males. Yet, Allie’s slurred comment raised alarm bells.

“Yeah?” His eyes settled on you.

Your cheeks warmed a little, and you shook your hand dismissively. “Audience participation is a big part of these strip shows. I was probably just the most convenient target since I sat by the aisle.”

“Once is convenience, twice is favoritism,” Allie sang.

Hannah looked at you, “I sat by the aisle too and they didn’t ask me,” she reminded.

“Face it, babes. You’re hot stuff,” Allie said with a wink before nearly tripping on her own feet if Hannah hadn’t been holding her arm.

This was all such useful information for Logan.

You hummed, appreciating the compliment and reveling in the flattery. “Thanks, Allie baby. But like I told you during the show, I don’t need a shirtless guy grinding up on me.”

Logan’s jaw ticked.

He was now leaning his arm on a spot on the wall that was by your head. You looked up at him through your lashes. Your wandering hand didn’t think twice before your palm settled on his abdomen. “Unless it’s you.”

Hannah and Allie giggled in that way only girls did when they were truly giddy.

Logan’s lips tugged into that easy smirk he mastered; not cocky enough to be a douche, but definitely not humble enough to pass for innocent.

His fingers wrapped around your wrist, keeping your hand right where it was. “Yeah?” His voice was lower, dangerously charismatic.

“Mhm, we got Magic Mike right here,” you responded, and he did not stop you when you lifted his cotton shirt up to reveal those glorious abs of his, sculpted from relentless hockey mornings and restless nights at the garage.

Logan had to bite his bottom lip to stop his mouth from splitting into a smug bastard’s grin. He shook his head in unserious exasperation, but really it was an excuse to lock in.

The girls and you chuckled freely, high off the drinks and fun night. Suddenly, the idea of Logan being a Magic Mike dancer seemed to be the most hilariously entertaining thing the three of you could imagine.

And because Logan was Logan—and what is Logan if not a devious charmer in sheep’s clothing—he put his free hand on the wall by the other side of your head, caging you in. The girls’ laughter doubled with accompanying squeals of hysteria.

You giggled too, feeling very much content and fine with this strapping 6 ft something hockey player holding you hostage against the wall with his fit body. You did not need any saving here.

Hannah snapped a quick photo that she would most definitely be sending into the group chat once morning comes.

Logan dipped his head down, teasing you by not kissing you, but staying right there in the crook of your neck. You felt his soft breathing against your skin. Goosebumps rippled through you, and you felt yourself squirm in place. Such sweet torture.

“Did they do this in the show?” Logan whispered by your ear.

You shook your head, “No, but now I wish they did.”

Logan pressed a kiss below your ear and pulled away, just in time, too, as Garrett’s black car pulled up right next to them.

Hannah and Allie sighed, “Our savior!” Allie breathed out in relief.

Garrett shot a curious and amused look Logan’s way, but did not ask follow-up questions. He simply guided his girlfriend and friend into his car. In similar fashion, Logan walked you over to his jeep with a hand on the small of your back.

Logan left you on aux duty, and he regretted his decision immediately when you played Pony by Ginuwine.

He shot you a look, but you were too busy dancing in the passenger seat to the music. Your eyes met his and you played oblivious to his reaction. Defeated, Logan simply shook his head with a smile and clipped his seatbelt on.

You were so getting it tonight.

this lowk sucks but i need to beat the writer’s block

[alliehayesgf]

pony is so fucking funny

[worldimaginedreaming]

BEST FRIEND...RIGHT?

Pairing : Allie Hayes x fem! reader Word Count : 1,6 K Warning : best friend to lovers, college Au , Jealousy, fluff , little agst.. Summary : When Allie suddenly gets jealous at a party and claims you as hers, you both start realizing your friendship might have never been just friendship after all.

The first time someone asked if you and Allie were dating, you laughed so hard you nearly spilled your coffee. The second time, you rolled your eyes. By the fiftieth time? You stopped knowing what to say.

Because maybe maybe there was a reason everyone at Briar looked at the two of you like that.

Maybe best friends weren’t supposed to sit with their thighs pressed together at parties.

Maybe best friends weren’t supposed to fall asleep tangled up in the same bed almost every night.

Maybe your heart wasn’t supposed to race every single time Allie smiled at you across a crowded room.

But none of that mattered.

Because Allie was your best friend.

And if you thought too hard about the way she looked in your hoodies or how soft her voice got when she was tired, you were pretty sure you’d lose your mind.

“Are you even listening to me?”

You blinked. Allie stood in front of your desk with her arms crossed, amusement dancing in her eyes.

“You’ve been staring at me for like five minutes.”

Heat rushed to your face instantly.

“I was not.”

“Mhmm.” She grinned. “You totally were.”

You hated how pretty she looked when she teased you.

Messy blonde hair. Oversized Briar hockey sweatshirt. Tiny gold hoops in her ears. Completely unfair.

“You’re obsessed with me,” she added dramatically.

You snorted. “Please. Your ego is insane.”

“And yet you still love me.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

Your chest tightened before you forced yourself to laugh lightly.

“Unfortunately.”

Allie beamed before throwing herself onto your bed beside you. The mattress dipped under her weight, and suddenly her leg was pressed against yours, warm and familiar. Dangerous. You tried not to think about how easy it would be to lean over and kiss her. That thought had been happening more often lately. Way more often.

“You’re staying over tonight, right?” she asked absentmindedly while scrolling through her phone.

“Obviously.”

“Good. I hate sleeping alone.”

Your stomach flipped stupidly. God. This was becoming a problem.

Friday night parties at Briar were always chaos. Music shaking the walls. Hockey players yelling over each other. Too many people packed into one house. Normally, you and Allie stayed attached at the hip the entire night. But tonight she kept getting pulled away by different people, leaving you alone in the kitchen with a warm drink and a weird feeling in your chest.

“You look miserable.”

You glanced up to find a guy smiling at you from across the counter. Cute. Tall. Probably athletic.

“Do I?” you laughed.

“A little.”

“I’m just waiting for my friend.”

His smile widened slightly. “Boyfriend?”

You opened your mouth to answer, but paused. Because somehow saying no felt strange.

“No,” you finally said. “Just my best friend.”

The guy hummed like he didn’t entirely believe you.

“I’m Mason.”

You introduced yourself politely, trying not to glance around the room searching for blonde hair and bright eyes.

Mason leaned against the counter casually. “So if your friend isn’t your boyfriend…”

Before he could finish, his hand landed lightly on your waist. And suddenly...

“She’s with me.”

The voice cut through the noise sharply.Your breath caught instantly.

Allie stood a few feet away staring directly at Mason, her expression unreadable. No. Not unreadable. Jealous. The realization hit so hard it nearly knocked the air out of you.

Mason lifted his hands awkwardly. “Sorry, I didn’t know..”

“It’s fine,” Allie interrupted.

But her voice was tight.

Controlled.

She walked forward before gently grabbing your wrist, pulling you toward her side without another word.

Your entire body short-circuited.

Because Allie was touching you differently tonight.

Not casually.

Not thoughtlessly.

Possessively.

You could practically feel Dean staring from somewhere across the room losing his absolute mind.

“Al…” you whispered once Mason disappeared.

“Come upstairs with me.”

Your heart skipped.

“What?”

“Please.”

Something in her voice made you follow her instantly.

The bedroom upstairs was quiet compared to the chaos below. The second the door shut behind you, silence wrapped around both of you.

Allie finally let go of your hand. Neither of you spoke. You stared at each other across the room, tension so thick it almost hurt. Then finally.

“What was that downstairs?” you asked softly.

Allie looked away immediately. “Nothing.”

“You looked ready to kill him.”

“He was touching you.”

The answer came too fast. Too honest. Your stomach twisted violently.

“Allie…”

She started pacing suddenly, frustrated energy radiating off her.

“I know this is stupid.”

“What is?”

“This.” She gestured between you both helplessly. “Whatever the hell this is lately.”

Your heartbeat started pounding harder.

“What do you mean?”

Allie laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.

“You seriously haven’t noticed?”

The room felt too small now.

Too warm.

“No,” you lied.

Her eyes met yours again, and suddenly she looked terrified.

“I hated seeing him touch you.”

Your breath caught.

“I hated the way he looked at you.” Her voice cracked slightly. “And I know I shouldn’t care this much because you’re my best friend, but lately every time someone flirts with you I feel like I’m losing my mind.”

Every word wrapped tighter around your chest.

Because this couldn’t be happening.

Not really.

“You’re my person,” Allie whispered. “And I don’t know when that stopped feeling platonic.”

Silence. Heavy. Crushing silence. You could hear your own heartbeat. Allie shook her head quickly, already stepping back.

“Forget it. Seriously. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

She moved toward the door.

Panic exploded inside you instantly.

“Don’t.”

She froze.

You crossed the room before you could lose your nerve, fingers wrapping carefully around her wrist. The second she looked at you again, everything inside you shattered. Because she looked scared. Like she thought she’d ruined everything.

“You wanna know something really pathetic?” you whispered.

Allie swallowed hard. “What?”

“I think I’ve been waiting for you to say that.”

Her entire expression changed. Slowly. Carefully. Hope replacing fear.

“You have?”

You laughed nervously. “Allie, I literally compare everyone to you.”

She stared.

“I try to flirt with other people and then they laugh wrong or say something dumb and suddenly I just…” You exhaled shakily. “I just wish I was with you instead.”

“All this time?” she asked quietly.

“Yes.”

The word barely came out above a whisper. Allie looked completely wrecked by the confession.

“So we’re both idiots,” she murmured.

You laughed softly. “Seems like it.”

Then she stepped closer. Close enough that you could feel her breath. Close enough that your brain completely stopped functioning.

“Can I kiss you?” she asked carefully.

The question alone nearly killed you.

“Yes.”

Allie kissed you like she was scared you’d disappear. Slow at first. Hesitant. Then suddenly her hand cupped your cheek, and everything changed. The kiss deepened, instantly warm and overwhelming and terrifying in the best possible way.

You grabbed the front of her sweatshirt without thinking, pulling her closer as months of hidden feelings finally crashed between you both. And somehow, kissing Allie felt exactly like coming home. When she pulled away, both of you were breathing hard.

“Oh my God,” she whispered.

You laughed shakily. “Yeah.”

Her forehead rested against yours.

“We really suck at being just friends.”

A soft laugh escaped you.

“Dean is never going to shut up about this.”

Allie groaned immediately. “He’s going to be unbearable.”

As if summoned by the universe itself, the bedroom door suddenly burst open.

Dean stood there holding two drinks.

He looked at your flushed faces.

At the way your hands were still tangled together.

Then his jaw dropped dramatically.

“OH MY GOD.”

You immediately hid your face in Allie’s shoulder while she yelled, “Dean, get out!”

“I KNEW IT,” he screamed.

“You’re so annoying,” Allie groaned.

Dean pointed at both of you like a proud parent.

“This is my greatest accomplishment.”

“You literally had nothing to do with this.”

“I emotionally supported the process.”

You burst out laughing while Allie threw a pillow directly at his face. Dean dodged it easily before backing toward the hallway dramatically.

“Congratulations on finally realizing you’re in love with each other!”

The door slammed shut again.

Silence. Then you and Allie both dissolved into laughter. Real laughter this time. The kind that made your chest ache. When things finally quieted, Allie looked at you softly almost carefully.

“So…” she whispered.

“So?”

Her fingers intertwined with yours. “Girlfriend?” Your heart melted instantly. You smiled so hard it hurt. “Yeah,” you whispered back. “I’d really like that.”

Allie kissed you again before smiling against your lips. And honestly? Maybe everyone at Briar had been right all along. Maybe you and Allie were never supposed to stay just best friends.

A/N : Here's my first fanfiction on off campus.. I just finished for the second time the tv-show and it is very good !!! I am preparing to write all the character with fem reader... I am going maybe writing love triangle, polyamorous... WHAT DO YOU THINK? DON'T FORGET TO LIKE , SHARE & SUBSCRIBE !!!!!

[alliehayesgf]

need that need that need that

[alliehayesgf]

new fixation new user (didn't think that it would still be available)

i ❤️ allie hayes

also hello yes google that is what i meant

[gxbbywrites]

i’m so obsessed with your ex | allie hayes

No, you’re not obsessed with Allie Hayes—and you’re definitely not feeling inferior. It’s just… you can’t help but compare yourself to her, especially because Dean was so enamored with her. Who wouldn’t, really?

contents — profanities, brief smut scenes, suggestive, no dialogues lol this is almost completely descriptive, not proofread | word count — 1.09k | title — obsessed by olivia rodrigo

gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.

Being in a casual relationship—if you can even call it that—with Dean di Laurentis after his breakup with the Allie Hayes is a fucking feat in itself.

Having broken up for reasons between only the two of them, you somehow feel like a placeholder, but not really at the same time. After all, who can replace Allie Hayes—the one with perfect lips, perfect hips, the life of every party? Exactly.

No, you’re not obsessed with Allie Hayes—and you’re definitely not feeling inferior. It’s just… you can’t help but compare yourself to her, especially because Dean was so enamored with her. Who wouldn’t, really?

The outspoken political science major who just happens to be one of the most popular players of Briar U’s hockey team suddenly breaks up with the theater department’s perfect angel after a year of a very public relationship—and possibly more, according to Dean di Laurentis himself.

And then there was you.

It does not help that Di Laurentis is a charming man who gets what he wants when he wants it, and he apparently wanted you two weeks after the infamous breakup. It does not help that you are easily charmed by a man who knows what he wants. It does not help that the reasons for the breakup are not for public knowledge. It does not help that Dean is very open about his affection towards you—in and out of his bedroom. It does not help that it’s only been two weeks since he parted ways with Allie. It does not help that Allie is not upset with you or Dean anyways. It does not help—

Absolutely nothing is helping your case here. The turns of events are making you look like a homewrecker who can’t keep it in her pants, and yet…

And yet you do not hear a single negative word about you from Allie, which is absurd—not because you want her to hate you. She should hate you, but she does not, which is totally fucking nuts.

She smiles at you in passing, she greets you by your name, she looks you in the eye when you talk, and holy fuck, she knows when your classes end during her shifts and knows your usual order at Malone’s.

She does not seem to give a flying fuck that you’re hooking up with her ex-boyfriend not even a month after the breakup, unlike the entirety of Briar U apparently.

Okay, fuck, you are obsessed with Allie Hayes, and it’s unreasonable to be. It’s just that Dean takes such good care of you—before, during and after sex—that you can’t help but wonder if he was that way with Allie too, especially when you lie on the side of his bed she surely lied on before.

You can’t help but wonder, especially when Dean grunts a hot, little—

“Fuck, Allie,”

—into your ear as his hips jerk erratically against your skin. It makes you wonder about Allie—how she is in bed, how she sounds, how she looks.

He does not seem to notice his little slip up, but he notices the way you come harder than usual—your teeth leaving deeper, darker marks into his skin to muffle the sounds you make.

He does not say anything about that—not when he is pulling out of you, not when he is cleaning you up, and definitely not when he is collapsing beside you on his bed. You talk about anything and everything that does not even remotely relate to Allie Hayes, yet your mind seems to drift off to the thoughts of the very woman you are supposed to avoid thinking about, not when her ex-boyfriend has just fucked you on his bed—on her side. You think you should probably be upset—at Dean, or maybe even at Allie. You should probably ask why it is that her name is on his tongue—and his head. But instead, you forget about that—and think about her.

You lie awake that night for hours, staring up at his ceiling. It’s her name on your mind when sleep finally takes over, and it’s her name you’re thinking of the moment you regain consciousness the next morning.

She does not escape your head for a second, even as you pick up your soiled clothes from the floor of Dean’s bedroom, not when you’re walking back to your dorm wearing Dean’s clothes, not when you take a shower almost absentmindedly, not when you sit in class for three hours.

You think you’re going crazy.

And she certainly does not leave your mind when you pass her by in the hallway, catching a whiff of the sweet, gentle smell of her perfume. Your whole body feels like a live wire as her arm brushes yours as you walk past each other, and then your mouth acts before your brain can even catch up to the fact that you have just seen your hookup’s ex-girlfriend, whom you are definitely not obsessed about.

You turn just in time, calling out to her, and she does not ignore you, which does not help. She turns to face you fully, her bright eyes finding yours, her lips curled up into a sweet, sweet smile.

You’re definitely going crazy.

Later that night, you find yourself sitting across from Allie in a bar. You find yourself talking about anything and everything, the conversation flowing surprisingly naturally between you—two women pitted against each other by basically the whole campus. You find yourself interested as she retells the story of her own breakup. You find it surprising when she reveals that she swings the other way, which has caused the very healthy, very mature breakup between two people who have never really liked each other romantically beyond the hot sex and the fun—one who likes the same sex, one who cannot commit to save his life.

And God, she learns about you—she listens intently, her bright eyes trained on you, she remembers. You find her inching towards you as the bar fills with more people, and eventually louder sounds.

You later find yourself leaving the bar with her, walking out in the crisp night air after she invites you into their empty dorm room. You find yourself pressed against the closed door of her room, your lips locked and your hot breath mixing with hers.

You are obsessed with Allie Hayes, but not in the way either of you initially thought.

And when Dean sees you together in the party, he only laughs freely and claps your shoulder as he says, “Congratulations on figuring your shit out, champ.”

[alliehayesgf]

i'm definitely 100% obsessed with allie hayes

[junezsq]

just a little giggle

garrett graham x fem!reader

summary: after a bad day, garrett proves he’s the only one who can make you laugh

established relationship / grumpy x sunshine

warnings: reader’s a little mean to dean lmfao but she still loves him don’t worry, other than that just sappy fluff

word count: 1.5k

a/n: first ever garrett fic!!!! based on this request, lmk if you like it :))) also lmk if ya’ll want more garrett

garrett graham masterlist off campus masterlist

── ᵎᵎ ✦

there wasn’t really a particular reason for your current bad mood. the entire day had simply felt like a collection of minor inconveniences designed specifically to test your patience, beginning with an alarm you had somehow slept through and ending with the light rain that had started halfway through your walk from your car to the boys’ house. it wasn’t heavy enough to justify the umbrella sitting uselessly in your bag, but it had been enough to leave your hair damp around your face and the cuffs of your jeans wet.

the front door was unlocked when you arrived. you let yourself inside without knocking, immediately greeted by the familiar noise of the living room.

logan and tucker were sitting on one couch while dean had taken over the other, his legs stretched across the cushions despite the fact that there were several people in the house who might eventually want somewhere to sit. takeout containers covered most of the coffee table, and something played on the television beneath the overlapping conversations.

logan noticed you first and greeted you from the couch. you returned it while pulling off your damp jacket, your eyes moving briefly around the room before you could stop them.

garrett wasn’t there.

you told yourself that you were only checking because he was the reason you’d come over in the first place, but dean noticed anyway. unfortunately, dean noticed most things that had the potential to make him irritating, “graham’s upstairs,” he told you.

you looked at him, “did i ask?”

dean’s eyebrows rose, his expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief, “you were looking for him.”

“maybe i was checking for an emergency exit.”

“door’s behind you.”

“helpful. thanks.”

tucker’s quiet laugh followed you toward the kitchen while dean stared after you, probably wondering what he had done to deserve your hostility.

the answer was nothing, really. you actually liked dean. you just simply preferred him when he was being quiet, which meant you preferred him under circumstances that rarely occurred.

you had only made it halfway across the room when footsteps sounded on the stairs. you looked over and found garrett coming down, pushing the sleeves of his sweatshirt up to his forearms as he went. his hair was still slightly damp from a shower, curling at the ends, and his attention found you almost immediately. the smile that appeared was small and automatic.

you felt some of the tension in your shoulders loosen before he even reached you.

“hey,” garrett’s hand settled against your waist when he stopped in front of you, and he leaned down to kiss you. it was brief and familiar, his thumb brushing once over your side before he pulled away and took a better look at your face.

he knew you well enough not to ask whether you were upset simply because you weren’t smiling. he’d never been one of those people who assumed your neutral expression meant something terrible had happened, but his eyes lingered on you for another second, “rough day?”

you released a tired breath, “people are annoying.”

from the living room, dean made the mistake of involving himself, “she’s been here thirty seconds.”

you looked past garrett toward him, “and you’ve already made the list.”

garrett’s mouth twitched and you caught it as you looked back at him, “don’t.”

“didn’t say anything.” he didn’t need to. the amusement was already there, softening his expression as his hand gave your waist a brief squeeze before he let you go.

your mood wasn’t magically fixed. your jeans were still wet at the bottom, you were still tired, and dean was still speaking somewhere behind you. but, being there simply felt easier now that garrett was in the room.

you eventually ended up squeezed onto the couch between garrett and tucker.

dean had been forced to remove his legs from the opposite couch after several complaints, although he’d done so with the air of someone making a significant personal sacrifice. more food had appeared from the kitchen, and the television had been changed to a movie nobody seemed particularly invested in watching.

you sat with your legs tucked beneath you and garrett’s arm resting behind your shoulders.

the conversation moved easily around you. you participated when you felt like it and listened when you didn’t, perfectly comfortable with the fact that nobody expected more from you.

or, at least, almost nobody. because dean had apparently decided that evening that your relationship with him needed improvement.

you weren’t sure when he’d made that decision, but his first attempt came when he leaned forward to offer you some of his fries.

you looked at the container, then at him, “what?”

dean frowned, “i’m offering you one.”

“why?”

his frown deepened, “because i’m being nice?”

you continued looking at him until he slowly pulled the container back toward himself, “forget it.”

“thanks.”

beside you, garrett made a quiet sound suspiciously close to a laugh. you turned your head, “something funny?”

he shook his head, though his mouth betrayed him.

dean looked between the two of you, “i don’t understand what her problem is.”

“i don’t have a problem,” you said.

“you looked at me like i’d poisoned the fries.”

“i was considering the possibility.”

logan laughed from the other couch causing dean glare at him, “why is everyone encouraging this?”

nobody answered him as you settled farther into the couch, garrett’s arm slipping naturally from behind you to rest around your shoulders. his fingers moved absently against your upper arm while the conversation shifted away from dean’s grievances.

you had always found it surprisingly easy to be quiet around garrett.

when you’d first started dating, that had been the thing you worried about most. garrett was naturally social in a way you had never been. people gravitated toward him, and he seemed to genuinely enjoy letting them.

you, on the other hand, had spent years being told that you should smile more, talk more, make more of an effort to seem approachable. people regularly mistook your quietness for anger and your bluntness for dislike, and eventually you had stopped caring enough to correct them.

garrett had never needed the correction. he knew that your silence wasn’t always uncomfortable and that a bad mood didn’t mean you needed to be coaxed out of it. he could tell when you were genuinely irritated and when you were only complaining because you enjoyed complaining. most importantly, he had never treated your personality as something he needed to fix.

you liked that about him. you liked most things about him, unfortunately.

the movie had been playing for nearly half an hour when dean paused it. the room immediately filled with complaints, but he ignored them, apparently deciding that whatever he needed to say was more important.

you lost track of the story almost immediately. it involved an argument he’d had earlier that day, several people you didn’t know, and enough selective information that you were fairly certain dean was presenting events in whatever order made him seem the most reasonable.

when he finally finished, the room fell quiet and dean looked around expectantly, “so?”

you frowned at him, “you were wrong.”

his head turned toward you, “how?”

“generally.”

“that’s not an answer.”

“it’s the only one i have,” you shrugged.

dean stared at you in disbelief. you stared back, entirely unmoved by it, until garrett spoke beside you, “leave her alone. she’s had a long day.”

there was enough sincerity in his voice that you glanced toward him. dean did too, “doing what?”

garrett looked down at you for a moment, his expression completely serious, “mostly judging people, from what i can tell.”

the laugh escaped you before you could stop it. it wasn’t particularly loud, but it was immediate. you dropped your gaze toward your lap as your shoulders shook, already aware that garrett was smiling beside you.

across the room, dean looked personally offended, “seriously?”

your amusement faded slightly as you looked at him, “what?”

“i’ve been trying to be nice to you all night.”

“why?”

dean looked genuinely lost for a moment. logan let out another laugh at his friend’s inconvenience.

“see?” you said, gesturing vaguely toward him, “even logan thinks it’s weird.”

“that’s not why i’m laughing,” he spoke while another laugh escaped his lips.

dean looked toward garrett as though he expected some kind of explanation, but garrett only shrugged, his hand moving lazily against your shoulder.

the conversation moved on, but you caught garrett looking at you several minutes later. there was nothing smug in his expression. he didn’t act as though making you laugh was an achievement or some impossible task he’d accomplished. half the time, you weren’t convinced he even knew what he’d done.

that was probably why it happened so easily.

sometimes it was a comment made under his breath, meant only for you. sometimes it was the expression on his face when someone said something ridiculous. there had been entire conversations where all it took was looking at him from across the room to know you were thinking the same thing.

you weren’t sure what made him different.

maybe you knew his sense of humor well enough that you could hear the joke even when nobody else did. maybe he simply knew exactly what would make you laugh because he’d spent enough time paying attention.

or maybe you were just embarrassingly in love with him.

⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ:⋆*･ﾟ: *⋆.*:･ﾟ .: ⋆*･ﾟ: .⋆ ⋆*･ﾟ

@tinyceasarsalad @melodypvnk

[alliehayesgf]

lowkey shes real asf being mean to men is exhausting but someone has to do it🫤🫤

[gxbbywrites]

tell me where you’re hiding your voodoo doll ‘cause i can’t control myself | dean di laurentis

He barely knows you, so why does he feel so strongly for you? It’s not love (yet), but maybe it’s something dangerously close—no, he barely knows you. It should not be possible to like you like that.

contents — told in dean’s pov, just dean being absolutely down bad | word count — 3k | title — voodoo doll by 5 seconds of summer

gabby says — this is a repost from my old blog, @fictionallygabby. i have decided to start my blog all over, so please feel free to read here for the explanation.

Dean di Laurentis—who thinks he knows every woman in Briar, considering he had… made an acquaintance with about half of them—is first made aware of your existence at a block party. After three years in Briar University, he only knows about you—at a stupid block party, no less.

He approaches you with his usual charming smile that disarms women—and men—and tears even the highest walls down. You see, the key word this time is usually. Really, he should have known that there is a reason why he is only finding out about you now instead of three years ago during freshman orientation where about a third of the freshman class had thrown themselves at his feet, eager to get to know him.

“Hey.” He grins easily, holding a hand out for you to shake. “Dean di Laurentis, but I’m sure you know about me.”

Real smooth, di Laurentis, real fucking smooth. Holy shit, did he suddenly forget how to talk to women that he fumbles that badly? Oh, this is bad, he thinks, he can’t have himself failing when he has just found who he (very irrationally) thinks is the love of his life.

And while Dean is too busy having an internal conflict, you give him a once over before walking away with a snicker, leaving him standing there alone, with his hand still outstretched.

Only when his friends clap his back does he realize that you are no longer in front of him and are nowhere to be found. Great. He meets the love of his life and loses her in under ten minutes.

He leaves the party grounds later that night with you still in his head. His heart skips a beat every time he remembers the color of your eyes, the slope of your nose, and the curve of your lips—which is silly because he had literally *just met you, and he does not even feel this way about sorority girls he has known for years, or ex-hookups he sees around the campus. Hell, he does not even know your name. All he knows is that you are gorgeous and breathtaking and stunning and beautiful and captivating and mesmerizing and—

Oh.

He had just described you in more than two words that did not include hot and sexy.

Dean di Laurentis is completely, utterly, totally, absolutely fucked.

—

Dean, to his utmost delight *and horror, sees you again after a week—at another fucking party. Why is this a recurring theme in his life right now?

You step into the off-campus hockey house wearing an outfit that is so simple yet so elegant, especially on you. As soon as you step in, everyone else looks underdressed in his eyes, including himself.

He forces himself out of his thoughts with a vigorous shake of his head. He starts building his confidence and charm—which is ridiculous because he is Dean fucking di Laurentis, one of Briar U’s most sought-after bachelors. Why the fuck does he need to build his confidence any more? He is confident, he is charming, he is attractive, he is calm, he is cool, he is not fucking this up for the second time.

At one point during his self-affirmation, you walk past him. He catches a whiff of your perfume—faint, fleeting, but *there—and freezes up like an idiot. Of fucking course.

It is only when you are far enough for you not to hear him does he snap out of his trance, feeling like an absolute wreck. Instead of walking over to you and striking a conversation like a normal human being, he watches you from across the room, his heart beating like crazy even though you had done nothing but exist.

He watches as you chat with your friends and laugh freely, fetch yourself some drinks, and rock slightly to the beat of the music. He wants so badly to talk to you, make you laugh, refill your drinks for you, dance with you like there is no one else in the room, but every time he even *thinks of standing within three feet away from you, he chickens out—something he never thought was possible. Dean di Laurentis, the very epitome of a ladies’ man, chickening out? That will sound impossible, no matter who you ask, so why is it happening now?

He barely knows you, so why does he feel so strongly for you? It’s not love (yet), but maybe it’s something dangerously close—no, he barely knows you. It should not be possible to like you like that.

—

The next time Dean sees you is in an academic setting—a symposium on international relations and global politics. Thank fuck because he can surely strike up an intelligent conversation with you, unlike in parties, where he comes across as nothing but a dumb jock or a dumb blond—or even worse, a dumb blond jock.

He grins to himself, and walks over to where you and your friend (presumably) are sitting—the seat beside you is conveniently empty. He does not immediately take a seat; instead, he stands in front of the empty spot, perched adjacent to you with a hand outstretched.

“Hi,” he says in a slightly pitched voice, and immediately cringes inwardly, because Dean fucking di Laurentis does not say hi like that. “Sorry, *hey.” Even worse—why did he have to deepen his voice like that? It sounded more like a kid imitating his father’s voice more than anything.

He wants the ground to open up and swallow him whole—with not a single strand of hair left anywhere—when you pause your conversation with your friend—who he now recognizes as a campus journalist named Charlotte—to turn and look at him. Although there is amusement dancing in your eyes when your eyes trail down to his outstretched hand, you don’t keep him waiting for long.

You shake his hand briefly, and he thinks he can die happily now that he’s held your hand—even if it was just a short moment. Your hand is smoother than his hand that’s calloused from gripping hockey sticks for practically his whole life. He does not really know what you do with your hands, but he wants to find out, just like how he wants to know everything about you.

Then you state your name, your tone casual—nothing special, but he feels like dying then coming back to life from just a literal second of you saying your name.

“Hi, Dean,” he says with a dopey, not-very-him smile on his face. He quickly realizes that he had just said that in a completely wrong way. “I mean, hi. Dean—like hi, I'm Dean. Not like hi, you're Dean. I'm Dean di Laurentis, and I should probably stop talking now,” he says, all in one breath, his brain spiraling with every word that comes out of his mouth. He feels like a 12-year-old boy who runs away at the sight of women, which he's not, obviously. He's a 21-year-old man—a six-foot-something hockey defenseman, a very loud and proud supporter of women’s rights and wrongs who's got himself acquainted with quite a number of women, but here he is: blushing and stuttering like a complete idiot.

“I know who you are, Dean di Laurentis.” You look absolutely, drop dead gorgeous, even with an amused smirk—especially with an amused smirk.

“You do?” He can’t help the hopeful look and tone, but he quickly catches himself. He clears his throat and straightens his face as nonchalantly as possible. “I mean, yeah, a lot of people do—know me, I mean.”

“We know that too, Dean di Laurentis.” You chuckle softly, and he feels like he is in heaven.

“You don’t have to call me by my whole name, you know? You can just call me Dean,” he says, “Or anything you’d like, really.”

“That is duly noted, Dean.”

“Say, Dean, what are you doing here?” Charlotte interrupts as gently as she can possibly do, “I mean, no offense, but considering you’re a PolSci student, and this is a symposium on child psychology…”

“Oh shit, for real?” He looks around, and sees the LED wall on the platform displaying an entirely different topic than what he originally signed up for. “Fuck, sorry, I, uh, I got lost. I mean, I got the rooms mixed up, obviously. I’ll… see you around?”

“I’ll see you around, Dean.” You smile, and he feels like he has just died, gone to heaven, and then gone back to life.

He is absolutely, completely, entirely disarmed by just your smile, but he at least knows your name now.

—

The fourth time Dean sees you is during lunch at Malone’s. Puck bunnies surround them and their table, flirting and giggling and twirling strands of their hair around their fingers. Normally, Dean would have flirted back—maybe he would have invited them over to the hockey house after lunch, or invited them into the restroom for a quick one.

But Dean is not himself—he hasn’t been for a week now—not since the *accidental encounter with you in the lecture hall. He does not believe in fate, but he thinks he might after that run-in with you.

After those few, special minutes in the hall, Dean found himself walking towards the *actual venue of the symposium he had signed up for extra credit. He hadn’t listened—he immediately pulled up Charlotte’s profile on Instagram, and went through all of her 1,978 followers to look for you. He hadn’t been successful in the first hour of the symposium, and so he goes through your other friends’ (again, presumably) profiles: Emmett and Ivy from the block party, Megan and Bridget from the house party.

He had somehow found you after about two hours, and debated whether or not to send you a follow request after another hour.

You had accepted his request just a few hours prior.

So here he is, going through your Instagram profile. He probably has all 9 of your posts memorized by heart, and he is scrolling through them for what feels like the first time for him, but it has been at least three hours for the rest of the world.

“Dean,” a puck bunny—Ashley, if he remembers correctly—purrs beside him, running her perfectly manicured nail down his arm slowly. “What’s got you so distracted, gorgeous? Are you not enjoying this?”

He reluctantly looks up from the screen of his phone—he does not even bother to turn it off as he forces his gaze towards Ashley. He is about to respond when the bell above the door jingles. He does not know what compelled him to look over, but he’s glad he did, because walking into the diner is you.

You are wearing a simple shirt with a pair of washed jeans, as well as a pair of obviously well-loved sneakers. Your outfit is nothing out of the ordinary—something you’d see on more than half the population of Briar U—but it looks different on you. You look absolutely stunning in simple clothes.

His tense body sags with relief, and without thinking, he finds himself weaving through the small crowd consisting of his friends and women he barely knows. He passes through with a brief, quiet, ‘excuse me’, and walks towards you with an easy smile on his face.

“Huh,” Ashley hums in thought as she watches Dean part from the group. His friends all watch him, incredibly weirded out by his undeniably weird behavior.

“Hi, Hannah,” he hears you greeting as you lean against the bar. “I sent in an order about forty-five minutes ago, and I was hoping that it’s ready.”

“Oh, absolutely!” Hannah smiles at you, wide and bright as she hands you a paper bag. “Here you go—extra everything for Malone’s favorite regular.”

“Thanks a lot, gorgeous!” You beam, taking the bag, and looking through it briefly to make sure everything is in order.

Before you push away from the bar, Dean calls out your name. “Hey.” He smiles at you—a wide smile that deepens his dimples. “It’s great seeing you again.”

“Hi, Dean.” Your grin widens as you turn to him. “It’s great to see you too. How have you been?”

“Good, really good.” He nods, and he suddenly does not seem to know what to do with his hands. “You look great.”

“Thanks,” she says, her grin softens into a little smile now. “You don’t look too bad yourself.”

“Thanks.” His smile, in turn, widens.

There are a few moments of slightly awkward silence—just a few beats of you two looking at each other—before you break it.

“I have to get going.” You point to the door behind you. “I’m kind of on the way to class. I just picked up lunch real quick.”

“Yeah, no, for sure.” He watches you take a few steps back, just as stiffly. “I’ll see you around?”

“Of course.” You nod, taking another step back.

Before you can turn away from him, he says, “I’ll, uh, keep in touch.”

He sees surprise flashing across your face, but you quickly recover, and you grin. “It’s up to you,” is all you say before walking out the door.

His eyes follow your moving form until you disappear from his sight, and only then does he release a breath he doesn’t realize he was holding. He runs a hand over his face and lets out another sigh. “Holy fuck,” he whispers, mostly to himself.

“You’re down bad,” he hears Hannah say from behind the bar as she wipes the countertop.

“Yeah, whatever, Wellsy.” He ignores Hannah’s words, finally turns to her, and sits on the stool directly in front of her. “May I ask how long you’ve known her for?”

“Since we were freshmen. She was one of the first people I knew, along with Allie,” she says, looking up at him.

“And may I ask how I’ve never met her before?”

“Dean, why are you asking me?” Hannah raises her eyebrows, both in surprise and in exasperation. “But if I’m going to answer your question, I’d say it’s because you were too busy being, well, you.”

“Okay, fair.” He raises his arms in surrender. “But I want to know her. Tell me what she likes, what she doesn’t, what she loves—please tell me everything.”

“Dude, you can literally ask her yourself.”

“I am so intimidated by her!” He almost begs. “Wellsy, help me out here. I am literally dying.”

“No, you’re not. Don’t be dramatic,” she says easily. “You just find her hot.”

“No, she’s not just hot. She’s absolutely drop dead gorgeous, and she’s objectively the most beautiful person in every single room she walks into, and—”

“Okay, point taken!” Hannah interrupts. “If it helps, she does literally nothing else during her free time but study and doomscroll through Instagram.”

Dean’s eyes literally light up at Hannah’s response. “Wellsy, you are an absolute lifesaver.”

“Holy shit, di Laurentis, you are more than down bad. You are abysmally, horrendously down.”

“Now, Wellsy, that’s an exaggeration.”

It’s really not that bad, really. He just wants to get to know you because he’s interested in you. Sure, they can all say he’s down bad, but you’re you. You’re beautiful and intelligent and overall an extremely interesting person. His infatuation is really not that bad.

Right?

—

*Wrong.

“Okay, who else thinks this is weird?” Logan says from the tall stool by the kitchen counter.

“What is?” Garrett asks from the couch, his eyes still glued to his phone screen.

“Dean.”

“He’s always weird. What’s new?” Tucker does not even pause from throwing a ball in the air.

“No, dude, he hasn’t brought anyone home in weeks, and he’s always on his damn phone.”

Tucker catches the ball, and turns to Logan. “So maybe he’s sexting? Or in a long distance situationship? Who even knows at this point, man? That’s Dean, and Dean’s not Dean if he’s not weird in his own, Dean way.”

“Yeah, but not this weird,” Logan argues. “Look, do you remember the girl from two weeks ago? Hannah’s friend?”

Realization dawns upon Garrett, and he finally peels his eyes off his phone. “You’re right.” He nods. “Hannah talked about how Dean had been asking about that friend for a week straight before he suddenly stopped.”

“Fucking finally!” Logan cheers. “You guys are slow as fuck.”

Just then, the front door opens, and in comes the man himself, carrying a large paper bag in his hand and his phone in the other.

“No way, an impromptu house meeting?” He speaks as soon as he steps into view. “What’s this one about?”

“You,” Tucker deadpans.

“Me?”

“Specifically,” Logan says loudly, “You and Hannah’s friend.”

“She has a name, thank you very much.” He says your name, his voice unconsciously turning softer. “What about her?”

“See, that’s fucking weird!”

“Man, what is?” Dean rolls his eyes. “Stop talking in codes, dude, just say it.”

“It’s weird that you’re in love because Dean ‘Six Flags’ di Laurentis does not fall in love,” Tucker finally says, and the rest of his friends nod along with him.

“You froze the first time you saw her at that block party. It’s like the world disappeared around you, man. You did not hear us calling you for at least five minutes. You made a complete fool of yourself the first two times you met her,” Garrett says with an amused smirk on his lips. “And you were pretty inconsolable for the first half of the day before Malone’s, and it’s like your entire being lit on fire the moment she walked through the door. You chased after her like a lovesick puppy, man, it’s honestly sickening to see.”

“And now, you barely hang with us because you’re either too busy on your phone with her or with her, like in person,” Logan adds.

Meanwhile, Dean rolls over all the information.

“And where’d you get those goods?” Tucker adds, eyeing the paper bag in his hand.

“From the café near campus,” he mumbles. Your favorite café.

Oh.

Oh.

Dean di Laurentis is definitely, undeniably, wholly, irrevocably in love with you.

[alliehayesgf]

i'm actually sick i'm so attracted to this blond man and it's not okay

[lvstqrs]

the art of un-casual - dean di laurentis

pairing ! dean di laurentis x golden!reader

summary ! you catch dean's attention, but quickly shut it down because you don't do casual. dean persists anyway.

warnings ! fluff. mild talk of insecurities. dean is over being casual about everything. cutie patooties.

wc ! 2.7k

author's note ! i loved writing this and def think i will write more briar u boys with golden!reader !! not proof-read.

to be added to my taglist.

You did not want to be there. Hockey was a violent sport and you didn't like it. However, Hannah's boyfriend just so happened to be the captain, so you were sucked into far too many games for your liking.

"Listen, if I can get over it, so can you," Hannah told you, smiling.

She had a point, you supposed. Her reason was much more valid than yours, and yet, you found yourself upset anyway. Not irrationally or anything, just mildly. Still, you sat with her in the crowd, eyes latching onto the game.

If you were here, you might as well watch. You knew the players, Hannah was around them all the time so that meant you'd come to know their faces, even if you never personally interacted. You tended to stay clear of men like them.

The game was brutal and violent and by the end you felt a little nauseous. Not because you couldn't watch violence, but because you hated the unnecessary kind. And this seemed the most unnecessary there was.

Still, you stayed silent. You cheered with Hannah when Briar U won and you found yourself even a little happy. No, you didn't like hockey, but if someone had to win, it might as well be your team.

Hannah dragged you with her to wait down the hall of the locker rooms. "This is stupid," you grumbled, crossing your arms.

Hannah laughed. "It's not stupid! I want you to meet my friends!"

You sighed, giving in easily. You had a soft spot for Hannah, and you were glad she had found some more people to be comfortable with. Allie was supposed to be here, but she got way too caught up in the upcoming play and ended up passed out in her room.

You two left her be.

Soon enough, men were piling out of the locker room and you felt a little uncomfortable. Not because you felt unsafe, but because they were all staring at you. You weren't shy or anything, not even really that insecure, but it was reasonable that a group full of men staring at you made you uncomfortable.

Hannah introduced you to the guys, and you gave a small wave, an even smaller smile on your face. Not out of rudeness, but out of comfort for yourself. None of them seemed to mind. "You coming to the party, Wellsy?" Dean asked, tossing his arm around her shoulders.

"Depends. Are you coming to the party?" Hannah's eyes were on you.

You widened your eyes, pointing to yourself. "Me? Um...no?"

Dean boo'd, and Logan smacked him upside the head. "Be nice, dickwad."

That earned a little giggle from you. "Come. It'll be fun, and I'll personally bodyguard you if need be," Garrett said, his eyes soft and warm as they reached you.

You sucked in a breath, looking at Hannah who had a little pout on her face. You gave in again. "Okay, I'll come."

Dean and Hannah cheered, slapping palms together. You chuckled, shaking your head. You turned around, heading toward the building doors.

This was a bad idea.

Still, you found yourself walking into the hockey house a few hours later with Hannah at your hip, your eyes darting around the place. You'd never actually been in it, and it was smaller than you expected.

People were packed everywhere, girls all over the guys and they were eating it up like Christmas dinner. Especially Dean. Hannah waved at Garrett, who smiled, walking over to you two.

It was nice for all of two seconds before you decided that being suffocated by the love of those two was not something you wanted to be subjected to all evening. You pulled away from Hannah, a polite smile on your face.

"I'm going to get a drink."

Hannah tilted her head, but nodded. She knew you enough to know that, while you loved love, sometimes it was too much. You hated it, really. It made you feel guilty. There was no reason for you to feel so...envious of Hannah.

She deserved all she had, and you wanted that for her.

Still, something inside you ached a little every time she was with Garrett. Some little voice in your head that told you that could never be you. You ignored it. You had to. You couldn't let that stupid voice consume your life.

Even if, sometimes, it felt like it would.

You sighed, walking over to the kitchen and making yourself a drink. You heavily inspected the cup before deciding it was safe. It took two sips for you to realize you hated whatever it was. Well, it took one sip. But you took another one just to be sure.

You were definitely sure, making a sour face and pouring the liquid down the drain of the sink.

"You know, that's perfectly good alcohol right there." Dean's voice invaded your ears. You looked beside you, seeing him leaning against the fridge, a small smirk on his face.

"Good is a stretch," you replied, shaking your head in an attempt to get the sour taste out.

He chuckled. "Nice freckles." The comment was an odd one, but it ignited some sort of feeling in you. "Never got to see you close enough to notice before."

You managed a smile, a breathy chuckle accompanying it. "That happened to be the goal."

He tilted his head. "How come?"

You swallowed. "Don't you have some girl to make out with?"

A smile from him. "Depends. Are you that girl?"

You crossed your arms. "No."

"Then no."

You narrowed your eyes at him, studying him. His demeanor was calm, collected, cool. Like he belonged right where he was, talking to you in his kitchen as a party happened around the two of you. You weren't quite as collected.

"You didn't answer my other question," he pointed out.

You bit the inside of your cheek. "Well, it was a stupid question."

"Humor me."

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. "You're impossible."

"Oh, you have no idea, sweetheart."

The pet name usually made you feel sick. But Dean didn't say it like a catcall. He said it like it was natural. Like it was a name meant for you. You were positively confused. A little concerned. Mostly focused on making your exit.

Dean noticed. "Some place to be?" He stepped closer. One tiny little step. It made you feel hot.

You swallowed. "Lots of places to be. None of them are here."

"How come?"

The repeated question caused a fire to spread up your neck until you felt the blush across your cheeks. Dean smiled. Not smirked. Smiled. "You're cute when you blush."

You had never felt more of an urge to push a man than you did right then. Not out of anger, but out of embarrassment. No way were you blushing in front of Dean Di Laurentis. "Shut up," you mumbled, tightening your arms around yourself to feel a little more protected.

Dean's eyes scanned over you, his gaze making you squirm slightly. You didn't enjoy being inspected, especially by some manwhore hockey man. Still, you stayed silent. His eyes met yours, something in them you weren't too familiar with.

You could still place it, though. You'd seen it a couple times. It was hunger.

Your chest felt a little tight, and you refused to fall at the feet of him. Your eyes scanned the room. "I make you nervous, don't I?" he asked softly. Not judging or teasing, just a genuine question.

"A little, yes," you replied, eyes staring next to him at the fridge instead of at him.

"How come?"

"Can you stop asking me that?"

"Can you start answering me?"

You bit back a smile. "Fine. You get one question, make it good."

Dean thought for a second. "Why don't you come around?"

You sucked in a breath. "Why would I? A house full of men isn't exactly my idea of a good time."

Dean tilted his head. "So what is?"

You shook yours. "You don't really care about that."

"Hm?"

"I can see it in your eyes, Dean. You're not interested in knowing what I do for fun. You're interested in how much fun I can give you."

Something passed Dean's eyes, something that made you regret what you said, but he easily recovered. "True. Partly."

"Partly?"

"I'm not blind, sweetheart. You're a gorgeous woman in my kitchen, I'd be stupid not to flirt. Still, I am actually interested in what you have to say. I don't only think with my dick, you know?"

You tilted your head. "Hm, that's not what I've heard." Dean chuckled, you smiled. "Okay, fine. You get another question."

This one came with no hesitation. "Are you enjoying yourself tonight?"

"Not entirely," you answered honestly. Dean tilted his chin up.

"You wanna go home?"

"Can't. Allie dropped us off."

"Not what I asked."

You sighed. "Yes."

"Then let's go."

You furrowed your brows. "Dean-"

He shook his head. "The party will live without me. I'd be cruel to make you suffer through it." He peeled himself off the fridge, holding out a hand.

You chuckled softly, slipping your hand into his. His fingers wrapped around your hand easily, and the warmth of his skin caused goosebumps to erupt. You ignored them. You found Hannah quickly, she was drunk.

You were glad she felt comfortable enough to be that way now.

You said goodbye to both Hannah and Garrett, and then followed Dean out of the house. He led you to his car, opening the passenger door for you. You got in silently, and once Dean got in, you gave him your address.

The ride was silent, but comfortable. Music hummed lowly through the car and Dean's eyes flickered to you every once in a while. You never looked back. You were smarter than that. You knew better. You had to know better.

You weren't going to one-night stand yourself into some complicated feelings over Dean fucking Di Laurentis. No, you were more aware of your faults than that. More aware of your inability to be casual about anything.

He pulled up to your house, a small one bedroom in a quiet neighborhood. You sighed softly. You regretted the words before you even got them out. "Do you want to come in?"

There was a pause, before Dean nodded. "Yeah."

You ignored the feeling in your chest as you got out, digging your keys out of your pocket and walking up to the front door, Dean following behind you silently. The door creaked open, and you flicked on the light, kicking your shoes off at the door.

Dean followed your example, trailing you as you walked into your cozy living room. It was full of books and plants and, honestly, it was everything Dean thought it would be. Maybe more.

"Cute," he said softly, almost too softly. His fingers grazed the chipping wallpaper on the wall, and you sucked in a small breath, sitting down in your hanging chair.

Dean followed, sitting down on the couch.

"Why'd you come in?" you asked suddenly, but quietly.

Dean smiled. "Why not?"

"Not an actual answer, by the way."

He chuckled. "Honestly? I wanted to see what kind of place you lived in."

You tilted your head. "And?"

"It's everything I expected from you."

You chuckled. "You can go back to your party, you know?"

"I know."

"Yet, you're still sitting on my couch."

"That I am."

Silence. You sucked in a small breath, turning your head away from him. You felt his stare. You ignored it. "Why do you do that?"

Dean's question was soft and quiet, but full of a weight he didn't know it carried. "Do what?" you asked. Your eyes still weren't on his.

"We get somewhere, and you shut down."

"We don't get anywhere."

"Yes, we do."

You closed your eyes, sucking in a breath through your nose. Your hands tightened at the edges of your chair. You slowly looked at him. "Honestly? It scares me."

Dean tilted his head at your answer, his eyes soft and searching. "What does?"

"You. This. All of it. I don't..." You shook your head. "I don't flirt. I'm smarter than that. I don't get my hopes up. I'm better than that. And I certainly, certainly don't invite a hockey man into my house."

Dean ignored the last part for now, more focused on what you said before. "Hopes up about what?" he asked curiously.

You laughed. A self-deprecating one that made you cringe internally. "You're not dumb, Dean. You know who you are, and so do I. And I know who I am. It's just..." You shook your head once more. It wasn't like you didn't know your worth.

You did.

You just also knew when you were in over your head. Sometimes it got the better of you. You hated that it did, but you couldn't help it. Dean moved then, slowly and soft like you were going to run away if he moved too quickly.

Maybe you were.

He found his place in front of you on his knees, eyes looking up at you. You sucked in a breath. "So who are you, then?" he asked quietly.

Your eyes searched his. "I'm the girl who's smart enough to know that this isn't happening. Not really." He tilted his head. You continued. "You'll flirt and maybe you'll get what you want, or maybe you won't. Either way, you'll go home and it'll be over for you. You're a casual man, Dean."

He swallowed. You didn't stop. "Casual's cool. It's nice, I guess. But it's not me. I'm not that type of person. I can't be. It's not realistic, and it's certainly not something I'm capable of."

Dean sucked in a breath. "It doesn't have to be casual."

The words hung heavy in the air. You furrowed your brows. "What?"

Dean shrugged. "It doesn't have to be anything you don't want it to be. It doesn't have to be sex." He leaned in, just slightly, his hands resting on either side of your legs. "What do you want?"

You scoffed, soft and really with no insult behind it, shaking your head. "I-" You swallowed. "What?" You couldn't fathom what he was saying right now. Dean Di Laurentis of all people.

"What do you want?" he repeated, softer this time.

The question was heavy. It crushed your throat and filled your chest with cement. It was the type of question you never answered honestly. Tonight, it felt like you had to. "I want to be wanted. Really wanted."

Dean nodded, eyes searching yours. He stood up slowly, holding out his hand. For some reason, you just took it. No questions asked. He pulled you up with ease, and you gasped softly as his arm wrapped around you, pulling you into his chest.

"Why don't we start slow?" he asked quietly. "See where it goes."

"I'm not having sex with you."

He smiled. "Not what I meant, sweetheart."

You tilted your head, genuinely curious. "What did you mean?"

He brought a hand up, thumb brushing over your cheek that was still burning with a blush. "I take you on a date, we get to know each other. Something...un-casual."

You sucked in a small breath, eyes searching his. "You're serious?"

"Deadly."

You bit your lip, slowly nodding. "Okay."

He smiled, soft and warm and it filled you with something you weren't sure you wanted to place. You were fucking terrified. Still, your veins pumped with excitement. "Does it count as un-casual if I kiss you?"

You giggled at his question. "Only if you don't immediately leave after."  

He shook his head, tucking some hair behind your ear. "Not happening."

You nodded, giving him the green light. His lips met yours softly, full of warmth and passion and you felt dizzy from it. He pulled you closer, hands roaming your body in a way you've never felt. You moaned softly into the kiss as his tongue slipped into your mouth.

Dean pressed against you harder, but not insistent. Like he just wanted to be close. What usually made you feel uncomfortable made you feel warm now. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, deepening the kiss slightly.

Dean's hands slipped under your ass, picking you up in one swift motion. You gasped, grabbing onto his shoulders. He carried you over to the couch like you weighed nothing, sitting you on his lap as you two made out.

His lips traveled to your jaw, sucking softly on the skin as you let out a shaky breath, hand running through his hair. He pulled back slowly, licking his lips as he looked at you. You could feel him growing harder under you, and it was hard to ignore.

He noticed. "Don't worry about it," he whispered, caressing your hair. "No sex, remember?"

You giggled, leaning in and kissing him softly. He groaned into it. "You are so not how I thought you'd be."

"Good thing or bad thing?"

"Good," you replied. "Definitely good."

[alliehayesgf]

goddddddd

[puckingwonder]

MAMMA MIA (HONEY, HONEY)

abstract the worst possible thing that could happen, is still happening, and you're barely holding on. luckily, you have your bestfriends to help you through it and oh look! garrett graham is here too! make sure not to let him know that you may, or may not be carrying his baby!

featuring dean di laurentis, john logan, garrett graham x fem!reader

content garrett centered, talks of abortion (just an fyi i am pro choice 100% but this is just fiction, if this ever happened to me or anyone irl i would without a doubt be headed to the clinic lmao), mommy issues, brief catholic references, the exceptions that come with being a woman ☺️

taglist @piastris-pastries @suns3treading @moonlight-girls-posts @purplerainx1

Malone’s used to take the edge off. 

It was a place of refuge. A not-so secret hub where you and your friends could escape from the expectations of school. The sticky tabletops that left a weird residue on your best dresses; neon bright lights that burned into your retinas so bad you woke up in your bed seeing them; ripped diner chairs that were likely older than you and your mother—despite the weatherworn atmosphere, you loved it.

It felt more like a prison now that you were “expecting”. 

The word alone made you sick. Expecting, suggested it was something you wanted. Something that was anticipated and not the fault of a drunken, zero-feeling, one-night stand with someone. That was the other problem; you didn’t know who it was that caused all this. Allie helped you theorise and held you through the steady falling tears as you contemplated it all. Hannah found a whiteboard thrown haphazardly in the hallway cupboard and drew up a messy list of each possibility. 

So far, you’ve made no progress. 

Allie thinks it’s Dean, or well, she assumes it’s Dean just because of how debauched he is. Hannah doesn’t know what to say, but you are starting to suspect she thinks it’s John. Why? Because John is a sweetheart everyone knows that, but only a handful know just how intense he is under the guise. 

You think it’s Garrett. You don’t have any exact proof that puts him at a higher position above the other two, but something at the back of your mind is just shouting it at you. Maybe, just maybe, it’s because you think it looks best on paper for it to be him. 

“Okay,” Allie voices, rubbing her hands over her eyes. The three of you have been trapped in a diner booth for what felt like hours. It’s late and fortunately empty, with only a couple stragglers planted around the bartop. Allie’s still dressed in her work uniform. Her shift ended two hours ago, and Hannah didn’t even work today, but regardless, they both showed up for you. It warms your heart, the sheer loyalty they both express just to help you through the biggest mess of your life. Honestly you should just forget about the boys and raise the baby with these two instead. 

“We should wrap this up,” she continues, closing the pages of an ink-stained notebook. “We’re getting nowhere with this, and it’s almost 10 o’clock.” 

Hannah nods through a yawn, arching at the spine with raised hands. You’re tired too, but you know that the moment you're alone again, the fears trickle back. What are you going to do? There is a glaring option, but it would most definitely weigh too heavy on your conscience to go through with it without telling anyone. Maybe you could just put all their names in a hat and pick the first one to tell, and hope they’re not the worst possible outcome. But then, what happens if you do have the baby, and it comes out looking just a tad bit too much like a Graham? What if it’s a girl with John Logan’s eyes and soft curls, or a boy with Dean’s smile?

You—you’re going to start crying again.

“Oh my god.” The full-on waterworks. Painfully sad, a little bit of an overreaction. It makes you feel so much more lonely than you are, but you can’t help it. How generations of women have done this for thousands of years, you don’t know, but you feel sad for all of them. How did your mother feel? Did she feel as abandoned as you do now when she had you? Did she cry? Grieve the life she had or could have had? 

For a brief moment, it all makes sense. No wonder she was resentful; this shit sucks. 

“Suspect one just walked through the door.”

You stop; melancholy rushed from your bones like a gust of wind that blew through you. Allie sits frozen in front of you, eyes pinned to something or… godforbid, someone behind you. Oh no. Hannah keeps her head down, fingers picking at the glossy edge of the table.

“Hey guys.”  

Garrett stands at the edge of the booth, chest heaving quickly like he ran here. He probably did; it’s late. He runs when it’s late just to keep his mind quiet. The front of his grey shirt is dampened into a darker colour, sweat. You try not to let him see you, subtly attempting to hide behind the starstruck Hannah as she just doesn't move. Garrett notices you though, despite your efforts. He likes to stare at you, so it’s no surprise that’s what he’s doing now. Likes to stare, likes to fuck, might even like fucking you so much he got you pregnant. 

You hope not. After all, immaculate conception isn’t off the table. You’d much rather be carrying the second coming of Christ in your womb than Garrett Graham’s thick-headed child. 

“Woah, are you okay?” he asks, crouching slightly to get into your line of sight. Oh Garrett, sweet, oblivious Garrett. 

“I’m okay,” you sniffle, brushing the wet streaks from your face. Allie and Hannah stay still like statues; it would be funny if you found things funny still. He doesn’t look convinced, but thankfully he doesn’t seem eager to ask in front of the girls. But you also know that if he won’t ask now, he will later. And you still don’t know what to say. He nods slowly, eyes flickering between the three of you, trying his hardest to suss out whatever the hell is going on. “Actually,” you begin, “we were just leaving.” 

“Oh. Okay. I’ll uh—I’ll talk to you later?”

You shuffle out of the booth, not before pushing Hannah out first. You subconsciously brace your hand against your stomach, fiddling with the frayed edge of your hoodie. It had become a habit, not that you were even showing yet. There was nothing there to caress, but you do it anyway just to soothe yourself. You think about what it would feel like for him to do the same, large, careful hands rubbing over your growing bump—

"Tomorrow," you mumble. 

"Tomorrow," he repeats with a low-spirited tone. Allie and Hannah make it out of the diner before you, quick on their feet just to escape from the awkward tension between you and suspect number one. Before you close the door behind you, you flick an unintentional look back to Garrett. He stands there, unmoving. The look on his face is unreadable; a furrow resides in his brow, cheeks hollowed like he can taste the disappointment. You ache, deeply, unreachably. Pained in a place no one can reach. You apologise to him from within your own head. He won’t ever hear it, but you hope he knows regardless.

[alliehayesgf]

mamma mia and off campus, this was literally made for me

[pucksandpower]

civic duty

Dean Di Laurentis x Reader

Summary: Dean has never met a problem he couldn’t charm his way out of or a woman he couldn’t leave completely satisfied. So when he overhears a football player publicly blame you for his own failures in bed, Dean does the only logical thing: he shows up at your doorstep with a duffel bag full of toys and a mission

Warnings: 18+ content

The crisp March wind whips across the Briar University quad, but Dean hardly feels the chill. He’s running on four hours of sleep, a triple-shot espresso, and the lingering high of a weekend well spent.

“I’m just saying,” Garrett says, adjusting the strap of his duffel bag over his shoulder. “If Coach makes us bag skate again tomorrow, I’m staging a full-team mutiny. I’m not doing it.”

Logan snorts. “You love bag skates.”

“I tolerate bag skates,” Garrett corrects him. “There’s a massive difference.”

“You’re both whining,” Tucker chimes in, his steady southern drawl a stark contrast to Garrett’s rapid-fire complaining. “Just put your heads down and skate.”

Dean grins, walking backward for a few steps so he can face his teammates. “Tuck’s right. It’s all about pacing, boys. Stamina. You can’t blow all your energy in the first period. You have to finesse it. Read the ice. Just like with a woman.”

Beau, walking beside Dean, rolls his eyes and shoves Dean’s shoulder. “Jesus, Di Laurentis. Does everything come back to your sex life?”

“When it’s as spectacular as mine?” Dean winks. “Yeah. It does.”

He isn’t trying to be an arrogant prick. It’s just the truth. Dean loves women. He loves the way they look, the way they smell, the way they sound when he’s doing things right. He grew up surrounded by affection — two powerhouse attorney parents who actually love each other, a sprawling maternal family with a business empire, and a childhood free of the usual rich-kid neuroses. He knows how lucky he is. And he believes in sharing the wealth. Specifically, by ensuring that any woman lucky enough to end up in his bed leaves it thoroughly, exhaustingly satisfied.

“Who was it this weekend?” Logan asks, kicking a stray pebble across the pavement. “Wait, don’t tell me. The blonde from the Gamma Gamma party?”

“Her name is Tori,” Dean says easily. “And she’s a delight. Highly recommend her taste in music. Terrible taste in breakfast food, though. Who orders egg whites and no bacon? It’s a crime against mornings.”

“You bought her breakfast?” Beau asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I always buy them breakfast.” Dean turns back around, matching his stride to the rest of the guys. “It’s called manners, Beau. You should try it sometime. Instead of just throwing a football at people.”

“I’m a quarterback,” Beau says defensively. “Throwing a football is literally my job description.”

“Yeah, well, my job description is making sure everyone leaves happy.”

They turn the corner near the student union. The quad is packed with bodies hurrying between afternoon classes, a sea of Briar U hoodies and overpriced coffee cups.

Up ahead, leaning against the low brick wall near the fountain, are two guys wearing Briar football jackets.

Beau groans under his breath. “Oh, great. It’s McMahon.”

“Who?” Tucker asks.

“Wide receiver,” Beau mutters. “Hands made of stone, ego the size of Rhode Island. Don’t look at him, or he’ll start complaining to me about his target share.”

Dean has no interest in football politics, so he keeps his eyes straight ahead. They’re about to walk past the two guys when McMahon’s voice carries over the noise of the quad. It’s loud. Too loud. The kind of loud a guy uses when he wants everyone around him to know he’s talking.

“I had to dump her, man,” McMahon is saying to his buddy, a sneer clear in his voice. “Total waste of my time.”

“Yeah?” The other guy asks.

“Oh, absolutely. I’m telling you, she’s a frigid bitch.”

Dean slows his steps. Next to him, Garrett stiffens.

McMahon laughs, a harsh, grating sound. “I put in the work, you know? But nothing. Swear to God, she just laid there. Something must genuinely be wrong with her. She can never cum.”

Dean stops walking completely.

Beau takes two more steps before realizing Dean isn’t beside him. He turns around. “Dean. Come on. Don’t.”

“Did you hear what he just said?” Dean asks, his voice dropping low. All the playful ease from a moment ago evaporates.

“I heard it,” Logan says, his expression tightening. “The guy’s a class-A douchebag. Let’s keep moving.”

“He just announced to half the quad that he couldn’t get a girl off,” Dean says, staring at the back of McMahon’s head. “And he blamed her.”

“Dean,” Tucker says, stepping into Dean’s line of sight. “Not our circus. Not our monkeys.”

“It is an insult to womankind,” Dean says. He isn’t joking. His chest actually feels tight with genuine indignation. “A crime. A travesty.”

“It’s a wide receiver with a fragile ego,” Beau says, grabbing Dean’s elbow. “Leave it alone.”

Dean shrugs off Beau’s hand. He isn’t going to start a brawl in the middle of the quad, he has no interest in getting suspended for the next five games. But the sheer audacity of it is ringing in his ears.

Something must genuinely be wrong with her.

No. Dean shakes his head. No, there is nothing wrong with you. He doesn’t even know who you are. He doesn’t know your face, or your laugh, or the way you look when you’re a mess in the sheets. But he knows, with absolute, unwavering certainty, that McMahon is an idiot.

“There’s no such thing as a frigid woman,” Dean says, his voice carrying just enough that McMahon’s conversation pauses. “Just lazy, incompetent guys who don’t know where the clit is.”

Silence drops over their immediate vicinity.

Garrett scrubs a hand over his face. “Jesus Christ.”

McMahon turns around, his face flushing dull red. He spots Beau first, then his eyes slide to Dean. “You got something to say, Di Laurentis?”

Dean slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans, rocking back on his heels. He gives McMahon a lazy, condescending smile. “Just offering some unsolicited biological facts, McMahon. Sounds like you need a tutor. Maybe a diagram.”

McMahon steps away from the brick wall, puffing his chest out. “Are you calling me incompetent?”

“I think you just called yourself incompetent, man,” Dean says smoothly. “Loudly. In public. I’m just agreeing with you.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” McMahon snaps. “You don’t know her.”

“I don’t need to know her,” Dean counters, his tone perfectly even. “I know anatomy. I know effort. If a girl doesn’t get off, it’s because you didn’t pay attention. You rushed it. You fumbled the play. Isn’t that what you guys call it? Fumbling?”

Beau winces. “Dean.”

McMahon takes a step forward, his fists clenching. “You think you’re so fucking funny.”

“I think I’m highly effective,” Dean corrects him. “And I think you should keep your bedroom failures to yourself instead of dragging a girl’s name through the mud because your fragile masculinity can’t handle the fact that you suck in bed.”

For a second, it looks like McMahon is going to swing. Dean shifts his weight, perfectly ready to slip the punch and drop the guy. He’s not a fighter by nature, but he’s a hockey player. It comes with the territory.

But Tucker steps in, his frame easily blocking McMahon’s path. “I think that’s about enough conversation for one afternoon,” Tucker says calmly. His tone is polite, but his eyes are flat.

McMahon glares at Tucker, then at Dean. He points a finger. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“Watch your form, McMahon,” Dean shoots back. “Maybe use two fingers next time. Or, God forbid, your tongue.”

Logan chokes on a laugh, quickly disguising it as a cough.

McMahon spits on the ground, turns, and shoves his way through the crowd, his buddy trailing awkwardly behind him.

Dean watches them go, his jaw tight.

“Well,” Garrett says after a moment. “That was diplomatic.”

“I hate guys like that,” Dean mutters, running a hand through his hair. “I really, genuinely hate them.”

“We know,” Beau sighs, clapping Dean on the back. “You’re the caped crusader of the female orgasm. We’re all very proud to know you. Can we go get food now? I’m starving.”

They resume their walk toward the dining hall, the tension slowly bleeding out of the group as Garrett and Logan pick up their argument about practice drills right where they left off.

But Dean is quiet. He tunes out the banter, his mind replaying McMahon’s harsh, dismissive words.

It’s just sloppy. It’s pathetic. Dean loves women too much to stand the thought of one being treated like a chore, or worse, a lost cause. Sex isn’t a race. It isn’t just about friction. It’s about connection, observation, communication. It’s about worshipping a body until it unravels for you.

He doesn’t know who you are. He doesn’t know what you’re doing right now. Maybe you’re sitting in a lecture, feeling insecure because some meathead wide receiver told you you were broken. Maybe you’re in your dorm room, crying over a guy who couldn’t even be bothered to figure out what you like.

Dean looks up at the crisp blue sky, mentally sending a prayer up to the universe.

“Dear Universe, please watch over this woman’s sadly neglected clitoris,” he thinks solemnly. “May it one day find someone who actually knows what they’re doing. Amen.”

He kicks a stray leaf on the sidewalk. It is a damn tragedy, that’s what it is. A tragedy that needs rectifying.

“Hey, Beau,” Dean says suddenly, interrupting whatever Tucker was saying.

Beau glances over. “Yeah?”

“Who did McMahon just break up with?”

Beau frowns, his steps slowing. “What? Why?”

“Just answer the question.”

“I don’t know, man. He dates around. I try not to keep track of his personal life. Why?” Beau squints at him. “Wait. No. Whatever you’re thinking, stop.”

“I’m not thinking anything,” Dean lies smoothly.

“You are. You have that look on your face.” Logan points a finger at him. “The ‘Dean is about to do something stupid’ look.”

“I resent that,” Dean says. “I don’t do stupid things.”

“You bought a jet ski on eBay at three in the morning last week,” Garrett points out.

“It was a steal, G. An absolute steal. You don’t understand economics.” Dean waves a hand dismissively. “Seriously, Beau. Does anyone know who she is?”

“Why do you care?” Tucker asks, amused.

“Because it’s an injustice,” Dean states flatly. “It is a cosmic wrong that needs to be righted. She’s probably out there right now, thinking she’s the problem, when the reality is she was just subjected to the sloppy, fumbling hands of a guy who treats sex like a two-minute drill.”

Beau groans, burying his face in his hands. “You’re not going to track this girl down, Dean.”

“I am absolutely going to track her down.”

“And do what?” Logan asks, laughing in disbelief.

Dean looks at his friends, entirely serious. “And give her the orgasm she’s been so cruelly denied. It’s my civic duty.”

“You’re insane,” Garrett says, though he’s grinning. “You are actually insane.”

“I’m a humanitarian,” Dean corrects him. “I’m giving back to the community.”

“You don’t even know her name,” Tucker says softly.

“I’ll find it out,” Dean promises. He glances back toward the direction McMahon disappeared.

He doesn’t know you yet. He doesn’t know if you’re blonde, brunette, tall, short, quiet, or loud. But he knows one thing for sure.

He is going to find you. He is going to ruin you for every other man on the planet. And he is going to make damn sure you never, ever think there is something wrong with you again.

***

The stale smell of pepperoni pizza and the frantic clicking of Xbox controllers fill the living room of the off-campus hockey house.

“Pass it, pass it, pass it,” Logan chants, mashing the buttons on his controller as he leans so far forward on the couch he’s practically sitting on the coffee table.

“I am passing it, you pylon,” Dean snaps back, his eyes glued to the television screen. “If you would get into position instead of skating around like a lost toddler-”

“I’m open!”

“You’re surrounded by both defensemen!”

“Shoot the damn puck!” Garrett yells from the armchair, throwing a piece of popcorn at Logan’s head. “You guys are an embarrassment to the sport. It’s a video game. It requires a fraction of the athletic ability we actually possess, and you’re still blowing it.”

“Shut up, Graham,” Dean and Logan say in unison.

On the screen, the buzzer blares. Game over. Logan groans and tosses his controller onto the cushions, dragging a hand down his face.

Dean exhales, leaning back and stretching his arms over his head. His shoulders pop. Normally, he’d be demanding a rematch, relentlessly trash-talking Logan until the guy agreed to play another round just to shut him up. But today, Dean isn’t feeling it. His head isn’t in the game. It hasn’t been in the game since they left the quad three hours ago.

He keeps replaying the conversation in his head. Or rather, the broadcast. That loudmouth wide receiver, McMahon, announcing to half the student body that the girl he was dating couldn’t get off.

It pisses Dean off. It genuinely, deeply aggravates him.

“You’re quiet,” Garrett notes, watching Dean from the armchair. “You won. Usually, you do a victory lap around the coffee table.”

“I’m conserving my energy,” Dean says, picking up his phone to check his notifications. Nothing interesting. Just a text from a girl in his sociology seminar and an email from his dad about spring break.

“He’s still thinking about his crusade,” Logan says, snagging a cold slice of pizza from the box on the table. “The caped crusader of the clitoris.”

“It’s not a crusade,” Dean says defensively. “It’s a matter of principle.”

“You don’t even know her,” Garrett points out, amused. “For all you know, McMahon was telling the truth.”

Dean glares at him. “Garrett. Look at me. Do I look like a man who accepts defeat in the bedroom?”

“You look like a man who spends too much time on his hair,” Garrett deadpans.

“My hair is flawless, and that is entirely besides the point,” Dean shoots back. “The point is, there is a fundamental lack of effort plaguing the male population of this campus. It’s an epidemic. Guys like McMahon treat sex like a race to the finish line, and then they have the audacity to blame the woman when she doesn’t cross it with them. It’s pathetic.”

Logan chews his pizza thoughtfully. “I mean, you’re not wrong. But you can’t save them all, man.”

“I don’t need to save them all,” Dean says, his voice dropping a fraction. “I just need to save this one.”

The front door swings open before Logan can reply, slamming against the wall with a loud thud.

Beau trudges into the house, looking like he just survived a minor war. He’s still wearing his gray Briar football sweatpants and a tight compression shirt that clings to his exhausted frame. He drops his massive gym bag onto the hardwood floor, kicks off his slides, and groans loudly.

“Practice?” Garrett asks sympathetically.

“Practice,” Beau confirms, shuffling into the living room and collapsing onto the empty space on the couch next to Dean. He smells faintly of artificial turf, sweat, and the sharp tang of Deep Relief muscle rub. “Coach made us run the stadium stairs. Twice. Because someone — who shall remain nameless, but his initials rhyme with DickMahon — kept dropping his routes during seven-on-sevens.”

Dean’s ears perk up. He turns to look at his best friend, his previous lethargy vanishing instantly. “McMahon?”

Beau closes his eyes and tips his head back against the couch cushions. “Don’t.”

“You were in the locker room with him,” Dean presses, shifting his body so he’s fully facing Beau. “Did you ask around?”

Beau keeps his eyes squeezed shut. “Dean, I am tired. My calves are screaming. I want a shower, a beer, and for you to stop looking at me with that deranged glint in your eye.”

“Tell me you found something out,” Dean says, ignoring every word Beau just said. “Tell me you didn’t spend two hours in a locker room full of gossiping linebackers and come back empty-handed.”

Beau sighs, a long, dramatic sound that ruffles his blonde hair. He slowly opens one eye, looking at Dean with a mixture of exhaustion and profound regret. “Do you want the good news or the bad news first?”

Dean’s heart actually kicks up a notch. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “Good news. Always start with the good news.”

Beau sits up a little, rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. The good news is, I know who she is. I asked Howard, the backup tight end, because he knows everybody’s business. He told me who McMahon just dumped.”

“Who?” Dean demands.

“Her name is Y/N Y/L/N,” Beau says.

Dean processes the name. It suits you. It sounds smart, put-together. “And?”

“And,” Beau continues, “she’s not just some random girl. She’s a junior. Pre-law, I think. And she’s the president of the Delta Zeta sorority.”

Logan whistles low. “Delta Zeta? Those girls don’t mess around. That’s the house with the insane GPA requirement and the terrifying philanthropy events.”

Dean smiles, a slow, genuine curve of his lips. He likes this. He really likes this. A sorority president. That means you are organized. Driven. You probably walk around campus with a planner perfectly color-coded to match your outfits. You take charge, you handle responsibility, and you probably don’t take shit from anyone. Which makes it even more infuriating that a guy like McMahon made you feel inadequate.

“Y/N,” Dean says your name out loud, testing the syllables on his tongue. He likes the way it sounds. He likes the way it feels. “Okay. That’s excellent news. What’s the bad news?”

Beau hesitates. He looks away from Dean, glancing at Garrett and Logan, who are suddenly very invested in the conversation. Beau scrubs a hand over his jaw, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

“Spit it out, Beau,” Dean says, the smile fading from his face.

“The bad news,” Beau says slowly, “is that McMahon wasn’t the first guy to complain about her.”

The living room goes dead silent. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen.

Dean stares at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m just telling you what I heard,” Beau says defensively, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. “Howard started talking, and then a couple of the other guys chimed in. Apparently, she dated a guy on the lacrosse team last year. And before that, some dude from Kappa Sig.”

“And?” Dean prompts, his jaw tightening.

“And the grapevine says the same thing,” Beau mutters, looking at the floor. “Nobody has ever been able to make her cum. The lacrosse guy said she was completely unresponsive. The Kappa Sig guy said he tried for an hour and gave up. It’s … it’s a known thing, Dean. The guys in the locker room were joking that she’s cursed.”

Dean feels a cold, sharp spike of anger lodge itself right beneath his ribs.

He imagines you, standing in front of a mirror, wondering what’s wrong with you. He imagines the quiet humiliation of lying in bed while a guy sighs in frustration, rolls over, and goes to sleep. He imagines you carrying around a reputation you didn’t ask for, created by guys who are too incompetent to do their damn jobs.

It makes him want to punch a hole through the drywall.

“They were joking about it,” Dean repeats, his voice dangerously soft.

“Locker rooms are toxic,” Garrett says quietly from the armchair. “You know how it is, Dean. Guys talk. They exaggerate to protect their own egos.”

“It’s not an exaggeration if three different guys are saying the exact same thing,” Beau points out gently. He looks back at Dean, his expression softening into an apology. “Look, man. I know you’re on this crusade to prove McMahon wrong, but … maybe he isn’t. Maybe it’s not a lack of effort.”

Dean narrows his eyes. “What are you implying?”

Beau shifts uncomfortably. “I’m just saying … biology is weird. Some people have weird wiring. Maybe she really does have some sort of issue. You know? Like, a medical reason why she can’t get off. It happens.”

“No,” Dean says immediately.

“Dean, be reasonable,” Beau tries. “If multiple guys-”

“I don’t give a damn if the entire starting lineup of the New England Patriots tried and failed,” Dean snaps, pushing himself off the couch. He paces across the living room, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “I am shutting that theory down right now.”

“You can’t just shut down biology,” Logan argues reasonably.

“Watch me,” Dean shoots back. He turns to face his friends, pointing an accusatory finger at Beau. “Do you know what the common denominator is here? It’s not her. It’s the guys.”

“A lacrosse player, a frat bro, and a wide receiver,” Garrett lists, counting them off on his fingers.

“Exactly!” Dean throws his hands in the air. “The holy trinity of selfish lovers! What do they all have in common? Ego. They care more about their own performance than her pleasure. They probably pounded away for five minutes like jackrabbits, didn’t bother with foreplay, and then got offended when she didn’t magically explode.”

Beau sighs. “Dean-”

“I’m serious, Beau,” Dean interrupts, his voice hard. The anger is settling into something sharper, something far more resolute. “Do not sit there and tell me she’s broken. Do not tell me she has a physiological issue just because three frat-star idiots couldn’t find the clit with a flashlight and a map.”

The conviction in his voice fills the room. He isn’t laughing. He isn’t playing around. He means every single word.

“Women’s bodies aren’t slot machines,” Dean says, pacing back toward the television. “You don’t just put a coin in, pull a lever, and wait for the jackpot. It takes attention. It takes communication. You have to learn the body you’re touching. You have to figure out what she likes, what she hates, what she needs before she even knows she needs it.”

He stops pacing, planting his hands on his hips as he stares down his three friends.

“If she hasn’t come,” Dean states, absolute certainty ringing in his tone, “it is because nobody has bothered to learn her properly. Nobody has put in the work.”

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “And you think you’re the guy to put in the work?”

“I know I am,” Dean says without a second of hesitation.

“Dude.” Logan lets out a breath, shaking his head. “You’re talking about taking on a campus legend. If she really is, uh, un-finishable-”

“Stop calling her that,” Dean snaps. “She’s not a challenge on a bucket list. She is a girl who deserves to feel good.”

Beau looks at him for a long, quiet moment. He knows Dean better than anyone in the room. Beau knows when Dean is messing around, and he knows when Dean is dead serious.

Right now, Dean is dead serious.

“Okay,” Beau says softly, holding his hands up in surrender. “Okay. I hear you. But let’s look at this logically. What exactly is your plan here?”

Dean drops back onto the couch, resting his elbows on his knees. “My plan is simple. I’m going to find her. I’m going to get to know her. And then I’m going to help her.”

“Help her,” Beau repeats flatly.

“Yes. I am going to give her the release she has been denied. I am going to do what apparently no other incompetent man on this campus has managed to do.” Dean’s eyes gleam with a fierce, protective determination. “I am going to break the curse.”

Logan lets out a sudden, bark-like laugh. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I am a visionary,” Dean corrects him.

Beau rubs his temples, looking like he’s developing a severe migraine. “Dean, think about this for two seconds. You can’t just walk up to a girl — a sorority president, no less — and offer to give her an orgasm.”

“Why not?” Dean asks innocently.

“Because it’s insane!” Beau yells, finally losing his cool. “Because she doesn’t know you! You can’t just stroll up to her in the dining hall, tap her on the shoulder, and say, ‘Hey, I heard your ex-boyfriend has the sexual prowess of a wet sponge, let me fix that for you!’”

“Well, obviously I wouldn’t use those exact words,” Dean says, offended. “I have tact, Beau. I have charm. I know how to talk to women.”

“You’re going to get pepper-sprayed,” Garrett predicts, sounding entirely too cheerful about the prospect. “I’ll give you twenty bucks right now if you get it on video.”

“I am not going to get pepper-sprayed,” Dean says firmly. “I am going to be a gentleman.”

“A gentleman doesn’t solicit orgasms to strangers,” Tucker’s voice drawls from the doorway. He’s leaning against the frame, holding a massive protein shake in one hand, having apparently walked in through the kitchen halfway through the conversation.

“A true gentleman recognizes a woman in need and steps up to the plate,” Dean counters smoothly. “I’m going to do it. That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Dean, please,” Beau begs, sounding genuinely distressed. “She’s a prominent figure on campus. If you go up to her and say something crazy, she’s going to ruin your reputation.”

“My reputation?” Dean laughs. It’s a bright, easy sound. “Beau, my reputation is already that of a shameless flirt who sleeps around. What’s she going to do? Tell people I offered to make her feel good? Oh, the horror.”

“She’s going to think you’re a creep,” Beau insists.

“She won’t,” Dean says confidently. “Because I’m not going to be creepy about it. I’m going to be honest. Completely, brutally honest. Women appreciate honesty.”

Garrett snorts. “Yeah, let me know how that honesty works out for you when she slaps you across the face.”

Dean ignores them. He tunes out Garrett’s laughter, Logan’s skepticism, and Beau’s frantic attempts to reason with him. His mind is already racing, piecing together a strategy.

He knows you are the president of Delta Zeta. That means you are busy. It means you are likely stressed, overworked, and constantly dealing with other people’s drama. You probably drink too much coffee, don’t get enough sleep, and carry the weight of your entire house on your shoulders.

And on top of all that, you have the baggage of guys like McMahon making you feel inadequate.

Dean feels that fierce, protective urge flare up again. It isn’t just about his ego anymore. It isn’t just about proving a point to the locker room. It’s about you. It’s about the fact that nobody has looked at you and decided you were worth the time it takes to figure out what you need.

He stands up again, suddenly too energized to sit still. “When does Delta Zeta usually hold their chapter meetings?”

Beau groans, throwing himself face-first into a couch pillow. “I’m not telling you.”

“Fridays,” Logan provides helpfully. “Usually around seven. I know because I hooked up with a DZ last semester, and she always made me leave by six-thirty so she could get ready.”

“Friday,” Dean repeats. Today is Wednesday. That gives him two days to figure out an approach. Two days to find you, study you, and plan his move.

“You’re really going through with this?” Beau asks, his voice muffled by the pillow.

“I am,” Dean says. He walks toward the hallway leading to his bedroom, pausing at the threshold to look back at his friends. “I’m going to find her. I’m going to look her in the eyes, and I’m going to offer my services.”

“Services,” Garrett echoes, shaking his head. “You make it sound like you’re an independent contractor.”

“I’m a specialist,” Dean corrects him with a wink. “And Y/N Y/L/N is about to become my top priority.”

He turns and walks down the hall, already mentally mapping out the campus to figure out where a pre-law sorority president is most likely to spend her Friday afternoon. The library? The student union? A coffee shop?

He’ll check them all. He doesn’t care how long it takes.

Because Dean loves a challenge. But more than that, he loves making things right. And making sure you finally understand that there is absolutely nothing wrong with you?

That is going to be the best thing he’s ever done.

***

Dean does not usually require props.

In fact, he prides himself on his natural abilities. He has spent years perfecting his technique, learning the exact amount of pressure, the perfect rhythm, the right things to whisper in the dark. He is a craftsman, and his hands and mouth are his chosen tools.

But as he stands in his bedroom on Friday afternoon, staring into the bottom drawer of his nightstand, he decides to make an exception.

Because you aren’t just a regular Friday night hookup. You are a mission. You are the final boss of Briar University’s dating pool, a girl who has allegedly stumped every self-serving idiot on this campus. And while Dean is completely, undeniably confident in his own mouth, he also believes in being prepared. A good lawyer — like his mother always says — never walks into a courtroom without covering all his bases.

So, he grabs a sleek, black duffel bag from his closet.

He tosses in a small, discreet bullet vibrator. Then a curved silicone toy that he knows for a fact works absolute miracles. He adds a bottle of premium, water-based lubricant, just to be safe. He zips the bag up, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Where are you going?” Garrett asks, looking up from the kitchen island as Dean walks out of his room. Garrett is eating cereal straight out of the box.

“I have an appointment,” Dean says, checking his reflection in the hallway mirror. He runs a hand through his hair, making sure it falls with just the right amount of effortless messiness. He’s wearing a fitted black long-sleeve henley that highlights his shoulders, and his favorite jeans. He looks good. Approachable. Trustworthy.

“An appointment,” Garrett repeats flatly. His eyes drop to the black duffel bag. “Are you going to the gym, or are you actually going through with this psychotic plan to accost McMahon’s ex-girlfriend?”

“Her name is Y/N,” Dean corrects him. “And I am not accosting anyone. I am offering a philanthropic service. I’m giving back to the community.”

“You’re going to get arrested,” Garrett says, tossing a piece of Cap’n Crunch at him.

Dean catches it mid-air and eats it. “Have a little faith, Graham. I’ll be back in a few hours. Victorious.”

He walks out the door before Garrett can say anything else.

The Delta Zeta house is a massive, sprawling brick mansion situated at the end of Sorority Row. It has white columns, a perfectly manicured lawn, and an intimidating aura of organized femininity. Dean walks up the pristine paved walkway, his heart doing a strange, unfamiliar flutter against his ribs.

He isn’t nervous. Dean Di Laurentis doesn’t get nervous around women. But he is acutely aware that he is operating without a net here. He doesn’t have an introduction. He doesn’t have a mutual friend paving the way. All he has is his charm, a bag of toys, and a burning desire to prove McMahon wrong.

He steps onto the porch and presses the doorbell. It chimes, a soft, melodic sound that echoes through the heavy oak door.

Dean takes a breath. He squares his shoulders. He prepares his opening line. He’s going to be suave. He’s going to introduce himself, ask if you have a minute to talk privately, and then gently, delicately broach the subject.

The lock clicks. The door swings open.

And Dean completely forgets how to speak.

You are standing there, holding a clipboard in one hand and a half-empty mug of coffee in the other. You are wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and an oversized Briar University sweatshirt that is slipping off one shoulder. Your hair is pulled up into a messy bun that looks like it’s barely surviving, held together by a single, desperate claw clip. You look exhausted, irritated, and absolutely, devastatingly beautiful.

He wasn’t expecting this. He expected a perfectly polished sorority president in a twinset and pearls. But you look real. You look like a girl who has been managing fifty different crises since six in the morning.

You blink at him, your eyes trailing from the toes of his boots, up his jeans, to his face. “Can I help you?”

Your voice is slightly raspy, like you’ve been talking all day. It sends a sudden, sharp jolt straight to Dean’s groin.

“Uh,” Dean says. The suave opening line evaporates from his brain. The delicate approach vanishes. He stares into your eyes, overwhelmed by the sudden, intense urge to drag you upstairs, lay you down, and spend the next six hours worshipping every single inch of you.

“Hello?” You prompt, arching a single, perfect eyebrow. “I’m in the middle of a budget crisis with my treasurer, so if you’re looking for one of the sisters, you need to tell me who, or I’m shutting this door.”

Dean’s brain short-circuits entirely. “I’m here to make you come.”

Silence.

Thick, heavy, suffocating silence drops over the porch.

You freeze. The hand holding the coffee mug tightens so hard your knuckles turn white. You stare at him, your eyes widening in sheer, unadulterated shock.

Dean realizes what he just said a fraction of a second too late. “Wait. No. I mean-”

The slap echoes across the porch like a gunshot. Your palm connects with Dean’s cheek with stunning, terrifying precision. It stings instantly, a hot flare of pain that snaps his head to the side.

Before he can even register the hit, you step back.

“Get the hell off my porch, you absolute creep!” You snap, and then you slam the heavy oak door directly in his face. The deadbolt clicks into place with a resounding finality.

Dean stands there, staring at the brass knocker. He slowly reaches up, pressing two fingers to his stinging cheek.

“Well,” he mutters to himself. “That could have gone better.”

He doesn’t leave. He can’t leave. If he leaves now, he’s just the lunatic who showed up and harassed you. He drops the duffel bag onto the porch mat, takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door. Firmly.

“Go away!” Your voice filters through the wood, muffled but furious. “Or I’m calling campus security!”

“Please!” Dean calls out, leaning closer to the door. “Just give me one minute! I swear to God, I didn’t mean it like that!”

“You literally said you were here to make me come!” You yell back.

“I know!” Dean winces. “I know I said it! My brain stopped working! I panicked! But I’m not a creep, I promise!”

The lock turns. The door cracks open just an inch, held securely in place by a heavy brass chain. Your eyes appear in the gap, glaring at him with a mixture of anger and deep suspicion.

“You have exactly ten seconds to explain yourself before I pepper-spray you,” you say sharply. “And yes, I have it in my hand.”

Dean immediately holds his hands up in surrender, stepping back so you can see he isn’t trying to force his way in. “Okay. Okay, fair. Listen to me. My name is Dean Di Laurentis-”

“I know who you are,” you interrupt, your voice dripping with disdain. “You play hockey. You’re Beau Maxwell’s best friend. And you have a reputation for sleeping with half the female population of this school.”

“Okay, half is an exaggeration,” Dean says defensively. “A third, maybe. But that’s exactly why I’m here! Listen, I’m a feminist. I love women. I genuinely, deeply respect women and their right to absolute satisfaction.”

You stare at him through the crack. “Are you on drugs?”

“No! Look, I overheard McMahon talking on the quad yesterday.”

The shift in your demeanor is instantaneous. The fiery anger in your eyes extinguishes, replaced by a sudden, protective wall of pure ice. Your jaw clenches, and Dean can practically see you putting your armor on.

“Oh,” you say softly. The word is hollow. “I see. You heard what he said.”

“I heard it,” Dean confirms, his voice dropping, softening. “And I heard what the other guys in the locker room have been saying, too. The lacrosse guy. The Kappa Sig guy.”

You close your eyes for a brief second. When you open them, the ice is thicker. “And you came here to what? Mock me? Place a bet with your friends to see if you can be the one to break the curse?”

“No!” Dean is genuinely horrified. “No, God, absolutely not. I came here because it pisses me off. It pisses me off that these lazy, incompetent assholes don’t know what they’re doing, and they’re making you feel like you’re the problem.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch him through the narrow gap in the door.

“I came here to right a wrong,” Dean pleads, leaning in slightly. “To redeem my gender. I brought toys, just in case, to cover all the bases! I can even give you references, if you want. Seriously. Call Leah from Beta. Call Kayla from the dance team. Call-”

“Stop naming girls you’ve slept with,” you hiss, glancing nervously past him.

Dean looks over his shoulder. A group of freshmen girls are walking down the sidewalk, staring openly at him standing on the Delta Zeta porch, talking to the door.

You let out a frustrated groan. “You are causing a scene. Di Laurentis, I swear to God, if you make this a spectacle …”

“I’ll stand here all day,” Dean threatens lightly, giving you a small, charming smile. “I’ll shout my references to the quad. I’ll sing them. I have a terrible singing voice, Y/N. It will be tragic for everyone involved.”

You glare at him, a muscle ticking in your jaw. Then, with a harsh sigh, you shut the door.

For a second, Dean thinks he’s lost. But then he hears the rattle of the chain sliding out of the lock. The door swings open wide enough for him to enter.

“Get in,” you snap. “Before someone takes a picture.”

Dean quickly grabs his duffel bag and slips past you into the foyer.

The inside of the house is beautiful — hardwood floors, a sweeping staircase, the faint smell of vanilla and expensive perfume. But Dean doesn’t look at any of it. He turns to look at you.

You shut the door behind him and lean against it, crossing your arms tightly over your chest. Without the door between you, Dean can see the exhaustion lining your eyes. You look incredibly guarded, like a cornered animal waiting for the strike.

“Okay,” you say, your voice flat. “You’re inside. You got your little heroic speech out of the way. Now let’s get one thing straight.”

“I’m listening,” Dean says, matching your serious tone. He drops the bag onto the floor.

“You think this is about them,” you say, gesturing vaguely toward the door, indicating the male population at large. “You think McMahon and the others are just selfish lovers who didn’t try hard enough. You think you can waltz in here with your magical hockey-player hands and fix the lazy mistakes of frat boys.”

“I do, actually,” Dean says without hesitation. “I know I can.”

You let out a harsh, humorless laugh. It lacks any real joy. “Your ego is astounding. Truly. But you’re wrong, Dean. It’s not them.”

Dean frowns, taking a half-step toward you. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, it’s me,” you say bluntly. You look him dead in the eyes, refusing to flinch, refusing to look away. “I have never come. Ever.”

Dean stops. “I know. The rumor-”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice slicing through the air. “Not just with guys. Never. Not with men. Not with women. Not with a vibrator. Not with my own hand in the privacy of my own bedroom.”

Dean stares at you. The cocky comeback dies in his throat. He literally doesn’t know what to say.

“It’s a dead end,” you continue, your voice terrifyingly calm. “I have tried everything. I have read the articles, I have bought the expensive toys, I have tried relaxing, I have tried not overthinking it. It doesn’t work. The wires don’t connect. I physically cannot achieve orgasm.”

Dean’s heart aches. It’s a strange, sudden pang right in the center of his chest. Because he can hear the resignation in your voice. He can hear the years of frustration, of quiet, lonely disappointment, all packed into those few clinical sentences.

“Y/N,” he starts softly.

“Don’t,” you say, holding a hand up. “Do not give me pity. I am perfectly fine with it. I have made my peace with my body. I still enjoy sex. I still like the intimacy. It’s the guys who can’t handle it. They take it as a personal insult to their masculinity. They throw tantrums, they call me frigid, and they whine about it to their friends in the locker room.”

You drop your hand, your posture stiffening.

“So, thank you for the valiant attempt to save me,” you say, your tone dripping in sarcasm. “But I don’t need your help. I don’t need a savior. And I certainly don’t need another guy treating my body like a puzzle he has to solve just to stroke his own ego. You can take your bag of toys and leave.”

You reach behind you, grabbing the doorknob.

“Wait,” Dean says, moving faster than he ever has on the ice. He closes the distance between you, stepping just close enough that you pause, but far enough away that he isn’t crowding you.

He looks down at you. You are breathing a little heavy, your eyes defiant, daring him to push.

This changes things. Beau was right. It wasn’t just lazy guys. It’s a deep-rooted wall. But the thing about Dean Di Laurentis is that he doesn’t back down from walls. He scales them. He dismantles them brick by brick.

“I’m not leaving,” Dean says quietly.

You frown, your grip on the doorknob tightening. “I just told you-”

“I heard what you told me,” Dean says, his voice steady, entirely stripped of the usual playful banter. “You think you’re broken. You think it’s impossible. And you’re sick of guys making it about them instead of about you.”

You swallow hard, your eyes flickering with something that looks dangerously like vulnerability. “Yes.”

“I am not them,” Dean says. He holds your gaze, pouring every ounce of sincerity he possesses into the look. “I don’t care about my ego. My ego is perfectly intact. I care about the fact that you have convinced yourself you aren’t allowed to feel the best feeling in the world.”

“It’s not that I’m not allowed-”

“It’s a mental block,” Dean interrupts gently. “Or a physical one. Or a combination of both. But it’s not permanent. Nothing is permanent.”

“You don’t know that,” you whisper, looking away. “You don’t know my body.”

“Then let me learn it,” Dean says.

You snap your eyes back to him, shocked.

“Give me one chance,” Dean pleads. He isn’t cocky anymore. He is practically begging. “One chance, Y/N. No expectations. No pressure. If nothing happens, I will walk away. I will never bother you again. I won’t throw a tantrum, I won’t blame you, and I sure as hell won’t talk about it to a locker room full of idiots.”

You stare at him, your chest rising and falling rapidly. You look genuinely torn, the exhaustion and the fear battling against the tiny, microscopic sliver of hope he just offered you.

But then the wall goes back up.

“No,” you say firmly. You shake your head, stepping away from the door and pointing toward it. “No. I am not doing this again. I am not getting my hopes up just to lie there and feel broken while you get frustrated. Out. Now.”

Dean’s mind races. He’s losing you. He can see the door closing on this entire crusade, and he refuses to let you push him away just because you’re scared.

He needs leverage. What does he know about you?

Sorority president. Pre-law. Busy. Philanthropy.

“What if we make a wager?” Dean blurts out.

You stop. “What?”

“A wager,” Dean repeats, the idea taking shape in his mind as he speaks. “A bet. To make it worth your while. If I try, and I fail — which I won’t, but let’s pretend for a second that I do — I will give you something you want.”

You look at him like he’s lost his mind. “There is nothing you have that I want, Di Laurentis.”

“Delta Zeta is hosting the Splash & Dash charity car wash next Saturday, right?” Dean asks, pointing a finger at you. “To raise money for the women’s shelter downtown?”

You blink, clearly thrown off by his knowledge of your sorority’s philanthropic schedule. “How do you know that?”

“I pay attention to things,” Dean says smoothly. “Now, traditionally, your sisters wash the cars in bikinis. It brings in decent money. The frat guys show up, they pay twenty bucks, they ogle your sisters. It’s a solid business model.”

“Where are you going with this?” You demand, your patience wearing thin.

Dean grins. The slow, devastating, million-dollar grin that has gotten him out of trouble more times than he can count.

“If I fail to give you an orgasm,” Dean says slowly, letting the words hang in the air, “I will personally guarantee that the entire Briar University hockey starting lineup will participate in your car wash.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Dean adds, leaning in just a fraction, “we will do it shirtless.”

Your mouth parts slightly. You don’t say anything, but Dean can practically see the gears turning in your head.

The Briar hockey team is campus royalty. They are the most popular, most sought-after guys at the university. Garrett, Logan, Tucker, himself — they draw crowds just by walking into the dining hall.

“Shirtless,” you repeat, your voice skeptical.

“Shirtless,” Dean confirms. “Washing cars in the blazing sun. flexing. Sweating. We will advertise it. We will bring in hundreds of girls. Sorority girls, townies, professors — they’ll all show up. You will triple your fundraising goal in two hours.”

You look at him, the logic warring with your defense mechanisms. “Garrett Graham would never agree to that.”

“I am very persuasive,” Dean promises. “I will make them do it. If I lose.”

“And if you win?” You ask, narrowing your eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

Dean looks at you. He looks at the dark circles under your eyes, the messy bun, the oversized sweatshirt that hides a body he is dying to uncover. He thinks about McMahon’s cruel words on the quad, and the quiet resignation in your voice when you told him you’ve never come.

“If I win,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, husky register, “then I get the satisfaction of knowing I made you feel as good as you deserve to feel. That’s it. That’s the prize.”

You search his face, looking for the catch. Looking for the punchline, or the arrogant smirk. But there is nothing there except absolute, unwavering sincerity.

The silence stretches out. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily.

Finally, you let out a long, slow breath. The tension bleeds out of your shoulders. You look down at the floor, then back up at him.

“Shirtless,” you say softly.

“Pants are non-negotiable sadly,” Dean says solemnly. “Tucker is very modest.”

The tiniest, most microscopic hint of a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s barely there, but Dean catches it, and it feels like he just won the Stanley Cup.

“One chance,” you say, your voice turning serious again. “You get one chance, Dean. When it doesn’t work, we stop. You leave. And you deliver your team on Saturday.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly. He holds his hand out.

You look at his hand. You hesitate for a second, then reach out and shake it. Your hand is small, your skin soft, but your grip is firm.

“When?” You ask.

“Tomorrow night,” Dean says, unwilling to wait any longer than absolutely necessary. “Eight o’clock. My place.”

You drop his hand, pulling your sweatshirt tighter around yourself. “Fine. Tomorrow night.”

Dean picks up his duffel bag from the floor. He gives you one last look, memorizing the way you look standing in the foyer, the challenge clear in your eyes.

“Get some sleep, Y/N,” Dean says, stepping out the door onto the porch. “You’re going to need your energy tomorrow.”

He doesn’t wait for your response. He turns and walks down the paved path, his heart hammering a victorious rhythm against his ribs.

He got his foot in the door. He got the chance.

Now, he just has to do the impossible.

***

The house is completely, suspiciously silent when you knock on the front door at exactly eight o’clock on Saturday night.

Dean opens the door before you can even lower your hand. He’s wearing gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips and a plain white t-shirt. His hair is slightly damp, curled at the ends, and the faint, clean scent of his body wash drifts out into the cool evening air.

He looks entirely too calm. You, on the other hand, feel like you might throw up.

“You’re right on time,” Dean says, a slow, easy smile spreading across his face. He steps back, opening the door wider. “Come on in.”

You step into the foyer, clutching the strap of your purse like a lifeline. You’re wearing jeans and a simple black sweater, a deliberate choice to make this feel casual, even though your heart is currently hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird.

“Where are your roommates?” You ask, your voice sounding a little too tight, a little too loud in the empty house.

“I bribed them to leave,” Dean says easily, shutting and locking the front door. “Logan and Tucker went to a movie. Garrett took his girlfriend out to dinner. The house is ours until at least midnight. I wanted zero distractions.”

He turns to look at you, and his smile softens. He can clearly see how rigid your shoulders are, how tightly you’re holding onto your bag.

“Hey,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “Relax. I’m not leading you to the gallows.”

“I know,” you say defensively. “I’m relaxed.”

“You look like you’re about to take the LSAT,” Dean counters. He reaches out, his large, warm hands gently curling over your shoulders. He rubs his thumbs in slow, soothing circles against your collarbones. “Look at me, Y/N.”

You lift your gaze from the center of his chest, meeting his eyes. They’re a warm, bright green, and completely devoid of the cocky arrogance you usually associate with him.

“Forget the bet,” Dean says quietly. “Forget the car wash, forget McMahon, forget the locker room. Tonight is just about you. And if you want to leave right now, or in ten minutes, or in an hour, you just say the word and I’ll walk you to the door. No questions asked. No pressure. Okay?”

You swallow hard, the tight knot of anxiety in your chest loosening just a fraction. “Okay.”

“Good.” Dean drops his hands, gesturing down the hallway. “My room is this way.”

Dean’s bedroom is surprisingly immaculate. You expected a stereotypical frat-boy disaster zone, but the bed is made with dark gray sheets, the floor is clear, and the only mess is a small stack of textbooks on his desk. The bedside lamp is on, casting a warm, dim glow over the room.

On the nightstand rests the black duffel bag from yesterday.

You stare at it, your stomach doing a complicated flip.

Dean catches your look. He tosses your purse onto his desk chair and turns to face you. “The bag is just backup. Honestly, I don’t think we’ll need it.”

“Your confidence is terrifying,” you mutter, crossing your arms over your chest.

“It’s not confidence. It’s just a fact.” Dean steps right into your personal space. He doesn’t ask permission to touch you this time, he simply lifts his hands and frames your face. His palms are slightly rough from handling a hockey stick, but his touch is incredibly gentle. “You think too much. I can practically hear the gears turning in your head.”

“I can’t help it,” you whisper, closing your eyes briefly as his thumbs brush over your cheekbones. “I’m waiting for the part where this doesn’t work, and you get annoyed, and I have to pretend I’m sorry.”

“That part isn’t coming.” Dean’s voice is a low, raspy murmur right against your mouth. “Open your eyes.”

You do. He is staring at your lips.

“I’m going to kiss you now,” Dean says, the warning a courtesy. “And you aren’t going to think about anything except how it feels.”

He closes the distance before you can argue. His mouth covers yours, warm and firm and demanding. You’ve been kissed a lot, but this is different. It isn’t rushed. He doesn’t shove his tongue down your throat or grope you aggressively. He simply takes his time, parting your lips, tasting you like he has all the time in the world.

A small, involuntary sigh escapes your throat, and Dean swallows it. His hands slide from your face, down your neck, tracing the line of your shoulders before sliding under the hem of your sweater. His warm palms flatten against the bare skin of your waist.

The shock of skin-on-skin contact makes you gasp, and Dean takes advantage, his tongue sliding against yours. He tastes like mint and something inherently dark and male.

“That’s it,” he murmurs against your mouth. “Just feel.”

He walks you backward, his hands pulling you flush against his chest, until the back of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. Dean breaks the kiss just long enough to pull your sweater up and over your head, tossing it blindly over his shoulder.

You reach for the hem of his t-shirt, suddenly desperate to feel his bare skin, but Dean catches your wrists.

“Uh-uh,” he says, a teasing lilt in his voice. “My clothes stay on for now. You don’t get to focus on me. Tonight is a one-way street.”

“Dean,” you protest, but he just smiles, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead.

He unhooks your bra with terrifying efficiency, letting it drop to the floor. The cool air hits your bare breasts, making your nipples pebble instantly. Dean tracks the movement, his eyes darkening as they drag down your torso.

He pushes you gently down onto the edge of the bed. You’re sitting there in just your jeans, feeling exposed and hyper-aware of his gaze. But there is no judgment in his eyes, no impatient rush to get to the main event. He just looks at you like you are the most incredible thing he has ever seen.

Dean drops to his knees on the hardwood floor between your legs.

He reaches out, his hands wrapping around your waist, pulling you an inch closer to the edge. “You’re beautiful,” he says softly, pressing an open-mouthed kiss directly in the center of your chest.

You shiver, your hands instinctively tangling in the thick hair at the nape of his neck.

Dean unbuttons your jeans. He slides the zipper down, his knuckles brushing intentionally over the sensitive skin of your lower stomach. You suck in a sharp breath. He pulls the denim down your legs, taking your plain cotton underwear with them, until you are completely bare, sitting on the edge of his bed while he kneels between your thighs.

“Dean,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly as the familiar, suffocating wave of performance anxiety begins to creep in. What if he realizes it’s hopeless? What if nothing happens?

“Stop,” Dean says instantly. He looks up at you, his eyes blazing. He knows exactly what you’re doing. “Stop thinking. Stop putting pressure on yourself. If you don’t cum tonight, you don’t cum. I don’t care. I’m perfectly happy just staying down here and tasting you for the next three hours regardless.”

The blunt, dirty honesty of his words sends a jolt of liquid heat straight between your legs.

Dean doesn’t give you time to overthink it again. He shifts closer, wrapping his strong hands around the backs of your thighs, and gently parts your legs wider.

He lowers his head.

The first touch of his tongue is a shock to your system. It’s a slow, broad, open-mouthed slide right up your center. You jerk instinctively, your hands gripping his shoulders.

“Easy,” Dean murmurs, his breath hot against your dripping core. “I’ve got you.”

He goes back in, and this time, there is no hesitation. Dean Di Laurentis is a master at this, and he proves it in seconds. He doesn’t dive right for the clit, pounding away like every other guy has. He takes his time. He kisses the soft skin of your inner thighs. He traces the delicate folds with the tip of his tongue, teasing, mapping out your body, figuring out exactly what makes your breath hitch and your muscles tighten.

“You taste so fucking sweet,” Dean groans, the vibration of his voice buzzing directly against your most sensitive flesh.

He finds the swollen bundle of nerves and swirls his tongue around it, light and teasing. You let out a soft, stuttering gasp, your head dropping back.

It feels good. It feels amazing. But the mental block is a heavy, leaden thing sitting in the back of your mind. You hit the plateau — the place you always hit, where the pleasure builds and builds but never actually crests. You feel yourself tensing, bracing for the inevitable disappointment.

Dean feels it. He stops immediately.

“Look at me,” he orders. His voice isn’t gentle anymore; it’s low, rough, and demanding.

You force your eyes open, looking down. Dean is kneeling between your legs, his lips wet and shining with your arousal, his green eyes locked onto yours. The sight is so intensely intimate, so totally raw, that it makes your chest ache.

“Tell me what you’re feeling right now,” Dean demands, his hands tightening on your thighs, his thumbs pressing firmly into your skin.

“I … I can’t,” you stutter, shaking your head. “Dean, it’s not going to-”

“I didn’t ask what’s not going to happen,” he interrupts sharply. “I asked what you’re feeling right now. Describe it to me.”

“It feels good,” you whisper, tears of frustration stinging the corners of your eyes. “But I’m stuck. I’m stuck.”

“You’re not stuck.” Dean leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh, his breath hot. “You’re in your head. So get out of it. Focus on my mouth. Focus on my fingers.”

He slides two thick fingers directly inside you. You gasp, your hips bucking up off the mattress as he stretches you open. You are incredibly wet, slick with your own arousal, and Dean uses it to his advantage. He curls his fingers upward, hitting a deep, heavy spot inside you with a firm, relentless rhythm.

“Tell me what that feels like,” Dean says, his eyes never leaving yours.

“It’s full,” you choke out, your fingers digging painfully into his shoulders. “It’s deep.”

“Good.” Dean lowers his head again. He replaces his mouth over your clit, but this time, he isn’t teasing. He sucks the sensitive nub directly into his mouth, applying a firm, steady suction while his tongue flickers against it relentlessly.

The combination of his fingers sliding deep inside you and his mouth pulling fiercely at your clit is a sensory overload.

“Dean,” you sob, the sound entirely involuntary.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows exactly what he’s doing. He keeps his eyes open, staring right up at you as his tongue lashes against you and his fingers pump in a rapid, demanding rhythm.

The pressure is building. It’s a hot, coiled spring in the center of your body, winding tighter and tighter. You try to pull away, terrified of failing again, terrified of hitting the wall, but Dean’s hands are like iron on your thighs. He holds you perfectly still, refusing to let you escape the pleasure.

“Come on,” Dean growls, pulling his mouth away for a fraction of a second. “Let go, Y/N. Give it to me. Let go.”

He goes back to sucking, harder this time, dragging his teeth lightly against the hood.

The sensation splinters through your entire body. The wall in your mind — the mental block that has haunted you for years — suddenly shatters under the sheer, overwhelming force of what he’s doing to you. You can’t think. You can’t analyze. You can only feel.

The coiled spring snaps.

A choked scream rips out of your throat as the climax hits you like a freight train. It explodes, radiating from your core out to your fingertips in violent, uncontrollable waves of pleasure. Your hips jerk up, grinding frantically against Dean’s mouth as your inner muscles clamp down brutally around his fingers.

Dean swallows your scream, his mouth sealed tightly against you, taking every single drop of your release. He doesn’t stop, even when you’re thrashing, even when you’re begging him to because it’s too sensitive. He forces you to ride out every single wave, his fingers continuing to pulse inside you until you are completely spent.

When he finally pulls his hand out and lifts his head, you collapse backward onto the mattress.

You are panting, staring blindly at the ceiling. Your entire body is trembling. Tears — actual, physical tears of sheer disbelief and overwhelming relief — are sliding down your temples into your hairline.

Dean stands up. He looks down at you, his chest heaving under his white t-shirt, his hair thoroughly wrecked from your hands. He reaches over, wiping the moisture from his chin with the back of his hand.

He doesn’t look cocky. He doesn’t look like he just won a bet. He just looks satisfied.

He climbs onto the bed, hovering over you, and gently wipes a tear from your cheek with his thumb.

“You see?” Dean whispers, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your slightly swollen lips. “You aren’t broken, Y/N. You just needed someone to actually pay attention.”

You let out a shaky, hysterical laugh, wrapping your arms around his neck and burying your face in his shoulder. “Oh my god. Oh my god, Dean.”

“I know,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around your waist and holding you tight. He strokes your bare back, letting you ride out the aftershocks. “I know.”

You lie there for what feels like hours, just breathing him in. You feel light. You feel like a massive, suffocating weight has just been lifted off your chest. It wasn’t you. It was never you. You just needed a guy who cared more about your pleasure than his own ego.

“Thank you,” you whisper into his neck.

Dean pulls back slightly, looking down at you. His green eyes are dark, glittering with something dangerous. The tender, comforting moment shifts instantly, replaced by a heavy, palpable heat.

“Don’t thank me yet,” Dean says, a wicked, devastating smile curving his lips. “We have the house until midnight, Y/N. And I am far from finished.”

Your eyes widen. “Dean, I don’t think I can—I’m so sensitive-”

“I know,” he says smoothly. He reaches over to the nightstand, grabbing the black duffel bag and unzipping it. He pulls out the small, sleek bullet vibrator. “But you’re about to learn that the second time is always easier than the first. The wall is gone now. Now, we’re just playing.”

He turns it on. The low, electric hum fills the quiet room.

You swallow hard, your core clenching in anticipation.

Dean pushes you onto your back, his knees bracketing your hips. He finally grabs the hem of his t-shirt and pulls it over his head, tossing it onto the floor. His chest is broad, defined, covered in a light dusting of hair that trails down beneath the waistband of his sweatpants. You stare at the prominent V-lines pointing downward, suddenly incredibly desperate to see the rest of him.

But Dean isn’t rushing the main event. He reaches down, parting your folds with two fingers, and presses the buzzing toy directly against your swollen clit.

You arch completely off the bed, a loud, unabashed moan tearing from your lips.

It is instantaneous. Without the mental block holding you back, your body reacts with terrifying speed. Dean grins, watching your face as he manipulates the toy, circling the most sensitive nerves. He leans down, capturing your mouth in a deep, filthy kiss, his tongue mimicking the frantic circles of his hand.

You reach down, frantically grabbing at the waistband of his sweatpants, desperate to touch him, but Dean swats your hands away.

“Not yet,” he pants against your mouth. “Focus.”

It takes less than three minutes. The second orgasm crashes through you with even more ferocity than the first. You scream his name into his mouth, your nails digging crescent moons into his shoulders as your body bows off the mattress, shaking violently.

Dean pulls the toy away, tossing it onto the nightstand, and finally reaches for his own waistband.

He strips out of his sweatpants and boxers in one fluid motion. He is heavily, beautifully aroused, his thick erection jutting out, hot and ready. He grabs a condom from the nightstand drawer, ripping the foil open with his teeth, and rolls it on with quick, efficient movements.

You are still trembling from the second climax, your eyes hazy and completely blown out.

Dean settles himself between your legs, his hands gripping your hips to anchor you. He lines himself up with your wet, slick opening.

“Look at me,” he demands softly.

You meet his eyes.

“You’re perfect,” Dean whispers.

And then he pushes his hips forward, burying himself deep inside you in one long, smooth thrust.

You gasp loudly, the feeling of him filling you completely sending fresh sparks of pleasure racing through your overloaded system. Dean lets out a harsh groan, his head dropping back as he gives himself a second to adjust to the tight, wet heat of your body.

He begins to move. He doesn’t pound into you; he makes love to you. He pulls almost all the way out before driving deep again, grinding his hips firmly against yours so that the base of his shaft perfectly rubs against your clit with every single thrust.

It is a steady, relentless rhythm. You wrap your legs around his waist, locking your ankles together to pull him even deeper.

“Dean,” you pant, your head tossing back against the pillows. “Please.”

“I’m right here,” he answers, his voice strained. He reaches a hand down, slipping his thumb perfectly between your bodies to press firmly against your clit while he continues to thrust inside you.

The sensory overload is absolute. The deep, heavy stretching inside and the sharp, electric friction on the outside. You are unraveling, falling completely apart underneath him.

“Let it go again, baby,” Dean encourages, his thrusts getting faster, harder, completely losing his earlier restraint. “Come for me. Give it to me.”

You shatter for the third time. The orgasm rips through you so forcefully that your vision actually whites out for a second. You clamp down around his cock with brutal strength, crying out as the pleasure sweeps through you in violent, pulsing waves.

Your tight, milking climax is enough to send Dean right over the edge with you. He lets out a guttural shout, his hips driving into you one final, desperate time as he comes hard, his body rigid and shaking above yours.

He collapses heavily onto your chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his chest heaving as he fights to catch his breath.

You lie there, your arms wrapped tightly around his broad back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his. The room is completely silent except for the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.

A full five minutes pass before Dean finally lifts his head. He props himself up on his elbows, looking down at you. His hair is a wild, sweaty mess, his eyes heavy with post-coital satisfaction.

He smiles. It’s a soft, genuine smile that makes your chest squeeze.

“So,” Dean rasps, tracing the line of your jaw with his finger. “I guess this means the hockey team is keeping their shirts on next weekend.”

You let out a weak, breathless laugh. “You’re a menace, Di Laurentis.”

“I’m a man of my word,” he corrects you, rolling off you and pulling you flush against his side. He drags the gray sheet up over your naked bodies, tucking you securely under his arm. “Though Logan is going to be incredibly disappointed. He’s been doing extra crunches all week just in case.”

You smile against his bare chest, tracing a lazy circle over his heart.

The bet is over. He proved his point. He did what no other guy could do, and he won.

But as Dean presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head, his arm tightening possessively around your waist, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is no longer just a mission for him.

And as you close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart, you realize it’s definitely not just a bet for you, either.

***

The Delta Zeta front lawn looks like a chaotic, high-budget commercial for spring break.

The bass from the massive portable speakers is vibrating through the soles of your white sneakers, blasting a remix of a top-forty pop song that you’ve heard at least six times since nine o’clock this morning. Soapy water floods the driveway, running in iridescent little rivers toward the street drain. Everywhere you look, girls in bright bikinis and cut-off denim shorts are scrubbing windshields, spraying each other with the hose, and flagging down passing cars with neon pink cardboard signs.

“Y/N!” Jess, your vice president, jogs over to the cash box table where you’re currently organizing a stack of slightly damp twenty-dollar bills. She’s out of breath, her blonde hair plastered to her forehead. “We’re out of microfiber towels. And I think Brittany just accidentally sprayed a physics professor in the face.”

You sigh, dropping a twenty into the lockbox. “Check the garage for the backup towels. And tell Brittany to aim lower. Has the line of cars slowed down?”

“A little,” Jess admits, wiping her brow. “It’s barely noon, though. The frat guys won’t drag themselves out of bed for at least another hour.”

You look out at the street. She’s right. The morning rush of faculty and early-risers has died down, leaving an empty spot in the driveway. If you want to hit your fundraising goal for the women’s shelter, you need a second wave. A big one.

“We need a draw,” you mutter, tying your hair back up into a higher ponytail. “Something to get the foot traffic to stop.”

“I think your draw just arrived,” Jess says, her voice suddenly dropping an entire octave. She points toward the sidewalk.

You follow her gaze, and your breath catches in your throat.

Walking down Sorority Row, looking like a slow-motion shot from a movie, are four massive guys. Garrett looks annoyed, Logan is already grinning and waving at a group of sophomores, and Tucker is casually spinning a key ring around his finger.

And leading the pack is Dean.

He’s wearing a pair of faded board shorts, flip-flops, and a gray Briar Hockey t-shirt. Sunglasses hide his eyes, but the moment he spots you standing by the cash table, a slow, devastating smirk spreads across his face.

A collective gasp ripples through the sorority girls on the lawn. Two freshmen actually drop their hose. The hockey team doesn’t just show up to random philanthropy events unless there’s a camera crew involved.

You cross your arms over your bikini top, fighting the massive smile threatening to break across your face as Dean stops right in front of your table.

“Good morning, Madam President,” Dean says smoothly. He pulls his sunglasses down, resting them on the collar of his shirt. His green eyes travel down the length of your body, lingering on the exposed skin of your stomach before snapping back up to your face. The heat in his gaze is entirely inappropriate for a Saturday morning charity event.

“Di Laurentis,” you say, keeping your voice even despite the butterflies staging a full-scale riot in your stomach. “What are you doing here?”

“We’re here to wash cars,” Logan chimes in from behind Dean, dropping his bucket onto the grass. “Obviously. Show me to the nearest CR-V.”

“You don’t have to be here,” you say, looking back at Dean. You lower your voice so only he can hear. “You won the bet, Dean. You proved your point. Vigorously. Multiple times.”

Just the memory of last Saturday night sends a flush of heat up your neck. You haven’t seen him all week — midterms, chapter meetings, and his away games kept you completely separated. But you certainly haven’t forgotten. You haven’t been able to think about anything else.

“I know I won the bet,” Dean says, stepping a fraction closer. “And it was the most satisfying victory of my athletic career. But the guys and I took a vote. We decided we want to participate anyway.”

“Oh, really?” You raise an eyebrow. “Just out of the goodness of your hearts?”

“Not exactly,” Garrett grumbles, crossing his muscular arms. “Dean wouldn’t shut up about it. He threatened to hide my skates if I didn’t show up. Put me to work, Y/N, before I change my mind and go back to bed.”

You laugh, motioning toward the empty driveway. “Grab a hose, Graham. The sponges are in the buckets.”

Garrett, Logan, and Tucker disperse, immediately swarmed by a giggling flock of Delta Zetas who are suddenly very eager to demonstrate proper soap application techniques.

Dean doesn’t move. He stays right in front of your table, leaning his hip against the edge.

“The team’s participation comes with a new condition,” Dean says softly, his eyes locking onto yours.

“A condition?” You tilt your head. “I didn’t agree to any conditions.”

“You’re going to want to agree to this one,” Dean promises, that wicked smirk returning. “We wash cars today. We bring in the crowds. And in exchange, you agree to go on a real date with me tonight.”

Your heart does a stupid, happy little flip. “A date.”

“A real date,” Dean confirms. “No bets. No ulterior motives. Just you, me, a disgustingly expensive Italian restaurant downtown, and absolutely zero talk about hockey or sorority budgets.”

You bite your lower lip, trying to maintain a facade of careful consideration. “I don’t know, Dean. I’m pretty busy.”

“I am offering you free labor, Y/N. Look at them.” He gestures behind him.

You look. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker have already pulled their t-shirts over their heads, tossing them onto the grass. The reaction is instantaneous. Cars that were driving past suddenly hit their brakes. A group of girls walking on the opposite side of the street literally change direction and sprint toward your lawn.

“Well,” you say, trying to suppress your laughter. “If it’s for the good of the charity.”

“Exactly. You’re a humanitarian.” Dean reaches out, tracing a single finger over the back of your hand where it rests on the cash box. The light touch sends a jolt of electricity straight up your arm. “So. It’s a yes?”

“It’s a yes,” you agree.

“Perfect.” Dean takes a step back. “Now, where do you want me?”

“You’re a professional,” you tease. “I’m sure you can find a spot. Just make sure you follow the dress code.”

Dean’s grin widens. Without breaking eye contact, he grabs the hem of his gray t-shirt and pulls it smoothly over his head.

You actually forget how to breathe for a second. You saw him naked a week ago, but seeing him out here in the broad daylight is a completely different experience. His chest is broad, sculpted from years of brutal on-ice conditioning, the muscles in his stomach flexing as he tosses the shirt onto your table. The sunlight catches on the light dusting of hair trailing down his stomach, disappearing into the low waistband of his board shorts.

“How’s the dress code looking?” He asks innocently.

“Acceptable,” you manage to choke out.

“Glad to hear it.” Dean winks at you, grabs his bucket, and jogs over to join his teammates.

The next two hours are absolute pandemonium.

Word spreads across campus faster than a wildfire. The Briar hockey team is shirtless at the Delta Zeta house. The line of cars waiting to get washed stretches entirely down the block. Frat boys show up just to see what the commotion is about. Groups of girls from other sororities line the sidewalk, pulling out their phones to record videos of Garrett spraying Logan with the hose, or Tucker politely scrubbing the roof of a minivan for a local soccer mom.

And Dean.

Dean is putting on a show.

You sit on the hood of a dry, parked Jeep Cherokee near the edge of the lawn, taking your state-mandated break. Jess handed you a plastic cup of spiked pink lemonade ten minutes ago, and you are happily sipping it while watching the chaos unfold.

Dean is currently washing a sleek black Audi. He is entirely soaked. Water runs down the planes of his chest, catching the afternoon sun and making his skin glisten. Suds cling to his arms and the waistband of his shorts. He’s laughing at something Logan just said, his head thrown back, running a soapy sponge over the hood of the car with long, effortless strokes.

He looks unfairly sexy. It’s actually offensive to the general public.

Every few minutes, he glances over his shoulder, catching your eye through the crowd. He always gives you a quick smirk or a subtle wink, making sure you know exactly who he’s showing off for.

“I’m going to ask you a question,” Jess says, hopping up onto the hood of the Jeep next to you. She takes a sip of her own lemonade. “And as your sister, I demand absolute honesty.”

“Shoot,” you say, not taking your eyes off Dean.

“Did you sleep with Dean Di Laurentis?”

You choke on your lemonade, coughing as the sour liquid burns the back of your throat. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play coy with me,” Jess says, bumping her shoulder against yours. “He has been staring at you like you’re his last meal on death row for two hours. And you keep looking at him like you want to drag him into the bushes.”

You wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, feeling your face burn. “We’re … hanging out. It’s new.”

Jess lets out a low whistle. “Damn. Good for you. He’s gorgeous. A menace to society, but gorgeous.”

“He’s actually really sweet,” you defend him quietly.

“I’m sure he is.” Jess smirks, hopping off the car. “I’m going to go make sure Logan hasn’t flooded the neighbor’s flower bed. Enjoy the view.”

You smile into your cup. The view is indeed spectacular.

You watch Dean finish rinsing the Audi. He wipes his forehead with the back of his forearm, looking genuinely exhausted but incredibly happy. He tosses his sponge into the bucket, says something to Tucker, and then starts walking toward you.

Your heart does that stupid flip again.

He reaches the Jeep and stops right between your dangling legs, resting his wet, soapy hands on the metal on either side of your thighs. He is breathing hard, radiating heat. The smell of coconut-scented soap, clean sweat, and Dean completely overwhelms your senses.

“You’re working hard,” you note, reaching out to brush a stray, wet curl off his forehead.

Dean leans into your touch instantly. “I’m earning my keep. The lockbox looks full.”

“We broke our fundraising record an hour ago,” you smile. “The shelter is going to be thrilled. Thank you, Dean. Seriously.”

“I told you I’d deliver.” Dean steps closer, until his bare, wet chest is practically brushing against your knees. “Though I expect to be heavily compensated tonight. We’re talking appetizers, an entrée, and at least two desserts.”

“I think I can manage that.”

“Good.” Dean tilts his chin up, his eyes dropping to your lips. “Can I kiss you? I know we’re in public, but you look incredible in that bikini and I have zero self-control.”

You laugh, tangling your fingers into his damp hair at the nape of his neck. “Yes, you can kiss me.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. Dean leans up, capturing your mouth in a deep, wet, entirely distracting kiss. He tastes like lemonade and sunshine. You pull him closer with your knees, letting your eyes flutter shut as he hums in approval against your lips.

“Well, well, well. Isn’t this a touching scene.”

The loud, grating voice slices through the bubble of your perfect moment like a rusty knife.

You freeze. Dean pulls back, his body stiffening instantly.

You look over Dean’s shoulder. Standing on the sidewalk, holding a red solo cup and flanked by two of his giant, meathead friends, is McMahon. 

He looks you up and down, his lip curling into a condescending sneer. Then he looks at Dean.

“Slumming it, Di Laurentis?” McMahon asks loudly, making sure the people around them can hear. “I heard you were desperate for a date, but I didn’t think you’d settle for my sloppy seconds.”

A dead, heavy silence drops over your immediate vicinity. The music is still playing, the water is still running, but everyone within earshot has stopped what they’re doing. Even Garrett and Logan have dropped their hoses, their heads snapping toward the sidewalk.

Your stomach plummets. You instinctively pull your legs back, suddenly feeling entirely too exposed in your bikini, the old, familiar shame threatening to choke you.

But Dean doesn’t step back. He doesn’t let you pull away.

He stands exactly where he is, keeping his hands planted on the Jeep, shielding your body with his own massive frame. Slowly, he turns his head to look at McMahon.

All the playful, charming energy evaporates from Dean’s demeanor. His jaw tightens, the muscles in his back cording with tension. He looks terrifying. He looks like a guy who spends three hours a day slamming people into glass walls for a living.

“What did you just say?” Dean asks. His voice is eerily quiet. It doesn’t boom. It doesn’t yell. It just carries.

McMahon puffs his chest out, trying to look intimidating, but you can see the slight hesitation in his eyes. He clearly wasn’t expecting Dean to look quite so murderous. “I’m just saying, man. You could do better. I already warned you she’s a dead end in bed.”

Garrett takes a step forward, his hands balling into fists, but Dean throws a hand up, stopping his friend in his tracks.

“I don’t need you to fight my battles, Graham,” Dean says, never taking his eyes off McMahon.

Dean turns fully around, facing the wide receiver. He crosses his arms over his bare chest. He doesn’t look angry anymore. He looks amused. And somehow, that’s so much worse.

“You know, McMahon,” Dean says smoothly, his voice carrying perfectly over the background noise. “I actually owe you a thank you.”

McMahon frowns, clearly thrown off script. “What?”

“I said thank you,” Dean repeats, a sharp, patronizing smile touching his lips. “Because if you weren’t such a loudmouth, incompetent idiot, I never would have found her.”

McMahon’s face flushes a dark, ugly red. “Watch your mouth, Di Laurentis.”

“No, you watch mine,” Dean steps off the grass and onto the concrete, closing the distance until he is standing a foot away from McMahon. He has a solid two inches of height on the football player, and he uses every bit of it, looking down his nose with absolute disdain.

“I tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, man,” Dean says loudly, making sure the surrounding crowd can hear every single word. “I really did. I thought, ‘Hey, maybe he’s just new at this. Maybe he doesn’t know where the clit is.’ But then I spent some time with Y/N.”

You cover your mouth with your hand, your eyes widening as a few sorority girls in the background gasp.

“And let me tell you,” Dean continues, his tone conversational but his eyes lethal. “There is absolutely nothing wrong with her. In fact, she is perfectly, beautifully responsive. Explosive, actually.”

McMahon’s jaw drops. “You’re lying.”

“I don’t need to lie,” Dean laughs, a harsh, dismissive sound. “She came three times, McMahon. Three. In the span of an hour. And the only thing she needed was a guy who actually knows what the hell he’s doing.”

The silence on the lawn is absolute. A few frat guys in the back actually let out low whistles of impressed shock.

“So,” Dean concludes, leaning in so close that McMahon actually takes a half-step backward. “The fact that you couldn’t get her off? The fact that you blamed her in front of half the campus? That isn’t her failing, buddy. That is a pathetic testament to your own sexual inadequacy.”

McMahon opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He looks completely, utterly humiliated. His two buddies have actually taken a step away from him, clearly not wanting to be associated with the collateral damage.

Dean isn’t finished.

He drops the amusement. The lethal seriousness returns, dark and unyielding.

“If I ever hear you talk about her again,” Dean says, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous gravel. “If I ever hear you say her name, or look at her, or breathe in her general direction … I will not use my words next time. I will put you on the ground. Are we clear?”

McMahon swallows hard. He looks around at the massive crowd staring at him, judging him, laughing at him. He looks back at Dean, the reality of the situation finally sinking in.

He doesn’t say a word. He just turns on his heel and stalks away down the sidewalk, his friends trailing awkwardly behind him.

The crowd immediately erupts into whispers and laughter. Someone starts a slow clap that ripples through the hockey team.

Dean completely ignores them. He turns his back on the crowd and walks straight back to you.

You are sitting on the hood of the Jeep, staring at him in absolute awe. The lingering anxiety that McMahon’s appearance had sparked is completely gone. In its place is a rush of pure, unadulterated affection.

No one has ever stood up for you like that. No one has ever publicly, unapologetically claimed you.

Dean stops between your knees again. He looks a little flushed, the tension slowly draining out of his shoulders. He looks up at you, suddenly looking a little unsure.

“Was that too much?” He asks quietly. “I know you don’t like a scene, but I couldn’t just let him-”

You cut him off by grabbing the sides of his face and kissing him.

It’s not a sweet kiss. It is desperate, hot, and entirely public. You pour every ounce of gratitude and desire you have into it, your tongue tangling with his. Dean lets out a rough sound of surprise before his arms wrap tightly around your waist, hauling you flush against his chest, lifting you slightly off the hood of the car.

The crowd around you actually cheers, but you barely hear them.

You pull back, resting your forehead against his. You are both breathing heavy, smiling like idiots.

“That was perfect,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” Dean’s green eyes shine with relief and happiness.

“Yeah. Though you just ruined that man’s reputation forever.”

“He ruined it himself. I just provided the facts.” Dean smirks, rubbing his thumb over your hip bone. “Besides. I told him the truth. You are explosive.”

You swat his shoulder, laughing as a blush covers your cheeks. “Shut up and go wash a car, Di Laurentis. You still have an hour on the clock.”

Dean groans dramatically, dropping his head onto your shoulder. “You are a cruel, demanding taskmaster. I’m being exploited for my body.”

“You love it,” you remind him.

“I do,” Dean admits softly, turning his head to press a lingering kiss to the bare skin of your neck. “I really, really do.”

He pulls back, giving you one last, breathtaking smile.

“I’ll pick you up at seven,” Dean promises. “Wear something that’s easy to take off.”

“Dean!”

He just laughs, a bright, booming sound that echoes over the noise of the car wash. He winks, turns around, and jogs back over to grab his sponge, immediately shoving Logan out of the way to take over a sports car.

You sit on the hood of the Jeep, watching him work.

You think about the girl you were a week ago — convinced you were broken, resigned to a life of quiet disappointment, carrying the weight of incompetent men on your shoulders.

And then you look at Dean. Arrogant, charming, relentless, and fiercely protective. The guy who saw a wall and decided to tear it down with his bare hands.

You take a sip of your lemonade, a soft, permanent smile etched onto your face.

Yeah. Seven o’clock can’t come fast enough.

[alliehayesgf]

some good fucking food

[alierecss]

you had me at wrong number | Dean Di Laurentis

summary: what starts as a wrong number nude becomes something neither of them planned for. a week of texts, a facetime call neither of them hangs up from, and a party where jealousy finally shows its hand you and dean end up somewhere that doesn't have a name yet but feels like the beginning of one.

warnings: explicit sexual content, sexting, nudity, oral sex (f receiving), edging, dom!dean if you squint, jealousy, slow burn compressed into one week, strangers to whatever this is, dean diLaurentis being shameless about it, probably slightly ooc dean

author's note: hii i'm back! i know i've been mia this week and i missed you guys, but i come bearing gifts. this one is long, it's explicit, it's a little self indulgent and i had so much fun writing it. as always your comments and reblogs mean everything to me, let me know what you think

It was a slow Thursday night and you should have been studying.

But the list of TikToks was genuinely unstoppable, and you had been meaning to put your phone down for at least ten minutes, but you just couldn't, and then your phone beeped with a text from an unknown number.

unknown number: it's missing you…

unknown number: thinking about what we did last night at the bathroom of malone's. can we repeat that?

The picture that followed was so far from PG it made you quiver.

It showed a male body cut from the head down, a well defined torso, white boxers sitting low on his hips, left hand gripping himself while the right held his phone up to the mirror. You were a little shocked honestly. It was quite girthy. That couldn't be the right word but it was the one your brain produced and you were going with it. Not that you were going to pay a compliment to this unknown manwhore who was sending you unsolicited nudes at 7pm on a Thursday night. Also last night? This meant he was hooking up with people in a bathroom on a random Wednesday? Malone's dirty, sticky floored, one broken lock bathroom at that. Manwhore was definitely the right word.

yn: wrong number dude

Three dots appeared immediately.

unknown number: aw babygirl don't be telling lies ik you liked what we did last night

You stared at the screen.

yn: babygirl? ew

yn: also last night i was asleep by like 9pm

unknown number: oh geez i didn't know i sent an accidental nude to a nun

yn: fuck off. i just like to go to bed early

unknown number: sure you do sister

You made a face at your phone. The audacity. The complete and total audacity of this person.

yn: at least i'm not some dirty manwhore hooking up in malone's disgusting bathrooms on a wednesday night

unknown number: gosh. slut shaming. that's a low even for you

yn: you don't even know me?????

Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again. Disappeared again. You stared at the screen. Appeared.

unknown number: fair point

A pause. Then:

unknown number: so who are you then, early bedtime girl

You should not be entertaining this. You should put the phone down, go back to your notes, pretend this never happened. You had a reading you hadn't even opened yet and a paper outline due Friday morning.

And yet.

yn: someone who now knows more about you than she ever wanted to

unknown number: be honest

unknown number: did you like it

You made a sound that was almost a laugh. Almost.

yn: goodbye

unknown number: that's a yes

yn: it's a goodbye

unknown number: same thing

You put the phone face down on your desk. Picked up your highlighter. Read the same sentence four times without absorbing a single word of it. Outside your window someone was playing music too loud and down the hall your roommate was on a call and everything was completely normal and you were sitting here with your highlighter hovering over the same sentence like an idiot.

Your phone buzzed.

unknown number: i'm dean by the way

unknown number: since we're basically intimately acquainted now

You flipped it back over before you could decide not to.

yn: we are not intimately acquainted

unknown number: i mean

unknown number: you've seen my left hand and dick

yn: i hate you

unknown number: you don't even know me?????

You stared at him throwing your own words back at you. Felt something move through your chest that was warm and annoying and completely unwelcome.

Then, against every instinct you had, against every reasonable self-preserving impulse in your body, you typed:

yn: …yn

Three dots. Then:

unknown number: yn

unknown number: pretty name for a nun

yn: i will block you

unknown number: no you won't

You put the phone down. Stared at the ceiling.

The worst part was he was right.

You didn't block him.

You also didn't text him first. That was the rule, and you held it with both hands because it was the only rule you had left and without it the whole thing became something you'd have to think about seriously, which you were not prepared to do. You did not text him first, not once, in the three days that followed. He always started it. A meme at 11pm with no context. A "hey nun" at 2pm on a Friday when you were between classes and your phone buzzed and your stomach did something you pretended didn't happen. A "what are you doing" on Sunday afternoon that you answered before you'd fully processed that you were doing it.

It was nothing. It was just texting. People texted. It meant nothing.

dean: okay but genuinely what are you wearing right now

You were in your roommate's oversized sweatshirt, frog socks, and a hair clip that was losing a structural battle. You looked down at yourself.

yn: why

dean: just curious

dean: academically

yn: academically.

dean: i'm a curious person yn. intellectually invested in you as a human being

yn: you're so full of shit

dean: okay but what are you wearing

yn: something you'd find very disappointing

dean: try me

You looked down at yourself again. The frog socks. The sweatshirt that reached your mid thigh. The hair clip dangling precariously off a chunk of hair that had given up.

yn: an oversized sweatshirt

dean: okay

dean: what else

You felt something shift in the air of your room. Subtle. Like pressure changing before rain.

yn: socks

dean: what kind

yn: …frogs

dean: okay that's genuinely adorable

dean: what's under the sweatshirt

You should have put the phone down. You were capable of it. It was a documented skill you possessed.

yn: why don't you tell me what you think is under the sweatshirt

You sent it before you could think about it too hard. Three dots appeared immediately, like he'd been waiting.

dean: oh so we're doing this

yn: i didn't say that

dean: you kind of said that

yn: i said tell me what you think. that's not confirmation of anything

dean: fine

dean: i think you're wearing something small. something comfortable that you'd never admit you wear for any reason other than comfort but that fits you really well

dean: i think about what's under that sweatshirt more than i should probably admit

The sentence landed before you could brace for it.

yn: you think about that

dean: since the minute you said wrong number dude and didn't block me

dean: yeah

Your room felt very small. You were very aware of the specific square footage of it suddenly.

yn: that's insane

dean: probably

dean: take the sweatshirt off

yn: absolutely not

dean: why not

yn: because i don't do this

dean: yn you've been doing this for twenty minutes

Annoyingly, infuriatingly, completely accurate.

yn: if i take a picture you better not be weird about it

dean: i will be so normal

dean: the most normal i have ever been in my entire life

yn: dean

dean: yn i promise on my life

You looked at yourself in your phone camera for a long moment. The grey bralette under the sweatshirt. The lamp light. You looked good. You looked like yourself which was the best you could say about most things.

You took the sweatshirt off. Took the picture before your nerve ran out. You made sure to adjust the bralette so you boobs could look better in the picture. You sent it.

Immediately wanted to be unconscious.

Three dots appeared. Stopped. Appeared. Stopped. Appeared. Stopped.

dean: okay

dean: so

dean: i need a minute

yn: you said you'd be normal

dean: i lied. i'm so sorry i completely lied

A picture came through forty seconds later and you were not prepared for it.

Same mirror but this time he was not wearing any boxers, just some towel wrapped around his hip, hanging very low, so low you could see that he had shaven recently, which was its own problem. But this time he wasn't doing anything. Just standing there, one hand braced on the bathroom counter, head tilted down, face still out of frame. The line of his stomach, the cut of his hips, and the very obvious, very clear, very present fact that he was already hard and making absolutely no attempt to hide it.

Your mouth went dry.

dean: you started it

yn: i didn't start anything

dean: yn

yn: what

dean: take the bralette off

yn: you first

The picture came through in under fifteen seconds. You made a sound. You were glad you were alone.

It showed him, in what you think it was his bed. The towel still there but now it was not covering him anymore, and you could see the total of his nature. He took the picture from the side, so you could see the way his member was hitting on his abs.

dean: your turn

Your hands were not steady. You were aware of that and chose to file it under irrelevant. You reached back, unclasped it, let it fall somewhere on your bed. Took the picture fast. Sent it before the part of your brain responsible for self-preservation could intervene.

dean: god

dean: yn

yn: what

dean: i've been thinking about this since thursday and somehow it's still better than what i had in my head

dean: which was already pretty good

yn: stop

dean: i'm not going to stop

dean: can i tell you what i'd do if i was there right now

yn: …yes

What followed was not brief. It was not vague. It was not tasteful. Dean DiLaurentis typed the way he apparently did everything else, with complete shameless commitment and an almost offensive amount of specificity and detail. He told you exactly where he'd start. How long he'd stay there. What he'd say while he did it. What he'd do when you tried to rush him. What he'd do when you tried to be quiet about it. He was detailed in a way that made your face hot and your thoughts go static and your hand move south without you fully authorizing the journey.

yn: you're really good at this

dean: i know

dean: are you touching yourself right now

yn: …maybe

dean: yeah?

yn: shut up

dean: i'm not saying anything

dean: keep going

dean: tell me what you're doing

yn: no

dean: yn

yn: i said no

dean: okay

dean: then i'll keep telling you what i'd do

He did. In more detail than before. More specific. He described it like he had all night and no intention of rushing any part of it and the combination of his words and your own hand and the particular airless quality of your room at 11pm on a Sunday had you pressing your face into your pillow trying to muffle yourself.

yn: dean

dean: yeah

yn: i hate you

dean: no you don't

dean: are you close

yn: …yes

dean: good

dean: don't yet

You stared at the screen. Your hand stilled involuntarily.

yn: excuse me

dean: you heard me

yn: you can't tell me what to do

dean: yn

yn: what

dean: wait

yn: dean i swear to god —

dean: wait

dean: send me a voice note

dean: wanna hear you when you come

You waited. Hating him. Breathing. Staring at the ceiling with your hand completely still and your entire body in open revolt.

dean: okay

dean: now

It took approximately thirty seconds and you were embarrassingly loud about it for someone who lived in an apartment with a roommate.

You lay there after staring at the ceiling, heart rate doing its slow return to baseline, phone resting on your chest going up and down with your breathing.

yn: i hate you so much

dean: that's fair

dean: for the record i just had to take a very cold shower

dean: so

yn: good

dean: yn

yn: what

dean: you're really pretty

Not hot. Not sexy. Not any of the words he'd been using for the last forty minutes. Pretty. Quiet and simple and completely unprepared for.

yn: goodnight dean

dean: goodnight yn

You put your phone down. Stared at the ceiling. Thought about the word pretty and how he'd said it like it was just a fact he was reporting. Like he wasn't performing anything.

You were in so much trouble.

It was Tuesday night, almost midnight, and you couldn't sleep.

You'd been lying there for an hour doing the thing you did when your brain wouldn't cooperate, cycling through everything unfinished, everything not tight enough yet, everything that still needed work. Your Political Science thesis proposal. Your reading for Thursday. The general low hum of being someone who wanted things badly and couldn't fully turn that off even at midnight even when there was nothing productive to do with it.

You were not thinking about Dean. You were specifically not thinking about the fact that it had been two days since Sunday and your phone had been quiet and the rule was the rule and you were fine.

Your phone lit up.

Not a text. A FaceTime request.

dean d.

You stared at it. One ring. Two rings.

Third ring.

You answered.

His face filled your screen and you understood immediately why he'd stayed out of frame in the photos. It would have been unfair to include it. Blue eyes, slightly messed up hair, the particular look of someone lying in bed at midnight who had picked up the phone and just called without letting himself think about it too hard. He was in a grey t-shirt and he looked — a lot. He looked like a lot.

He looked at you for one second and the corner of his mouth moved.

"Frog socks," he said.

You glanced down involuntarily then looked back at the screen. "You can't even see my feet."

"I assumed."

"That's —" You shifted against your pillow, propping the phone up against your lamp so you didn't have to hold it. "Hi."

"Hi." His voice was different out loud. You'd built a version of it in your head from the texts and the reality was lower, warmer, slightly rough with lateness. "You weren't asleep."

"No. You couldn't sleep either?"

"No." He shifted, adjusting how he was holding his phone. Behind him you could see the ceiling of what was presumably his room, dark except for the ambient light from outside his window. "I kept almost texting you."

"Why almost?"

"Didn't know what to say." He looked at the camera. "Figured this was harder to overthink."

"Is it?"

"Little bit." The corner of his mouth again. "You look —"

"Don't."

"I was going to say you look like you've been staring at the ceiling."

"Oh." You felt something unknot in your chest slightly. "Yeah. Thesis stuff."

"What's wrong with it?"

"The argument isn't tight enough yet. I know what I want to say but the through line isn't —" You stopped. Looked at him. "Why are you calling me at midnight to talk about my thesis."

"I'm not." He held your gaze. "I'm calling you because I've been thinking about Sunday and I handled what came after badly and I wanted to —" He paused. "I don't know. See you I guess."

The words landed quietly. See you. Not text you. See you.

"You went quiet for two days," you said.

"I know."

"After everything you said Sunday."

"I know." Something moved through his face. "It freaked me out a little."

"What did."

"Sunday." He exhaled. Ran a hand through his hair, briefly out of frame, back. "It stopped feeling like a bit somewhere. And I woke up Wednesday and I didn't know what to do with that so I did nothing. Which was —"

"Cowardly," you said.

He looked at you. "Yeah."

"You said you weren't a coward."

"I said I don't think of myself as one." His jaw moved. "There's apparently a gap."

You looked at him on your screen. His face in the low light of his room, honest and slightly tired and not performing anything. You'd been talking to him for a week and this was the first time you'd seen him and somehow he looked exactly like you'd expected and completely different at the same time.

"I'm bad at this," you said.

"At what."

"At —" You gestured vaguely at the phone. "This. Whatever this is. I don't usually —" You stopped. Started again. "I keep things separate. School and everything else. I don't text strangers at midnight and I definitely don't —" Another stop.

"Send pictures to them?" he said.

"I was going to say trust them." You watched something shift in his expression. "But yeah. Both."

He was quiet for a moment. Looking at you on his screen the way you were looking at him on yours.

"I keep things separate too," he said finally. "I'm pretty good at it usually. Compartmentalizing." He paused. "You're bad at staying in a compartment."

"Is that a complaint?"

"No." He said it immediately. No hesitation. "It's really not."

Outside your window the rain had started, that slow Tuesday night rain that made everything feel very still and very enclosed, and your lamp cast its amber light across your bed and Dean's face was on your phone screen and it was almost midnight and none of this was something you'd planned for.

"Tell me something true," you said. You didn't know why you said it. It came out before you'd decided to, which was becoming a pattern with him.

He looked at you for a long moment. Something working through his face.

"I haven't wanted to be a lawyer since I was about sixteen," he said. "I've been pre-law for three years and I haven't told anyone that."

"Not anyone?"

"Not anyone who'd have an opinion about it." He held your gaze.

"Why are you telling me?"

"Because you asked for something true." A pause. "And because you're bad at staying in compartments so I figure I might as well return the favor."

You smiled. Couldn't help it. Small and involuntary and probably visible on his screen.

"Your turn," he said. His own mouth doing the thing. "Something true."

"I'm terrified of wanting things too much," you said. "Policy work, the thesis, all of it. I've been building toward it since I was seventeen and sometimes the wanting is so loud I can't hear anything else and that scares me. Because if it doesn't work —" You stopped. Steadied. "It's a lot to carry around."

"Yeah," he said quietly. "I get that."

"You?" You looked at him. "You walk around like nothing touches you."

"Yeah." Something moved through his face. "That's a choice."

You held his gaze on the screen. The rain outside. Both of you quiet for a moment.

"What do you actually want," you said. "If you could just — want something."

He was quiet for a long time. Long enough that you thought he wasn't going to answer. The dots of his thinking visible on his face even through a screen.

"Hockey," he said finally. Quiet. Like he was saying it carefully. "I want to coach. Not eventually, not as a retirement plan — I want to work with players. I want to be on the ice, watching someone figure something out, building something. I played all through high school and college and I was good but not good enough to go anywhere with it and I think —" He paused. "I think I'd be good at the coaching side. I see things. What players need. What's missing."

"Dean —"

"It's stupid," he said. "I know it's —"

"It's not stupid."

"It's not exactly the future my parents planned for me."

"Dean." You looked at him on your screen. His face slightly guarded, waiting. "It's brave. Knowing what you actually want when everyone around you has already decided what you should want — that's brave. That's exactly what that is. Don't minimize it."

Something moved through his face. Slow and significant.

"Yeah," he said. Very quietly. Like a decision being made. "Okay."

He looked at you for a moment. Something soft in his expression now, different from before, the careful guardedness of it gone.

"(Y/N)."

"Mm."

"Why don't we know each other."

Something moved through your chest. Quiet and warm and a little painful around the edges.

"What do you mean," you said.

"Like — why is this the first time we've actually talked. How does that happen. You're clearly —" He shook his head slightly. "You're a lot. How have I been on the same campus as you and not knowing."

"I don't know," you said softly.

"I feel like I've been missing something and I didn't know what it was until five days ago when I sent a nude to the wrong number."

You laughed. Out loud, alone in your room at midnight, genuinely laughed. He smiled at the sound of it, something lighting up in his face that made your chest ache slightly.

"That is the most unhinged sentence anyone has ever said to me," you said.

"But you know what I mean."

You did. That was the thing that kept catching you off guard — how much you understood what he meant, how readily, how little you had to translate.

"Yeah," you said. "I know what you mean."

"Okay." He settled back against his pillow, phone propped up now. "Good."

A pause. Softer than the ones before.

"What does your name stand for," he said.

You smiled at your phone in the dark. "That's for me to know."

"And me to find out?"

"Don't push it DiLaurentis."

"You googled me."

"I was being safe. You sent me a nude."

"What did you find."

"That you're annoyingly good looking in photos and you are on the Hockey team" You paused. "Which tracks, apparently."

Something in his expression. Warm and quiet. "Annoyingly good looking."

"I said what I said."

"(Y/N)."

"Goodnight Dean."

"Tell me about the thesis," he said. "The through line thing. What's not connecting."

You looked at him. "You don't want to hear about my thesis."

"(Y/N)." He looked at the camera. Steady. "I called you at midnight. I want to hear whatever you want to say."

So you told him. About the argument, the framework, the part that wasn't landing yet. He listened with his head tilted slightly on the pillow, and he asked questions that were better than they had any right to be, and at some point you stopped noticing you were talking to a screen and started just talking to him.

He talked too. About hockey, about watching players and seeing the gap between what they were doing and what they could do, about the specific satisfaction of being the person who helped close that gap. He talked about it differently than everything else, less careful, more alive, the words coming faster and easier.

"See," you said.

"See what."

"You lit up. Just now."

He looked at the camera. Something soft moving through his face. "Yeah."

"Do that," you said. "Wherever it takes you. Do that."

He looked at you for a long moment.

"Okay," he said quietly. Like a door opening.

The rain outside. Both of you quiet. The comfortable kind of quiet that didn't need filling, that felt like something rather than the absence of something.

"I'm glad you called," you said finally.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Even though it's —" He checked something offscreen. "12:53."

"Even though."

A pause. Warm. Unhurried.

"You should sleep," he said.

"You should sleep."

"I will if you will."

"Fine."

Neither of you moved to hang up. Your lamp. The rain. His face on your screen, relaxed now in a way it hadn't been at the start of the call, the careful control of it dissolved, just him. Just the person underneath all of it, lying in the dark talking to you.

"Dean."

"Yeah." His voice had gone slow. Tired in the good way.

"Don't go quiet again after this."

"I won't." Immediate. Certain. "I promise."

"Okay."

"Okay." A pause. Barely anything. "(Y/N)."

"Mm."

"You're really pretty."

You closed your eyes. Felt yourself smile against your pillow.

"Goodnight Dean."

"Goodnight."

You didn't hang up. He didn't hang up. Your lamp on, the rain going, his face on your screen quiet and still. At some point the silences between words got longer. At some point you stopped filling them. At some point your eyes got heavy and you stopped fighting it and the rain outside was the last thing you were aware of before you weren't aware of anything.

You fell asleep with his face on your screen.

He was still there when it happened. He watched your breathing slow, watched the moment your face went fully still, the lamp casting its light across you, your hair half out of the clip, the sweatshirt. He stayed there longer than he probably should have, just — watching you sleep. Feeling something settle in his chest that had been restless for longer than a week. Longer than he'd been paying attention to.

He turned his own light off eventually.

Lay in the dark with your face small and quiet on his screen, the rain still going outside your window, and thought about hockey and thesis arguments and the way you'd said do that like you meant it, like you'd decided something about him that he was only just deciding about himself.

His phone died at 3am. The call cut out silently.

Neither of you noticed.

He didn't text on Wednesday.

You noticed at 11am between classes, phone in hand, no notification. You noticed at 3pm coming back from the library. At 7pm making dinner, stirring pasta on autopilot, checking your phone and putting it face down and checking it again ten minutes later like something might have changed. At 10pm in bed, lamp on, the specific silence of a phone that wasn't going to buzz.

You didn't text first. The rule was the rule and you were keeping it.

Thursday was the same. Nothing. You told yourself it was fine. You told yourself it had run its course — a week of wrong number texts and one FaceTime call that had ended with both of you falling asleep and that was a nice thing, a strange thing, a thing that had apparently meant more to you than it had to him, and that was okay. That was information. You were a person who dealt well with information.

You were a very good liar when you needed to be.

Friday night your friend Maya texted the group chat about a party at Phi Delta. You said no. Maya sent a voice note that was forty seconds of your name in escalating tones of disbelief. You said fine.

You wore the black top, which Maya had called fondly the slutty top. Not for any particular reason. Just because it fit.

The party was exactly what parties always were too loud, too warm, cheap beer and someone's vanilla candle losing the fight. Maya disappeared within five minutes and you got a drink, found a wall, and told yourself you were having a perfectly fine time.

You were fine. Everything was fine.

You were doing your idle party scan when you saw him.

Dean.

Across the room, red cup in hand, laughing at something. Dark green shirt pushed up at the sleeves, hair slightly messed up, looking easy and comfortable the way he always looked from what you'd gathered, like every room had been built specifically around him. He looked like the last two days of silence had cost him absolutely nothing.

You looked away.

Took a sip. Looked at your phone. Looked at nothing.

Looked back, because you were apparently incapable of basic self-governance, and that's when you saw her.

Dark hair. Good smile. Hand on Dean's arm with the comfort of someone who had a map of him. She leaned up and said something in his ear and he tilted his head toward her and laughed and your chest did something immediate and ugly.

And then your brain, unhelpfully, connected the dots.

The ease between them. The specific body language of two people who had been somewhere private together. The way she touched his arm like she'd done it before and expected to do it again.

thinking about what we did last night at the bathroom of malone's.

Her.

You looked away. This time you meant it. You pushed off the wall and went to find the kitchen.

Across the room, Dean laughed at something Jessica said and heard approximately none of it.

He'd seen you the second you walked in. Black top, drink in hand, finding your spot against the wall with the self-contained ease of someone who didn't need the room to come to her. He'd seen you and something in his chest had done something immediate and then Jessica had said something and he'd laughed on autopilot and thought I need to go over there and then thought about the two days of silence and wondered if you'd even want him to.

He was going to go over. In a minute. He just needed to figure out what to say first.

Jessica's hand on his arm, sliding slightly. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He scanned the room. "Sorry. Yeah."

He looked back to the wall.

You were gone.

The kitchen was quieter, the music muffled through the walls, someone's abandoned game on the counter. You made yourself a drink and leaned against the far counter and tried to look like someone who was completely fine and at a party by choice.

"You look like you're doing very complex math."

You turned. Tall, broad shoulders, easy to look at. He was looking at you with mild amusement, red cup loosely in hand, clearly also just occupying the kitchen for no particular agenda.

"That obvious?" you said.

"Little bit." The corner of his mouth lifted. "Bad night or just bad party?"

"Neither. Just needed a minute."

"Yeah." He nodded like that was a complete and reasonable explanation. "I get that." He shifted his weight, easy. "I'm Garrett."

"(Y/N)."

"You go here?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Yeah." He leaned against the counter beside you, comfortable distance, just companionable. "What are you studying?"

"Political Science. You?"

"Business." He tilted his head. "So you're either going to run the country or make everyone's lives very difficult in an official capacity."

You laughed despite yourself. "Those aren't mutually exclusive."

"Fair point." His eyes were warm. "You know anyone here or are you flying solo tonight?"

"My friend Maya. She evaporated within five minutes."

"Classic." He grinned. "I came with my housemates. Two of them are definitely playing beer pong." He glanced through the kitchen doorway into the main room, something briefly crossing his face. "One of them is around."

You followed his glance without thinking. Through the doorway. Across the room. And found those blue eyes doing a very focused scan of the party that landed on the kitchen doorway and stopped.

You looked back at Garrett. He wasn't looking at the room anymore. He was looking at you, easy and present, no agenda.

He had absolutely no idea.

"So Political Science," he said. "What do you actually want to do with it?"

"Policy work. Education reform specifically."

"That's —" He looked genuinely interested. "That's actually really cool. I have a cousin in education, she'd probably lose her mind talking to you." He leaned against the counter, unhurried. "Do you like it? Like genuinely, not the resume answer."

You looked at him. It was a good question. A real one.

"Yeah," you said. "It's the first thing that ever made me feel like I was pointed at something."

"I get that." Something moved through his expression. "Hockey did that for me. It does that for me—" He shrugged, easy.

The conversation kept going, easy and warm, moving through things the way good conversations did when you weren't trying to have one. He was kind of funny in an uncomplicated way, interested without being performative about it, and you'd stopped scanning the room and stopped thinking about tall blonds and started just talking to this person who was genuinely good at talking to people.

At some point he said something that made you laugh and you leaned toward him slightly to hear it better over the music bleeding in from the main room and he leaned toward you and you were close, just close, just the natural physics of a loud party and a good conversation, and —

"(Y/N)."

Low. Tight. From the kitchen doorway.

You looked up.

Dean was standing there. Hands in his pockets. Jaw doing significant structural work. His eyes moved from you to Garrett to the distance between you and back to your face in a sweep that took half a second and communicated quite a lot.

Garrett straightened. Looked at Dean. Looked at you. Looked back at Dean.

You watched the understanding move across his face slowly, like something assembling itself piece by piece. His eyes tracked between the two of you once, barely perceptible.

He didn't move away from you.

"Dean." Warm. Genuinely pleased to see his friend. No agenda yet — just Garrett being Garrett. "Hey, man. Do you know (Y/N)? Political Science. Really interesting."

"We've met," Dean said.

"Have you." A statement. He glanced at you, something in his expression recalibrating.

"Briefly," you said. "Hey," you said pleasantly.

"Hey," he said. Something moved through his face. "You look —"

"Garrett was just telling me about the house," you said, turning back to Garrett.

Garrett, to his credit, looked genuinely angelic. "Was I?"

"You were about to."

"Right." Garrett nodded seriously. "Yeah, so there are four of us. Me, Tucker, and two others." He paused. "Dean actually."

You turned back to look at Dean with an expression you kept very neutral.

Dean looked at Garrett with an expression that said several things, none of them printable.

Garrett looked back at Dean with the innocent open face of someone who had made a choice and was at peace with it.

"Housemates," you said. "Fun."

"It's great," Garrett said warmly. "Really great. We're very close. Like brothers almost."

"That's nice," you said.

"It is," Garrett agreed. "Dean especially. Very important to me. I would hate for anything bad to happen to him."

"Garrett," Dean said.

"Just saying."

You looked at Dean. He looked at you. The kitchen felt very small.

A beat. Jessica appeared in the kitchen doorway behind him.

You felt her before you saw her — the atmospheric shift of someone entering a room with an intention. She stood in the doorway with her drink and her dark hair and her eyes moving between you and Dean with an expression that was very calm and very assessing. Her hand found Dean's arm again, light, proprietary.

Dean didn't look at her. He was looking at you.

Jessica looked at you. One sweep. Taking stock. Her hand pressed slightly on Dean's arm.

He shifted his weight. Almost imperceptibly. Away.

Her expression didn't change but something behind it did.

"Can I talk to you," Dean said to you. Not a question.

"I'm in the middle of a conversation."

"(Y/N) —"

"Garrett was talking."

"I really was," Garrett said. He had his drink raised to his lips. His eyes were very bright.

"(Y/N) —"

"We were in the middle of something."

"We really weren't," Garrett said helpfully. "I mean — we can be. (Y/N) seems great. I'm happy to continue."

Dean looked at his housemate with an expression of profound betrayal.

Garrett smiled at him with profound innocence.

You set your cup down on the counter and looked at Garrett. He was cute. He had a good smile and an easy energy and under literally any other circumstances you'd have been happy to keep talking to him all night. You looked at him now and then you looked at Dean — jaw tight, eyes on you, something desperate moving underneath all that control — and you made a choice.

You turned back to Garrett. Leaned against the counter so your shoulder was almost against his. Looked up at him. "So the house," you said. "How many bedrooms?"

Garrett blinked. Recovered admirably. "Four. Dean's is the —"

"(Y/N)." Dean's hand was on your arm, light, just fingers. Same as before. "Please."

Dean looked at his housemate with an expression that Garrett received with complete serenity.

"Two minutes," Dean said to you.

"I'm fine here."

"(Y/N)."

"You didn't text," you said. Pleasantly. Conversationally. Like you were noting the weather.

Something moved through his face. "I know —"

"Two days."

"Phone works both ways, you know."

Your mouth opened. Closed.

"What are you," you said, "my divorced dad?"

Garrett made a sound behind his cup. Not quite successfully contained.

Dean stared at you. The controlled expression cracking slightly, something underneath it that was almost a laugh that he was visibly, effort fully refusing to let happen.

"I —" He stopped. Reset. "That's —"

Jessica's hand dropped from his arm.

"(Y/N)." Dean's voice lower now. The control fraying properly at the edges. Something real pushing through. "I know. I know I should have texted. I kept picking up my phone and putting it down because I didn't know how to say —" He stopped. Looked at you. "Can we please go somewhere that isn't the kitchen?"

"I like the kitchen."

"Garrett —" He looked at his housemate.

Garrett looked back at him with the expression of a man fully at peace with his choices.

"I'm not going anywhere," Garrett said pleasantly. "Spiritually this is my kitchen."

"You don't live here —"

"Spiritually, Dean."

Dean looked at the ceiling. Looked back at you. His face doing something complicated and unguarded and very much not the easy composed version from across the room twenty minutes ago.

And then his eyes moved past your shoulder and something in them changed. Went very still.

You turned.

Jessica was still in the doorway. She wasn't looking at Dean anymore. She was looking at you with an expression that was perfectly calm and perfectly clear and said everything without saying anything. She knew. She didn't know who you were or what had happened but she knew what Dean's face looked like right now and she knew it wasn't about her.

She looked at Dean one more time. He met her gaze. Something passed between them — not unkind, just final. She turned and walked back into the party without a word.

The kitchen went quiet.

Garrett looked at the doorway. Looked at Dean. Looked at you. Took a long slow sip of his drink.

"Garrett," Dean said. Not looking away from you. "I need you to leave."

A pause.

"Yeah, okay," Garrett said. He pushed off the counter. Looked at you with a smile that was warm and genuine and knew entirely too much. "It was really nice to meet you, (Y/N)."

"You too, Garrett."

He looked at Dean. Something in his face that was fond and exasperated and rooting for him all at once. "You got this," he said quietly.

Then he walked out of the kitchen and you heard him immediately start talking to someone in the main room, easy and unbothered, like nothing had happened, like he hadn't just witnessed the complete dismantling of his housemate's composure in real time.

You looked at Dean.

He looked at you.

Just the two of you and the muffled music and the kitchen counter and everything that had been said and not said for a week.

"Talk," you said.

"Jessica," he said. "She's the one from Malone's. I need you to know I didn't invite her tonight, I didn't answer when she texted, I came here and she was just already —"

"I know who she is," you said.

Something moved through his face. "You figured it out."

"Yeah."

"When?"

"When I saw you with her." You kept your voice even. "Body language. The way she touched your arm." You paused. "The way you let her."

"(Y/N) —"

"I don't have a claim on you," you said. "I know that. We've been texting for a week. You don't owe me anything."

"That's not —"

"I was jealous." You said it clearly. Cleanly. Looking right at him. "I saw you with her and I knew who she was and I was jealous and I hated myself for it and then I went and talked to your housemate like an idiot."

"You didn't know he was my housemate."

"I kept talking after I found out."

Something moved through his expression. Warm and wrecked at the same time. "I know you did."

"I was making a point."

"You made it very effectively." He took a step toward you. Not touching. Just closer. "I was watching from across the room."

"I know."

"The whole time."

"I know, Dean."

"You and Garrett were —" He stopped. His jaw. "You were close."

"We were talking."

"And then you were laughing and leaning toward him and I was standing across the room watching it and I —" He shook his head slightly. "I hated it. I really hated it. Which I have no right to feel given that I didn't text you for two days."

"No," you said. "You don't."

"I know."

"You fell asleep on that call," you said. "And then you didn't text."

"I know." His voice dropped. "I know. I woke up Wednesday and my phone was dead and I plugged it in and I thought about texting you and I didn't know how to say — what that call was. What Sunday was. I didn't know how to say any of it in a text so I said nothing. Which was —"

"Cowardly," you said.

"Yeah." He held your gaze. "There's a gap between who I think I am and how I acted this week and I know that and I'm sorry. I'm really sorry, (Y/N)."

You looked at him. His face close and honest and tired of holding it all together.

"How long did you stay on the call?" you said.

He looked at you for a moment. "Until my phone died."

"What time was that?"

"3 a.m."

You held his gaze. Felt something in your chest do the cracking thing, the hairline fracture spreading just enough.

"You watched me sleep," you said.

"For a while," he said quietly. "Yeah."

The kitchen. The music. His face.

"Don't go quiet again," you said. Not angry anymore. Just — asking. "Whatever this is. Don't do that again."

"I won't." Immediate. "I promise I won't."

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Your place or mine," you said.

His whole face changed at once.

"Yours," he said. "Please."

"Say goodbye to Garrett."

"Garrett can —"

"Dean."

He was already texting with one hand, the other finding the small of your back to steer you out of the kitchen.

From somewhere in the main room a whoop rang out. Unmistakably Garrett. Followed by Tucker's voice saying "What?" and Garrett saying something you couldn't catch and Tucker apparently losing his mind entirely.

Dean closed his eyes for exactly one second.

"Your friends," you said.

"I know," he said. His hand warm at your back. "Come on."

The Uber was six minutes away and you spent all six of them standing outside in the November cold, not talking, which should have been awkward and wasn't. Dean stood close enough that your arm was against his, and the cold air bit at your shoulders and neither of you moved away from it or from each other. The party noise muffled behind the door. The street quiet ahead of you.

"You're doing the math thing," he said.

"Garrett told you about that."

"Garrett tells me everything. Mostly when I don't want him to."

"He seemed like a good person."

"He's the worst." A pause. "He's genuinely the best. Don't ever tell him."

The Uber pulled up. Dean opened the door and you got in. Dean folded in after you and the door shut and the back seat was very warm and very small and his leg was against yours from knee to mid thigh, solid and warm. The driver pulled out without a word. Some low music from the front. The city moving past the windows in intervals of light and dark.

Neither of you moved away from each other.

You stared out the window. Felt him looking at you periodically. Didn't look back. Could feel the quality of his attention like a hand on your shoulder — present, focused, pointed entirely at you.

"(Y/N)."

"Mm."

"I've been thinking about you for two days." His voice low, just for the back seat. "I'd be in class and just — thinking about the call. What you said. The way you said it."

"You could have just texted," you said.

"I know."

"Would have been considerably easier than all of this."

"Yeah." His mouth moved. "But you talked to Garrett."

"I didn't know he was your housemate."

"And when you found out?"

You turned your head to look at him. Close in the back seat, the city lights moving across his face.

"I was making a point," you said.

"You made it." Something heated in his expression. Something that hadn't been there in the kitchen — the composure fully gone now, replaced by something more direct. "It worked."

The Uber slowed. Your building. You got out, Dean behind you, the lobby, the elevator. The numbers going up in the quiet. You watched the display and not him and felt him watching you and not the display.

Your floor. Your door. Your keys, which you managed.

The door opened. You stepped inside. Reached for the lamp.

Dean stepped in behind you and the door clicked shut and before you could find the switch his hand caught yours in the dark — gentle, just his fingers wrapping around yours, stilling them.

"Hey," he said. Right behind you. Close.

You turned around.

He was right there. Closer than the hallway at the party, closer than the Uber, close enough that you had to angle your chin up to find his face in the dark. And you'd been building him in your head for a week from a torso in white boxers and a voice you'd invented for his texts and the FaceTime call that had felt like finally, and the reality of him — close, in the dark of your apartment, looking down at you with an expression that wasn't performing a single thing — was a lot. It was genuinely a lot.

"Hi," you said.

"Hi." His thumb moved across your knuckles. Once. "You okay?"

"If you ask me that one more time —"

"(Y/N)."

"I'm okay," you said. "I've been okay. I'm very okay and I'm going to need you to stop asking and start —"

He kissed you.

Not tentative. Not exploratory. Immediate and certain, his hand coming up to cup your jaw, tilting your head back, kissing you like he'd made a decision and the decision was this, specifically and completely this. You kissed him back and got your hands into the front of his shirt and pulled and he made a sound against your mouth that did significant and lasting damage to your nervous system.

He walked you backward through your apartment with a confidence that suggested he'd clocked the layout the second the lights came on. His mouth didn't leave yours except to drag briefly to your jaw, your throat, the soft place just below your ear that made you pull in a sharp breath.

He came back to it. Of course he came back to it.

"Dean —"

"Yeah."

"Bedroom is —"

"I know." He did. His hand found the hem of your black top. He pulled back just far enough to look at you in the low light from the window, asking without asking.

You lifted your arms.

He pulled it over your head and dropped it somewhere and then just looked at you. The way he'd said pretty over text, that same undone quality, like he was actually stopped by it. Like it required a moment.

"What," you said.

"Nothing." He reached out and traced your collarbone with two fingers, just the path of it, watching his own hand. "Just —" He exhaled. "Yeah."

"Eloquent."

"Shut up." He walked you the rest of the way to the bedroom. The backs of your knees hit the bed. You sat. Looked up at him. Reached for the hem of his shirt and he helped you pull it off and then he was standing there in your lamplight and you finally had the full picture — not a mirror, not a photo, not a screen. Just him. Looking down at you with blue eyes and a mouth that wasn't smiling and something in his face that was only for this room, only for right now.

You pulled him down by his belt loop.

He pressed you back into the mattress and took his time about it in a way that directly contradicted the energy of the last hour. He kissed your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, hands moving over you with a patience that was a choice, deliberate, made with full awareness of what it was doing to you.

"You said you weren't going to go slow," you managed.

"I said a lot of things." His mouth against your sternum. Moving lower. "I'm revising."

"Dean —"

"(Y/N)." He looked up at you from where his mouth was making its way down your stomach, chin resting just below your ribs, eyes dark and entirely calm. "I've been thinking about this for a week. I'm not rushing it."

"I will actually —"

"You'll what." One eyebrow. "Finish that sentence."

You couldn't. Your brain had stopped producing complete sentences approximately thirty seconds ago.

"That's what I thought," he said, and moved lower.

He was good at this. You'd had data suggesting he would be: the texts, the specific confident detail of them, but the actual reality of his mouth and his hands and the focused attention he brought to learning you was something else entirely. He figured out what worked faster than felt fair. What made you grip the sheets and what made you forget you were supposed to be quiet and what made you say his name like it was the only word you currently had access to.

His hands on your hips. Pressing down. Holding you in place with a firmness that made your breath go unsteady.

"Dean." Strained. "Dean I'm —"

"I know." He didn't stop. Didn't adjust. Kept going with the same patient devastating focus until you were pulling at his hair and had completely abandoned the project of being quiet about any of this.

"I'm going to —"

He pulled back. Just enough. The loss of it was almost criminal.

"Are you serious," you said to the ceiling.

"Very." He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, unhurried, like he had all the time in the world and your sanity was not his problem. "You did this to me Sunday."

"You told me to wait —"

"And now I'm returning the favor." He looked up at you again. Blue eyes, completely unbothered, completely in control in a way that was profoundly unfair given the current situation. "Problem?"

"Yes," you said. "Significant problem. I have several —"

"(Y/N)."

"What."

"Ask nicely."

You stared at him. "Absolutely not."

He smiled. It was a terrible smile. It was a fantastic smile. He pressed another slow kiss to your thigh and you made a sound that surrendered significant ground in this negotiation.

"Dean." Through your teeth. Barely holding it together.

"Yeah."

"Please."

"Please what." Infuriatingly calm. His thumb drawing a slow circle on your hip. "Be specific."

"Please," you said, "don't stop."

"Since you asked so nicely."

He moved back and you stopped being capable of organized thought entirely.

When it finally tipped over the edge your hand was fisted in his hair and you were considerably louder than you'd planned and you felt him smile against you which should have been annoying and was not even slightly.

He came back up. Hovered over you, forearm by your head, looking down at your face with an expression that was heated and soft and something underneath both that you didn't have the capacity to name right now.

"Hi," he said.

"Hi." Breathless. "You're the worst."

"You're welcome."

You grabbed the front of his hair and pulled him down and kissed him, which he allowed for approximately two seconds before he took over, and his hand moved to your waist and lower and you shifted against him and felt exactly what you'd seen in that photo a week ago and made a sound against his mouth.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"Now."

"Yeah." He reached past you. Nightstand drawer, you'd already told him with your eyes and he'd already known. "Yeah."

He paused. Looked down at you. Something moved through his face, not quite a smile, something more than that. Something that felt like recognition.

"Left side," he said.

"Don't read into it."

"I'm not reading into anything."

"Good."

"I'm just —"

"Dean."

He kissed you once. Quick and certain and warm. "Right."

The thing about the texts was that he'd told you exactly who he was in them. Exactly how he operated. And he delivered on all of it, present in a way that felt total, attentive in a way that tracked everything, adjusting without being asked, paying attention in a way that made it feel specific to you rather than general, like he was interested in you specifically and not just in the thing itself.

His hands, which you'd had opinions about since Thursday.

The low way he said your name when he meant it, not as punctuation, just — yours. Like it meant something to say it.

At some point you said his name like a question and he said yours back like an answer.

At some point his forehead dropped to yours and you both stayed there for a moment, just that, just breathing, and neither of you moved to change it.

At some point everything tipped and he said your name against your temple and you pressed your face into his shoulder and felt the whole week, the wrong number and the texts and the call and the two days of silence and the party and the kitchen and Garrett's chaotic loyalty and Jessica's quiet exit and the Uber and his hand in the dark finding yours — all of it moving through you and landing somewhere soft.

The room quiet. Lamp still on. Both of you horizontal, breathing slowing back to something normal, the particular warm stillness of a room after something that mattered.

Dean was on his back. You were beside him, your shoulder almost against his, staring at the ceiling. Outside the November cold. Inside just the lamp and the quiet and the sound of him breathing next to you.

"(Y/N)."

"Mm."

"You okay?"

You turned your head. He was already looking at you, head turned on the pillow, close enough to see every detail of his face you'd been denied for a week — the line of his jaw, his eyes in lamplight, darker and quieter than across a party room, the thing in his expression that wasn't performing anything at all.

"You have to stop asking me that," you said.

"Probably." He didn't look away. "You okay?"

You looked at him for a long moment.

"Yeah," you said. "I'm really good actually."

Something in his face settled. Like something he'd been holding released.

"Good," he said quietly.

A pause. Comfortable. Easy.

"Garrett is going to be unbearable," you said.

"For the rest of my natural life." He paused. "He's going to tell Tucker."

"Is Tucker worse?"

"Tucker is going to make a bracket." Another pause. "Tucker is going to frame a bracket."

You laughed. Actually laughed. He smiled at the ceiling, small and private and genuine.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"Don't go quiet again."

He turned his head. His expression did something you felt in your sternum.

"I won't," he said.

"I mean it."

"I know." He moved his hand across the space between you. Found yours on the sheets. Wrapped his around it, loose and warm, like it was the most natural thing. "I won't."

You looked back at the ceiling. His hand around yours. The lamp. Outside the city doing whatever the city did at this hour, indifferent and ongoing.

"Dean."

"Yeah."

"The coaching thing." You felt his hand go slightly still. "You should tell your dad."

A long pause.

"(Y/N) —"

"I mean it. Not being a lawyer. Hockey. Coaching. The thing that makes you light up when you talk about it." You turned your head to look at him. "Tell him."

He looked at the ceiling. His jaw moved. Something working through his face that was complicated and real and not resolved yet.

"Yeah," he said finally. Very quietly. "I know."

"You know?"

"I know." He exhaled slowly. Turned his head to look at you. "I've known for a while. I just —" He shook his head slightly. "I needed someone to say it out loud I think."

You held his gaze.

"Consider it said," you said.

Something moved through his face. Soft and significant.

"Yeah," he said. "Okay."

Outside the November cold. Inside the lamp and the quiet and his hand around yours and something that didn't have a name yet but felt like the beginning of one.

"What does your name stand for," he said.

You smiled at the ceiling. "Goodnight Dean."

"Tell me."

"Goodnight."

"I'll ask Garrett. First thing tomorrow."

"Garrett doesn't know."

"I'll make something up. Tell the whole team."

"You don't have a team yet."

"I will." He said it simply. Certain. Like a door that was already open. "I will."

You looked at him. Felt something in your chest that was warm and a little terrifying and completely worth it.

"Goodnight," you said softly.

"Goodnight (Y/N)." A pause. His thumb moving across your knuckles, once, slow. "Whatever it stands for."

You closed your eyes.

His hand around yours.

You were in so much trouble.

You were so okay with that.

[alliehayesgf]

god this was so perfect

[pucksandpower]

guardian angel

Beau Maxwell x medical student!Reader

Summary (implied spoilers for The Score): you stop on a dark highway for a stranger you have never met. He wakes up days later not knowing your name. What follows is a love story that starts with blood-stained scrubs, a neck brace, and the single worst pickup line ever delivered in an ICU. Aka … the fix-it fic where Beau lives

Warnings: descriptions of a car accident and critical injuries

The night stretches cold and endless along Route 2, the kind of February darkness that settles into your bones. You’re driving on autopilot, your mind still churning through pharmacokinetics and drug interactions, when the world explodes into motion ahead of you.

Metal screeches. Glass shatters. A black SUV careens off the road, spinning once, twice, before slamming into a massive oak with a sound that punches through the quiet night.

Your foot hits the brake before your brain catches up. Your car fishtails slightly on the slick road before coming to a stop thirty feet from the wreckage. For exactly three seconds, you sit there, hands still gripping the steering wheel, heart hammering against your ribs.

Then you’re moving.

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

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

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

“Sir? Sir, can you hear me?”

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

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

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

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

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

There’s so much blood.

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

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

“911, what’s your emergency?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sir, I need you to sit down-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. You push the thoughts away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Med student. Second year.”

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

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

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

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

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

“But-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except it’s not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All you can do is wait.

And hope.

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

***

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

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

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

“Fuck off, I was screened-”

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

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

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

“Dude, your phone,” Garrett says.

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

At seven in the morning.

On a Saturday.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is Garrett there? Logan? Tucker?”

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

“I need you to sit down, son.”

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

“What happened?”

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

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

“It’s about Beau Maxwell.”

The world tilts slightly. “What about him?”

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

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

Beau.

Critical condition.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No. No, he’s not going there.

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

“Dean, maybe we should-” Garrett starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Beau is his brother.

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

No. Stop. Don’t think it.

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

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

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

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

They round a corner, and Dean sees them.

The waiting room is full of Maxwells.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That’s what breaks him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean tastes bile. He swallows hard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“That sounds like Beau,” Logan says.

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

“Dean-” Garrett starts.

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

The doors to the surgical wing swing open.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we see him?” Beau’s mom asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gratitude.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anything.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dean nods, not trusting himself to speak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garrett looks over. “Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

***

The world comes back in pieces.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Footsteps. Fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good. Do you know where you are?”

“Hospital.” Duh.

“Do you remember what happened?”

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

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

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

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

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

“You look like shit,” Beau rasps.

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

“How long was I out?”

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

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

His parents exchange a look.

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

“A branch?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“So I’m stuck in this neck brace?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Instead, a young woman steps in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because holy shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There’s a beat of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeah?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The room is silent for exactly three seconds.

“Dude,” Dean says.

“Not now,” Beau replies.

“You just flirted with your guardian angel.”

“Dean-”

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

“I was perfectly respectful-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean, I swear-”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You believe in fate?”

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

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

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

“Probably,” Dean agrees.

“And I think I’m in love.”

Dean nearly chokes on his munchkin. “What?”

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

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

“I’m serious.”

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

“I know what I feel.”

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

“I really mean it.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that.”

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

“I’ll convert her.”

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

“She’s competitive. I like that.”

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

“Her name is Y/N.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dean?” He says.

“Yeah?”

“Help me figure out what to text her.”

Dean grins. “Now we’re talking.”

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

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

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

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

***

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

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

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

Now, he’s doing pull-ups.

“One,” he grunts.

“Good. Keep that form.”

“Two.”

“Breathe through it.”

“Three.”

“Two more. You’ve got it.”

“Four.” His arms are shaking.

“Last one. Make it count.”

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

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

“So I can play?” Beau asks hopefully.

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

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

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

And one from you.

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

Beau smiles, typing back quickly.

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

Y/N: Sure. I believe you. Completely.

Beau: I did five pull-ups.

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

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

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

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

Y/N: You’re impossible.

Beau: You love it.

There’s a pause.

Y/N: Maybe a little.

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

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

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

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

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

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

His phone buzzes again.

Dean: Emergency. Get to the house ASAP.

Beau: What’s wrong?

Dean: Just get here. It’s important.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wasn’t dead.”

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

“Everyone?”

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

“Dean-”

“And Y/N.”

Beau freezes. “What?”

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

“You invited—without asking me-”

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

“By ambushing me?”

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

“It’s manipulative.”

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

***

The party is, objectively, insane.

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

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

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

“I’m relaxed.”

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

“That’s just my face.”

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

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

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

“I hate both of you,” Beau mutters.

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

“I don’t—we’re friends.”

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

“Friends who have inside jokes,” Garrett adds.

“Friends who he calls his guardian angel-”

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

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

“I’m not-”

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

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

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

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

Before Beau can respond, the front door opens.

And there you are.

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

“She’s here,” Logan whispers unnecessarily.

“I can see that,” Beau hisses back.

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

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

“I am talking to her.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Just open it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh no,” Beau mutters.

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

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

The crowd is silent, watching.

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

You look mortified. “Dean-”

“Stand up!”

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

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

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

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

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

“TO Y/N!” The crowd roars.

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

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

“I know,” Beau says, grinning. “Me too.”

Dean, having successfully made everyone emotional, declares that the situation requires shots. Multiple shots. A truly irresponsible number of shots.

“I don’t think this is medically advisable,” you protest as Dean lines up shot glasses on the kitchen counter.

“You’re not on duty,” Dean says. “And we’re celebrating. Celebrating requires shots.”

“That’s not-”

“Shots! Shots! Shots!” Tucker starts chanting. The crowd joins in.

You look at Beau helplessly. He shrugs. “When in Rome?”

“Rome didn’t have vodka.”

“Rome would’ve had vodka if they’d survived a near-death experience.”

You laugh and grab a shot glass. “Fine. But I’m blaming you when I regret this tomorrow.”

Dean passes out shots to everyone in the kitchen. “To Beau!” He shouts.

“To Beau!” Everyone echoes, and the shots go down.

One shot turns into two. Two turns into three. By shot four, you’re leaning against the counter, cheeks flushed, giggling at something Tucker is saying about his disastrous history midterm.

Beau stays close, not drinking as much because his tolerance is shot after months of not drinking, but enough that he feels warm and loose and brave.

“Having fun?” He asks, appearing at your side.

You beam up at him. “The most fun. Dean is insane. I love him.”

“Don’t tell him that. His ego can’t take it.”

“Too late!” Dean calls from across the room. “I heard! She loves me, Beau!”

“You’re the worst!” Beau calls back.

“You love me too!”

“Debatable!”

You laugh, the sound bright and unrestrained, and Beau wants to bottle it. Wants to keep it forever.

“Come on,” he says, taking your hand. “Let’s get some air.”

He leads you through the crowd, out the back door to the porch. The April night is cool but not cold, the first real hint of spring in the air. The noise from the party is muffled out here, just the bass line thumping through the walls.

“This is nice,” you say, leaning against the railing. “Quieter.”

“Yeah.” Beau stands beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush. “You okay? Dean didn’t overwhelm you too much?”

“Are you kidding? That toast was-” Your voice catches. “That was one of the nicest things anyone’s ever done for me.”

“You saved my life. You deserve a lot more than a toast.”

“I was just doing what anyone would do.”

“No,” Beau says firmly. “You weren’t. You did something extraordinary. And I will spend the rest of my life being grateful for it.”

You turn to face him, leaning your hip against the railing. “The rest of your life, huh? That’s a long time.”

“Not long enough,” Beau says. His heart is pounding, but whether it’s from the alcohol or your proximity, he can’t tell. Probably both. “Y/N, I-”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been wanting to tell you something. For months, actually.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What is it?”

“I-” He stops. Starts again. “Do you remember what you said to me in the hospital? About Harvard beating Briar fair and square?”

“Of course. And I meant it. You guys are going down next season.”

“See, that’s the thing.” Beau takes a small step closer. “I’ve been thinking about that. About you being a Harvard fan and me playing for Briar. And I realized I don’t care.”

“You don’t care about football?” You sound skeptical.

“I don’t care that we’re rivals. I don’t care that you’re rooting against my team. I don’t care about any of it because-” He takes a breath. “Because I like you. A lot. Like, an embarrassing amount for someone who’s supposed to be playing it cool.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Beau-”

“I know we’ve been friends,” he continues quickly. “And if that’s all you want, I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. But I need you to know that I think about you constantly. I look forward to your texts more than anything else in my day. When I was in PT, struggling through the worst pain I’ve ever experienced, the thought of texting you after kept me going.”

“Really?” Your voice is soft.

“Really.” He reaches up, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. The gesture is gentle, tentative. “You saved my life, Y/N. And then you kept saving it, every day, just by being you. By making me laugh when I wanted to give up. By believing I could recover when I wasn’t sure I could.”

“I always believed in you,” you whisper.

“I know. I felt it. Every text, every terrible medical joke, every time you called me out for pushing too hard or not hard enough — I felt it.”

You’re staring at him now, your eyes bright in the porch light. “I like you too,” you say. “I have for months. But I didn’t—you were recovering, and I didn’t want to take advantage-”

“Take advantage?” Beau laughs. “Y/N, I’ve been trying to figure out how to ask you out since I woke up in that hospital bed and saw you for the first time.”

“You were on a lot of pain meds.”

“Doesn’t make it less true.”

You bite your lip, and Beau tracks the movement. “So what now?”

“Now,” Beau says, stepping even closer, “I’m going to ask you something.”

“Okay.”

“Can I kiss you?”

Your breath catches. For a moment, you just stare at him. Then you smile — that brilliant, beautiful smile that he’s dreamed about for months.

“Yes,” you breathe. “God, yes.”

Beau cups your face in his hands, thumbs brushing against your cheeks, and leans in.

The first touch of your lips is electric. Soft and sweet and perfect. You make a small sound and melt into him, your hands coming up to grip his shirt.

Beau kisses you like he’s been wanting to for months, which he has. Kisses you like you’re precious, which you are. Kisses you like he’s afraid you might disappear, which part of him is.

You kiss him back just as intensely, your fingers curling into his hair, pulling him closer.

Someone starts whooping from inside. “YES! FINALLY! GET IT, MAXWELL!”

Beau flips him off behind your back without breaking the kiss, which makes you laugh against his mouth.

“Your friends are watching,” you mumble.

“Don’t care,” Beau says, kissing you again.

“They’re cat-calling.”

“Still don’t care.”

You pull back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes. Your lips are kiss-swollen, your cheeks flushed, and Beau has never seen anything more beautiful.

“This is really happening?” You ask. “We’re really doing this?”

“If you want to,” Beau says. “I mean, I know it’s complicated. The rivalry thing-”

“Is football,” you finish. “Just football. This is more important.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You smile. “Besides, it’ll make beating you next season even sweeter.”

Beau laughs and kisses you again. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you say, echoing your earlier text.

“I do,” Beau agrees. “I really, really do.”

From inside, Dean is now leading a chant of “KISS! KISS! KISS!” that’s quickly spreading through the party.

“We should probably go back in,” you say, not moving.

“Probably,” Beau agrees, also not moving.

You stay like that for another moment, just looking at each other, before you finally step back and take his hand.

“Come on,” you say. “Before your best friend has an aneurysm.”

You walk back into the party together, hands linked, and the entire room erupts into cheers.

Dean tackles Beau in a hug, nearly knocking you both over. “FINALLY! Do you know how hard it’s been watching you pine for four months?”

“Get off me,” Beau laughs, shoving him away.

“I’m the best wingman ever. Admit it.”

“You’re the worst.”

“But I’m your worst,” Dean says, grinning. Then he turns to you. “Welcome to the family, Y/N. You’re stuck with us now.”

“I can think of worse fates,” you say, smiling.

Logan and Tucker appear, both looking entirely too pleased with themselves.

“So,” Logan says. “Are you guys like, official? Is this a thing?”

Beau looks at you. You look back.

“It’s a thing,” you say.

“It’s definitely a thing,” Beau confirms.

“Well fuck,” Garrett says, joining the group with Hannah. “Because Hannah bet me twenty bucks you’d get together before summer, and I bet after. So thanks for costing me money, Beau.”

“My pleasure,” Beau says dryly.

The party continues late into the night. Beau stays by your side, your fingers laced with his, and for the first time since the accident, everything feels right.

Better than right.

Perfect.

Later, when the crowd has thinned and it’s just the core group sitting around the living room, Dean raises his beer one more time.

“To second chances,” he says.

“To guardian angels,” Tucker adds.

“To love,” Hannah says, making everyone groan.

“To football rivalries,” you contribute, which makes everyone laugh.

“To all of it,” Beau says, looking at you. “To whatever brought you to that highway at that exact moment. To whatever made you stop. To whatever led us here.”

You lean your head on his shoulder. “To fate,” you say softly.

“To fate,” Beau agrees.

And as he sits there, surrounded by his friends, his arm around the girl who saved his life in more ways than one, Beau can’t help but think that Dean was right.

Life is short. Second chances are rare.

And he’s not going to waste a single moment of his.

***

The Briar University athletics facility smells like sweat and ambition at seven AM on a Saturday, which is exactly why Dean loves it. That, and the fact that most people are still asleep, leaving the weight room gloriously empty.

Well, mostly empty.

“Come on, Maxwell, one more set!” Dean calls from his spot on the bench press. “Or are you going to let your girlfriend out-lift you?”

Beau, currently doing bicep curls while watching you on the treadmill, flips him off without looking away from you. “She’s not trying to out-lift me. She’s doing cardio.”

“I can hear you both,” you call from the treadmill, your ponytail swinging as you run. “And I absolutely could out-lift Beau if I wanted to.”

“Oh, fighting words!” Dean sits up, grinning. “Beau, you gonna take that?”

“Yes,” Beau says immediately. “Have you seen her deadlift? It’s terrifying and hot.”

“It’s medical student grip strength,” you explain, not breaking stride. “Years of studying have given me callouses of steel.”

“And here I thought it was just natural perfection,” Beau says.

Dean makes gagging noises. “You two are disgusting. It’s been five months. The honeymoon phase should be over by now.”

“Never,” Beau says cheerfully, setting down his weights and grabbing his water bottle.

Dean watches as Beau wanders over to your treadmill, leans against it, and says something that makes you laugh mid-stride. You nearly trip, smacking his arm, but you’re grinning.

Five months. Nearly half a year since that party. Half a year of watching his best friend fall more in love every single day.

It’s been an adjustment, Dean will admit. Suddenly having to share Beau with someone else, having to accept that he’s no longer the most important person in Beau’s life. But watching Beau now — healthy, happy, whole — Dean can’t begrudge it.

Especially because you’re pretty fucking cool.

You finish your run and hop off the treadmill, breathing hard but not winded. “Okay, what’s next? Weights? Core? Please say core. I need to work off the stress of this week.”

“Rough rotation?” Beau asks, immediately concerned.

“Just long,” you say, stretching your arms over your head. “Twenty-hour shifts don’t leave a lot of time for self-care. Hence why I’m here at seven AM on my one day off instead of sleeping like a normal person.”

“It’s the endorphins,” Dean says knowingly. “You’re chasing that dopamine high.”

“Exactly,” you agree quickly. “Purely scientific. Nothing to do with-”

“With wanting to see Beau shirtless and sweaty?” Dean finishes, smirking.

You turn red. “I—that’s not—I mean-”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Beau says, already pulling his shirt over his head. “I am pretty great to look at.”

“Your ego is showing,” you mutter, but you’re definitely staring.

Dean laughs. “Okay, lovebirds, let’s actually work out. Beau, you’ve got full medical clearance now, right?”

“As of last week,” Beau confirms, and there’s an edge of excitement in his voice that Dean recognizes. It’s the same excitement that’s been building since the doctors finally, finally said he could return to full contact practice. “Coach wants me back in peak condition before the season starts.”

“Which is three weeks,” Dean adds. “So we’ve got to get you whipped into shape.”

The effect is immediate and bizarre.

Beau and you lock eyes across the weight room. Something passes between you — some kind of silent communication that Dean has seen before but never understood. It’s like you share a brain sometimes, which is both impressive and deeply unsettling.

Then, in perfect unison, you both gasp dramatically.

“Did you just say-” you start.

“Whipped into shape?” Beau finishes.

“Oh no,” Dean says, recognizing the gleam in both your eyes. “No. Whatever you’re thinking-”

But it’s too late.

You sprint to the corner of the gym where someone has left a pile of equipment. You emerge triumphantly holding two jump ropes.

“Where did you even—when did you-” Dean sputters.

“Shhh,” you say, tossing one rope to Beau, who catches it with a grin that can only be described as maniacal. “Let us have this.”

“Have what?” Dean asks, genuinely concerned now.

You and Beau exchange another look. Then you hold up one finger and suddenly you’re both jumping rope and singing.

“I WANT YOU WHIPPED INTO SHAPE!” You belt out, your voice surprisingly strong for someone who just ran three miles.

“WHEN I SAY JUMP, SAY ‘HOW HIGH?’” Beau joins in, jumping rope with enough enthusiasm to be concerning given that he had spinal surgery less than a year ago.

Dean stares. Just stares.

“YOU KNOW YOU’RE DOING IT RIGHT,” you continue, now doing some kind of complicated jump rope move that involves crossing your arms.

“WHEN YOU START TO CRY!” Beau adds, attempting the same move and nearly tripping over the rope.

“IF YOU DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD,” you both sing together now, jumping in sync, “YOU’VE GOT TO-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!”

You finish with a flourish, both of you breathing hard, jump ropes held high like you’ve just won Olympic gold.

There’s a moment of silence.

Then you and Beau collapse into laughter, dropping the ropes and leaning on each other for support.

“What,” Dean says slowly, “the actual fuck was that?”

“Legally Blonde: The Musical,” you gasp out between giggles. “Brooke Wyndham is an icon.”

“And when you said whipped into shape-”

“We just had to,” you finish together.

Dean continues to stare. “You two are insane.”

“Probably,” Beau agrees, still grinning.

“Definitely,” you add, not looking remotely apologetic.

Dean shakes his head, but he’s smiling now. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or concerned that you both knew all the words.”

“Be impressed,” Beau says. “We also know the choreography to ‘Omigod You Guys.’”

“We do NOT need to see that,” Dean says quickly.

“Your loss,” you say cheerfully. “It’s iconic.”

Beau wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling you close and pressing a kiss to your temple. You lean into him naturally, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like you’ve been doing it for years instead of months.

And Dean …

Dean has a moment.

He’s been Beau’s best friend for years. Has seen him date casually, has seen him hook up at parties, has seen him in relationships that lasted a few months before fizzling out. But this thing with you … it’s different.

It’s in the way Beau looks at you, like you hung the moon and stars. It’s in the way you know what he’s thinking before he says it. It’s in the stupid inside jokes and the synchronized musical numbers and the fact that Beau drove to your apartment in Cambridge just to bring you coffee before a tough rotation.

It’s in the way you saved his life, yes, but also in the way you keep saving it, every day, just by existing.

And Dean realizes, standing in a weight room at seven AM on a Saturday, watching his best friend and his girlfriend be ridiculous together, that you’re soulmates.

The thought hits him with unexpected force. He’s never believed in soulmates before — always thought it was romantic nonsense, something people made up to explain compatibility. But looking at you and Beau now, he can’t think of another word for it.

Whatever happened that night last February — the deer, the ice, the crash, the fact that you were on that exact stretch of highway at that exact moment — it wasn’t just coincidence.

It was fate.

It had to be.

Because the odds of everything aligning the way it did? Of you having the exact training needed to save him? Of you stopping when most people wouldn’t? Of Beau surviving injuries that should have killed him?

The odds were astronomical.

And yet here you both are.

“Dean?” Your voice pulls him from his thoughts. “You okay? You look weird.”

“I’m fine,” Dean says. His voice comes out rougher than intended. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” Beau jokes, but he’s looking at Dean with concern now. “Seriously, man, what’s up?”

Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. How does he even put this into words?

“I just-” He stops. Tries again. “You two are it for each other, aren’t you?”

The question hangs in the air.

You and Beau look at each other. Something passes between you again — that silent communication that Dean’s starting to understand is just how you two operate.

“Yeah,” Beau says finally, turning back to Dean. “Yeah, we are.”

“I love him,” you add simply. “Like, scary amount. Forever amount.”

“I’m going to marry her,” Beau says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Probably not today, because I think she’d kill me if I proposed in a gym-”

“I absolutely would,” you confirm.

“-but someday. Definitely someday.”

Dean feels his throat get tight. “Good,” he manages. “That’s good.”

“Are you crying?” You ask, peering at him.

“No,” Dean says. He’s definitely about to cry. “Shut up.”

“Oh my god, you are!” Beau looks delighted. “Dean Di Laurentis, notorious womanizer and emotionally unavailable hockey player, is crying over our relationship!”

“I’m not crying. It’s allergies.”

“That’s not-”

Dean crosses the gym and pulls both of you into a hug, one arm around each of them. “I’m really glad you didn’t die,” he tells Beau.

“Me too, man,” Beau says, returning the hug. “Me too.”

“And I’m really glad you stopped,” Dean says to you. “That night. I’m really glad you stopped and saved him. Because I don’t know what I would’ve done if-” His voice cracks.

You squeeze him tighter. “I’m glad I stopped too.”

“You’re stuck with us now,” Dean continues. “You know that, right?”

“I can live with that,” you say softly.

You stand there for a moment, the three of you, holding onto each other in an empty weight room while early morning sunlight streams through the high windows.

Finally, Beau pulls back, wiping at his eyes. “Okay, enough emotions. We’re supposed to be working out.”

“Right,” you agree, also suspiciously misty-eyed. “Working out. Building strength. Whipping into shape.”

“Don’t,” Dean warns.

“We’ve got to-”

“No-”

“WHIP IT, WHIP IT, WHIP IT GOOD!” You and Beau shout together, dissolving into laughter again.

“I hate you both,” Dean says, but he’s grinning.

“No you don’t,” Beau says, slinging an arm around Dean’s shoulders.

“You love us,” you add, linking your arm through Dean’s other arm.

“Unfortunately,” Dean admits. “Now come on. If you two are done with your Broadway moment, Beau actually does need to get whipped into shape before camp starts.”

“I’m in great shape,” Beau protests.

“You’re in good shape,” you correct. “Great shape requires more work. Doctor’s orders.”

“You’re not my doctor.”

“I could be. Want me to check your reflexes?”

“That sounds like innuendo.”

“It wasn’t, but I like where your head’s at.”

Dean makes a strangled sound. “I did NOT need that mental image.”

“Then stop listening to our conversations,” Beau says reasonably.

“You’re having them three feet away from me!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you say cheerfully.

The workout continues, but the energy has shifted. There’s something lighter about it now, something that feels like the future rather than the past.

Dean watches as Beau spots you during squats, his hands hovering near your waist, ready to catch you if needed. Watches as you correct Beau’s form on shoulder presses with the clinical precision of someone who knows exactly how bodies work. Watches as you both take a water break and Beau pulls you in for a kiss that’s probably too long for a public gym but that no one’s around to complain about.

And someday — maybe years from now, maybe at that wedding Dean is already planning in his head — he’s going to tell this story.

He’s going to tell everyone about the night Beau almost died. About the medical student who stopped to save him. About the months of recovery and the I Lived, Bitch party and the first kiss and the musical numbers in the gym.

He’s going to tell them about soulmates, about fate, about second chances.

And he’s going to tell them that he knew.

He knew from that moment in the weight room, watching them be ridiculous together, that you were forever.

And Dean allows himself to feel grateful. Grateful for black ice and bad timing and good Samaritans. Grateful for medical training and quick thinking and jump ropes in gyms. Grateful for musicals and inside jokes and the way love can find you in the darkest moments.

Grateful for second chances.

For all of it.

[alliehayesgf]

this is the sweetest thing ever i'm sick

[bucksplum]

❝ 𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐜𝐞 ❞

allie hayes x fem!reader 𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬: allie shows you exactly what she wants needs.

𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐬: 18+ mdni; smutty, smut!; porn w/o plot!; sloppy make out; cunnilingus; sloppy fingering; oral fixation; needy!allie; sean slander (deserved); lowkey jealous!reader; lemme know if I missed any!

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.6k 𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐲: did i finish the season yet? no. did i write this otherwise? fuck yeah! idc its pride month! enjoy this vv filthy piece!

Malone's was bathed in Briar U's signature blue lights, strobes flashing across the modest-sized bar, the silver tinsel reflecting and shining the color like stars though your eyes were immediately drawn to the brunette behind the bar.

Allie was handing Dean two pitchers of beer when he leaned further into her space. He said something with that smirk that always had his dimples showing, and by the look that melted Allie's face, you could tell he said something that would've made every girl swoon.

Huh.

You gaze sweeps across Dean's back before you made eye contact with Allie, swiftly replacing the spot. "What was that?"

Allie's already big doe eyes widened even more before she laughed nervously. Her head jerking forward. "Is—is it that obvious?"

"Mhm."

Her chest expanded, nose flaring at a breath before she leaned in again. "This doesn't leave this bar. Ever." You smile at the adorable scrunch of her nose, nodding with faux seriousness.

"It was good…like, some would call 'addicting' good," She hissed at you lowly. "But, I think I'm still missing something. I don't know what, but I know I'm missing something."

"Oof." Your face scrunched, lips quirking at the corner before taking a sip of your beer. "Greedy girl."

There was a pause where she just looked at you, lips parted softly, and you pretend you don't see her eyes flickering to your own. She shook her head as if she was getting rid of thoughts before she reached over to slap your shoulder.

"Shut up!" Her head swiveled side to side, making sure no one else heard. "I am not greedy. I just—know what I want."

Her eyes never strayed from your lips—even dilating when you licked your lips.

"What do you want, Al?"

Allie gasped out a quiet 'fuck' when her back made contact with her door, head tilting to accommodate your needy mouth against the sensitive skin of her neck. Her hands fumble against the doorknob, trembling from your weight against hers.

"Fuck it." She cursed under her breath, giving up on opening her door to dig her nails into your arms. "Just fuck me on the couch." You let out a chuckle at that, hands curling around her waist to pick her up, and pushing the door open with ease.

"So needy." You breathed against her ear, trailing hot kisses from her neck and driving a whimper out of her throat when your warm tongue licked the shell of her ear.

You try to pry yourself from her once her back made contact with her pink sheets, but she only held on tighter, letting out an pathetic whimper at your efforts. "Don't go!" She almost screamed, leg tightening around your waist as her face scrunched.

A red hot flush ran down her spine, scrunching her face when she heard your amused chuckle. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't tease you or don't leave?"

"Both." Allie couldn't even reprimand you for calling her needy. Not when you called her a 'greedy girl' at Malone's and she swore she she felt an immediate gush of arousal at the low timbre of your voice.

It left her walking around the rest of her shift with thighs unconsciously rubbing together whenever she caught sight of you—wet and aching. "I need you." She breathed out.

Relief sank her shoulders when you leaned in, one hand firm against her sheets and the other cupping her plump cheek. Her head jerked upward, lips parted in anticipation, chasing. Brown eyes looked at your through fluttering lashes, the beat of her heart ringing in her ears alongside her breath.

She looked thoroughly wrecked in the wake of your fleeting touches; her usual wide eyes were hooded, barely blinking as her tongue peeked out every couple seconds—desperate to get a taste of your beer-stained lips.

Finally giving her what she wanted, your lips made contact with her plump ones, her sigh hitting your skin. Your hand travel up her side, dragging her shirt along, before cupping her beast over her bra. The touch coaxed a whine from her throat, lips parting just enough for you to shove your tongue in her mouth.

"Hnng—" Her warm tongue danced with yours instantly, the muscle pushing against yours, not in an effort to take dominance, no—your casual control over her body had slick running down her thighs already. Who was she to complain? It was in an effort to taste you.

To mold herself inside you—long enough for you to keep tasting her for days.

Fortunately, or unfortunately, for her, it wouldn't be long until you pulled away. Chiding her with a tsk when she tried to pull you in further, addicted to your taste already. You hold her down—so effortlessly, she might add—by her shoulders, gripping your shirt from your nape before pulling it over your head.

The single sight of your skin showing had an audible gasp escaping her lungs, lashes fluttering against her cheeks as she bit her lip to hide her excitement.

It was useless however, when her legs crossed the second you pulled away, trying to wane the ache. To no avail.

Her brown eyes trailed over surface over your skin, before she jumped in her spot, hastily removing her blue Malone's shirt, leaving her in her black bra. Pants following the pile not long after.

Allie was about to pull her underwear off before you stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. "Patience, hun." Your eyes trail down her neck before they found her nightstand.

"You pull off your shirt like that and expect me to—" She was chuckling before she wasn't eyes widening at the tattoo spread across your back.

"What?"

"You have a tattoo." She pointed out, eyes shining in wonder at the angel wings that covered the expanse of your back, feathers detailed and intricate with it burning at the tips.

"Yeah. It's Icarus," You chuckled, pulling and pushing at cabinets. "Like a warning that I'd like to keep in mind."

You continue your fumbling through her drawers for a few more minutes before Allie finally had enough.

"Are you gonna fuck me or steal from me?" She huffed, groaning after you ignored her question.

"Pick a date, Al."

"What—"

"Pick. A. Date."

At your firm tone and glance over your shoulder, she straightened up. "December…twenty-fourth—I don't know—come fuck me already!"

"Your—" You chuckled under your breath. "You picked your birthday?"

"I don't know what you want from me?" Allie was exasperated. Exasperated and needy. She was sitting on her bed with a dripping pussy that even she didn't know if she could touch. She just need you to shove your tongue in her mouth again. At least.

"Well," You huffed, finally turning around. "Do you know what you want from me?"

The sight of the sex position calendar within your grasp had Allie's eyes widening, hands gripping her sheets. You flipped it so she could see the figures' position at the date that you stopped at, and the sight that greeted her had her gulping audibly.

The figure was tied to the bedposts with what looked like handcuffs.

Eyes travel up to your own. Her plump bottom lip was bitten her teeth before she squealed, jumping up and immediately searching her nightstand for her pink fuzzy handcuffs that Sean had rejected the second he laid eyes on it.

She was giggling as she rummaged through the cabinet, but you thought you've made her wait long enough. And she wasn't the only one dripping since Malone's.

You cleared your throat as you approached her bent form, taking the cuffs that you'd already snatched from the cabinet and running it over the inside of her thighs.

She gasped, swiftly turning around and hitting you on the shoulder. "You dick!"

"Do you want me to get on the bed or not?" You laughed, sitting on the bed. But before you could make yourself comfortable against her pillows, her thighs bracketed your waist, cupping your face and claiming your lips once more.

Allie's lips slotted perfectly against your own, giving you the perfect taste of her gloss. She tried prodding at the seam of your lips with her tongue and huffed when you only smiled against her lips, amused at her efforts. Whining against your mouth, she tried again, brows furrowed in frustration. "Please…"

Your palms knead her ass and it had her gasping against you, leaving remnants of her gloss around your lips.

With a swiftness you could only call neediness, she pushed you against her pillows, lips never parting from your own. Not even when she threw away the cuffs, not even when she pulled down her lace panties just enough for it to be hanging off her ankle. Only to look down on your heavy breathing form, chest rising and falling, restricted against your bra.

Allie bit back a smile. "Anything I want?"

"I'm at your service." Your thumb tease her under boob before pressing flat against the peak of her nipple through her bra. Her hand swiftly closed around your wrist. Not to pull away—to press your palm flat against her clothed breast.

"Can I ride your face?" Allie, asked breathlessly. The soft grind of her pussy against your thigh hastening in pace when you wrapped your lips around her pert nipple.

You pull away from her skin with a soft growl, pussy aching at the thought of her arousal all over your face. You answered her with a squeeze on her hip, nipping lightly at her chest before dragging yourself down the bed until your head was right between her thighs.

"Wait! I haven't even—" You cut her off by pulling her down by her thighs, stopping her pathetic hovering and engulfing yourself in everything her.

You groan when she's finally flush against your face. You were determined to have her thinking of you if Dean ever had her like this again.

She keens when you lapped at her opening to her clit, nimble fingers running through your hair. "Oh fuck, baby—you—" What she expected to decrease the pounding ache in her pussy only amplified the pleasure, bending her spine backwards when your tongue prodded through her puffy folds and entered her hole.

Your tongue continues to thrust in and out of her, causing arousal to gush with every push and pull. Her slick ran down the inside of her thighs and down your neck. But you weren't complaining. Not when you looked up to see nothing but unbridled pleasure melting her beautiful face, rampant breathless moans escaping her parted lips.

Allie's brows were furrowed, softly, her eyes hooded and hazy, lashes fluttering. She knew that the moment she closed her eyes fully she'd lose control over her body.

And that's exactly what you wanted to happen.

So, without warning, one of your hands went from cradling her back to pulling down her bra cup. Twisting her areola softly between two fingers at the same time you sucked her sensitive bud, lapping at it softly.

"FUCK! I didn—hng!" She heaved, hand using your own to palm her heaving breast. Her thighs clench harder around your head, humping your face unabashedly.

"Tha's it, honey—shit—fucking use me." You mumble against her, adding the vibrations to her pleasure. You watch her nod dumbly, whines pathetically escaping her throat. A symphony you could listen to forever.

She ground her clit against your nose harder—firmer, fingers pulling your head up further into her mound while you continued to switch between lapping and thrusting your tongue into her weeping hole. You ignore your own throbbing desperation in favor of shoving two fingers into her hole, the sight of her throwing her head back and moaning was enough to drive you into orgasm.

"Bab—baby, please, please let me come. Please." Her hand pried your own from her breast to shove two of your fingers into her mouth, tongue lapping around the digits to muffle her screams. Two of her holes effectively filled by you. Only you.

Only you weren't having it. You didn't like that you couldn't hear her—albeit muffled—moans anymore. Clearly, she was desperate to have something in her mouth, something to do with it as the coil in her belly threatens to snap. So you compromised.

You just press them firmly on her tongue, rendering her jaw slack. Allie whined at the change, but she didn't complain, still holding your wrist firmly as the other played with her tender nipples.

Her head felt incredibly fuzzy, ears ringing but hearing every wet squelch you were dragging from her cunt. The sound was obscene—something she'd never heard come from her pussy before.

Not from her vibrator.

Not even from the Briar U-coined "sex machine" that was Dean.

Especially not from Sean.

"Ahh—babe—fuck me!"She felt like she was in heat; back arched and her hips ruthlessly grinding against your willing mouth and fingers. Saliva dripping from the corners of her mouth and down your arm until you pulled it away.

Allie whined at the loss of pressure in her mouth until a lewd moan escaped her from your wet fingers wrapping around her throat. "God—!"

You were happily drowning in her wetness, humming contentedly against her puffy folds as you move your fingers in and out of her. She felt her lower belly tighten at the feeling of your flesh exploring her cunt and when you crooked your finger just right—right against that spongy spot in her pussy while you mouth suckled her engorged clit—again, and again, she felt the rope in her belly snap!

Her hips stiffened against your face as she let out a gasping moan toward the ceiling. Abdomen clenching while she gushed against your face—arousal soaking you and the sheets below. Her soft thighs clench around your head as you guide her hips back and forth over your mouth, slowly to prolong her high.

Allie fell forward after a few seconds, limbs akin to jello. Her forearms caught her but they were trembling violently. She shivered when you moved away from her thighs, the cool air wafting against her sensitive pussy, and already missing the warmth of your skin.

"Baby—" You cut off her whine with a soft shush, laying her head down carefully against her pillows and swiping her bangs from her sticky, flushed forehead.

You make your way to her and Han's shared bathroom and come back with wet washcloths. Allie looked completely fucked out with her glossy eyes and shaking limbs, reaching for you the second you stepped inside her room.

You drag the washcloth across her forehead, making sure to redirect the rest of her thick hair away from her nape so she doesn't overheat. "You did so well, honey." Your praise made her sigh in return, smiling cutely as she giggled breathlessly. "What?"

"N'thin'," She bit her lip when you went to clean her sensitive center. "I've jus' n'ver heard of your hookups endin' like this."

"Is that bad?" You kissed her forehead then, before carefully maneuvering her out of her twisted bra.

"'s unfair to ya'," You smiled at her slurred speech, eyebrows raising when she pointed a finger at your wet face. "Does it hurt?"

"Does what hurt?"

"I didn't shave and practically used your face like a pillow—" She covered her flushed face with her hands.

"I'll be fine, okay?" You chuckled. "Nothing moisturizer can't help with."

You didn't try to fight her when she snatched the washcloth, determined to wipe off her arousal that dripped down your neck. "I think it's safe to say that that was my most intense orgasm." She grinned like a kid in Christmas.

"Wow," You teased. "Even surpassing Dean?"

"Especially."

𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬, 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐬, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐫𝐞𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐞 𝐠𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐥𝐲 𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝!

©𝐛𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐬𝐩𝐥𝐮𝐦 — DO NOT translate, steal or post my work anywhere else without my permission.𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐀𝐈 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐈 𝐎𝐑 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐒𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀𝐈 𝐈𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐀𝐂𝐈𝐓𝐘.

[alliehayesgf]

can't talk here... email me

[maverist]

"Pretty boy, don't test me."

street racer!reader x off campus who's the idiot who tries his luck, and who's the one you actually go home to? warnings! mild intimidation (non-violent), unwanted flirtation, alcohol use, strong language, fast & furious references, light teasing, mentions of a gun

off campus minilist & main masterlist!

You were perched on a barstool at Malone's, nursing your dirty, borderline filthy, martini while waiting for him to come join you after his game. You'd stayed long enough to watch them score, then bailed before the crowds hit, telling him you'd meet him here if, and only if, he showered first. You had a race tonight, and rumours were Suki and O'Conner were in town. No fucking way were you missing the chance to admire their cars in your rear-view mirror.

The daytime diner, turned nighttime bar was loud enough that you barely heard the door open, but you felt the shift in the air, that ripple of attention that always followed the hockey boys. You didn't bother looking up. You knew exactly how long his showers took, having timed a few of them from inside, so the shadow falling across you couldn't be his.

Dean slid onto the stool beside you without asking, grin cocky from the win, elbows braced on the bar. "Well, hello," he said, eyes dragging over you with interest he didn't bother hiding. "What's good here?"

You didn't look away from your drink. "It's the bar on your campus. You tell me."

"That explains it," he said, grin widening. "Because I would've remembered you."

You finally glanced at him, giving him a dismissive once-over. "I wouldn't have remembered you."

He leaned in, clearly up for a challenge. "So where're you from?"

You took a slow sip of your martini, replying with a blank stare. "Wouldn't you like to know pretty boy."

Dean chuckled, undeterred. "That's why I asked. But fine, at least tell me who you're waiting for. Since you clearly are waiting for someone. A boyfriend, perhaps?"

You turned fully, letting sharp grin curl at the edges. "I'm a big girl Di Laurentis. I can wait by myself." He looked surprised for a moment that you knew his name, then froze, shoulders stiff, mouth parting as you gave him the look. The cold, razor-sharp stare that had once made Hobbs rethink his entire career, or so they say.

Dean leaned back like you'd pressed a gun to his chest. "Okay," he said, hands up instantly. "Okay. Message received."

He stood up so fast the barstool wobbled, backing away with both palms out, eyes wide as you smirked and downed your drink without breaking eye contact. The 6'2" forward actually shivered.

A few minutes later, a tap landed on your shoulder.

You didn't even look. "I said no, blondie. Take the hint."

A familiar laugh answered you. "Blondie?"

You turned, ready to swing, then melted the second you saw him.

Tucker stood there, damp hair, soft hoodie, smelling like... well, him. You aren't about to describe that to strangers. God, you all need to get a grip.

"Hi, baby."

You grabbed his hoodie, pulling him down into a kiss, right as Dean, across the room, choked on his drink. A chorus of hoots followed, someone (probably Dean) yelling, "Get a room!"

You flipped them off, eyes entirely focused on your sweet Tucker. "Gladly."

[alliehayesgf]

my baby fr i love him in every universe and i need him everywhere and in every show

[iceyngi]

Road Trip

☄︎ Warnings: Fingering (fingerblasting iykyk) ☄︎ Pairing: F!Reader x Allie Hayes ☄︎ Rating/Genre: Mature (🔞). Smut. ☄︎ Words: 859 ☄︎ Summary: You and Allie try to keep quiet as Dean and Beau are in the front seat.

💭: delicious request for a delicious gyal. please request more allie x reader.

Original request here. 〣 Off Campus Masterlist here.〣 Allie Masterlist here.

The trip to New York had started out innocently enough. You had wanted to sit next to Allie just because you wanted to be close to her. Officially, you were just good friends, the kind that spent all of their time together. The good friends that opted to tag along to Dean & Beau’s trip during Thanksgiving instead of rushing home to your families.

Unofficially? You’d been secretly dating for two months now, sneaking around dorms and stealing kisses in dark corners of the campus whenever the boys were too busy with hockey or classes. There was no real reason why you hadn’t told anyone, but you liked having this thing, just for the two of you away from the chaos of your friend group.

That’s why you and Allie had eagerly claimed the back seats, a move that earned a raised eyebrow from Beau, who was confused as to why you weren’t fighting him for the passenger seat as you usually did. You’d quickly scrambled to come up with some vague excuse about the ‘extra legroom’ in the back, and Allie had to bite her lip to stifle her laugh at your poorly thought-out lie.

Now, Beau was passed out in the passenger seat, his head lolling against the window as he snored softly. You wondered how he was able to sleep through the racket that Dean was making on the driver’s side. Every so often, he’d argue with the GPS, insisting that his way was the only way to logically get to the city.

“This thing is broken,” Dean called out from the driver’s seat, glancing in the rearview mirror. “Hey, you two awake back there?”

“Yup, still awake since the last time you asked, Deano,” Allie called back, her voice perfectly casual.

However, underneath the blanket that was pulled all the way up to your chins, things were anything but casual. Allie’s fingers had found yours ten miles ago, her palm warm against your skin. Five miles back, your thumb had started tracing slow circles on her inner thigh, rising higher and higher. Now, that same hand had slipped between her legs, your palm pressing firmly against the soft cotton of her underwear.

She bit down on the inside of her cheek as you looked up at her, your eyes locking for a second. She quickly averted her eyes, doing her best to avoid staring back as she forced herself to focus on the back of Dean’s headrest to keep herself from blushing or forgetting exactly where she was.

You shifted your hand slightly, the pad of your thumb pressing down on her clit through her underwear and making her gasp.

Allie leant her head back against the headrest, closing her eyes as if she were drifting off to sleep. However, below the cover, her fingers tightened on your thigh, pretty nails digging into your skin.

She slid down further in the seat, adjusting her position so you could slide a finger under the edge of her panties. You trailed through her arousal, coating your fingers before you slipped a finger into her. She inhaled through her nose with a sharp, sudden, hitch.

“Did someone say something?” Dean asked, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror again.

You didn’t stop, keeping your movement slow and steady as to not make the blanket move suspiciously. Allie’s grip came to your wrist, holding you in place as she fluttered her eye lids open and let out a perfectly convincing fake yawn. She was quite the actress.

“Just sighing at your driving, Dean,” Allie snapped, though a faint, flushed pink was creeping up her neck. “Can you turn the radio up? It’s too quiet in here.”

“You’re more than welcome to take over the wheel, Hayes,” Dean scoffed. But he obediently reached out and turned up the volume on the dashboard, the bass of the song covering her the suppressed moan that slipped from her lips when you flicked your thumb over her clit.

As soon as Dean’s attention went back to the highway, Allie slowly turned her head to look down at you. You watched her try to keep her face composed as you played with her clit, your own throbbing needily at every hitch of her breath or every time her mouth parted.

Not even a mile later, she came silently, pussy walls squeezing on your fingers. You were both proud and impressed at how well she maintained a blank face.

Pulling your hand from her panties, you immediately pushed them into your own, using a mixture of her arousal and yours as lubrication as you eased two fingers into yourself. The next second, her soft fingers were on your clit, circling gently to return the favour.

When a sharp gasp left your lips, both of your eyes flicked to Dean to see if the sound caused him to look through the rearview mirror at you. it hadn’t and you sighed in relief.

Knowing the coast was clear, Allie leant down to whisper in your ear. “Not so easy, is it?” She teased. Her eyes sparked with a mischievous glint as she pressed harder on your clit.  

💭: if you enjoyed, please consider leaving a comment, ask, reblog etc, it means a lot xx

[alliehayesgf]

i need her so bad its not even funny