surprise! | 1k cabo celebration, found family au ⋆⭒˚.⋆
⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration masterlist!
⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration info!
summary: in which the boys surprise the girls in cabo, spending the day with them.
notes: they're all reunited!! dare i say this is one of my favourite pieces i've written from this celly 🤭 this fic is inspired by these two requests, i hope you enjoy! sending you all so much love <3 💌 🤍
ꪆৎ
logan adjusts the cap pulled low over his eyes, gaze drifting through the open-air lobby towards the stretch of beach below.
the ocean glitters between the palm trees, bright and impossibly blue beneath the late-morning sun. gentle waves uncurl across the shoreline, washing over the stretch of beach where the girls remain blissfully unaware that four very familiar faces are only minutes away.
“what’s the plan?”
dean shifts his backpack higher on his shoulder. “we find them.”
it is almost embarrassingly easy.
according to the receptionist, you girls have apparently become regulars on the same stretch of beach. dean has barely started describing who they're looking for when the receptionist smiles knowingly.
"there's a brunette, she talks to absolutely anyone and everyone-"
dean huffs out a laugh. "she's made a name for herself already, huh?"
"just a little."
"yeah" dean grins. "that's allie."
her smile widens when she notices the bags gathered around the four boys. “you’re surprising them?”
“trying to” tucker says.
“he nearly sent her a photo from the airport" logan adds, jerking his thumb towards dean.
dean turns. “i caught myself.”
“actually garrett caught you" logan corrects.
garrett doesn't answer.
not because he isn't listening, but because his attention is already somewhere else entirely, his eyes fixed on the stone path leading down towards the beach.
“are we all good to go?”
dean follows garrett's line of sight for a moment, watching his gaze settle somewhere beyond the palm trees.
he smiles knowingly to himself.
he hadn't missed the way garrett had gone quiet every time a facetime with you ended, the way he'd linger over your photos for a second longer than anyone else, the way he'd checked the time difference before texting, or fallen absentmindedly into conversations about what you'd all be doing if you were home, at briar instead.
none of them had said much about it, they hadn't needed to.
dean reaches over, giving the middle of garrett's back a light pat. "yeah" he says quietly. "come on, g."
the beach is already warm beneath their feet by the time they reach it.
music drifts from the resort bar behind them, the ocean stretches out ahead, bright blue beneath the late-morning sun, sunlight skimming across the surface in long, silver streaks as the waves roll steadily towards the shore.
logan spots grace first.
she's sitting near the edge of a towel with her book open across her lap, one finger tucked between the pages to hold her place while sabrina talks beside her. every now and then she nods or laughs quietly, making no real attempt to keep reading.
tucker's attention settles on sabrina almost immediately, while dean spots allie a little further down the beach, her back to them as she snaps a towel through the air, trying to shake the sand free without sending it over everyone else's belongings.
garrett sees you.
you're sitting on the sand near the shoreline, knees drawn loosely towards your chest as you talk to grace.
your sunglasses are pushed into your hair, skin warm from the sun, one hand moving absently through the sand while you laugh at something she says.
garrett stops walking.
for a moment, everything else fades into the background. the flight, the heat, the voices behind him. all he can see is you.
dean follows his gaze.
"go on" he says, the corner of his mouth lifting. "you've been miserable for two weeks, i don't wanna deal with it for a second longer."
garrett doesn't even respond, just simply starts making his way down the beach towards you.
you're still deep in conversation when he eventually reaches you. “and then allie tried to tell the bartender-”
garrett bends behind you, wrapping both arms around your waist.
you go completely still.
his chest presses against your back as his face buries itself into the curve of your neck. he doesn't say anything, just holds you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist, exhaling slowly against your skin.
every part of his body immediately softens.
your hands settle over his forearms, knowing who it is before you turn around. “garrett?”
“hi, baby.”
you twist around so quickly that he has to loosen his grip. the second you see him, your whole face lights up, eyes widening as disbelief gives way to excitement, warmth rushing into your cheeks.
“what are you doing here?!”
you throw your arms around his neck before he can answer.
garrett catches you immediately, lifting you into him as though he'd been expecting it. your legs curl around his waist, hands settling instinctively beneath your thighs, and for a long moment neither of you let go.
"you're supposed to be in boston" you say, your voice somewhere between a laugh and complete disbelief.
“changed my mind.”
you pull back just enough to look at him. his hair is still tousled from the flight, exhaustion evident in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, yet the quiet relief on his features makes him look more at peace than he has in weeks.
“you flew to cabo?”
“yeah.”
“why?”
garrett gives you a look as though the answer is obvious. "i wanted to see you" he says softly.
you laugh through the sudden sting behind your eyes. "that's your reason?"
"that's the one i'm admitting to."
your smile only grows as you lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. garrett's hand moves higher along your back, holding you close. both of you smile too much for the kiss to last.
somewhere behind you, allie screams.
you turn in time to see her drop the towel, running directly towards dean. he braces just before she reaches him, catching her around the waist.
“you liar!”
“nice to see you too, allie cat.”
“i hate you.”
dean's eyebrows raise. “you’re hugging me.”
“both things can be true.”
grace reaches logan next, throwing her arms around his neck while he holds her tightly against him.
sabrina remains still for a second, both hands covering her mouth, until tucker smiles, opening his arms in clear invitation.
then she is moving too.
within seconds, the quiet beach dissolves into laughter, overlapping questions and four separate reunions.
garrett still has you lifted against him. “you can put me down.”
“could.”
“everyone is looking.”
he glances towards the others. “they’ll live.”
you laugh, hiding your face against his shoulder.
eventually, he sets you back down on the sand, though he never really lets you go. one hand settles at your waist while the other finds yours, fingers slipping together as naturally as breathing.
the boys settle into your beach setup a few minutes later. bags are dropped beside towels, chairs are shifted around, allie sits across dean’s lap while demanding every detail about the flight.
“so this was your idea?”
dean leans back against the chair. “mostly.”
logan looks over. “garrett packed before we booked anything.”
you turn, a small smile tugging at your mouth in amusement. “you did?”
garrett closes his eyes. “why are we telling her this?”
tucker shrugs. “it’s funny.”
“his bag was by the door, ready to go” dean adds.
you look up at garrett. “you packed before everyone agreed?”
“they were going to agree.”
“were we?” logan asks.
garrett gives him a look. you laugh, leaning back against his chest. his arm finds your waist without a second thought, drawing you a little closer before he presses a lingering kiss to the top of your head.
“that’s a little dramatic, even for you.”
“i flew here, didn’t i?”
“exactly, graham.”
garrett presses both hands into your sides, his fingers digging in just enough to make you squeal as he tickles you.
"garrett!" you laugh, instinctively twisting away from him.
"that's what i thought" he grins, finally releasing his grip as you swat at his arm, still laughing.
the boys head upstairs to change shortly after. garrett hangs back until everyone else has disappeared inside, reluctant to leave your side even for a moment.
“i’ll be back.”
“i know.”
he takes two steps, then turns around. “don’t go anywhere.”
you stare at him. “where would i go?”
garrett’s mouth curves before he follows the others towards the hotel.
allie waits until the boys disappear inside before looking at the rest of you. "i genuinely cannot believe they flew to cabo."
"for two nights" sabrina adds.
grace shakes her head. "that's actually insane."
"insanely sweet" you murmur.
allie smiles, agreeing. "yeah."
"i still can't believe they managed to keep it a secret though."
you all nod in agreement.
grace picks her book back up. “he looks better.”
you glance back towards the path garrett had disappeared down. “yeah he does, doesn't he.”
sabrina nudges your shoulder. “so do you, y/n.”
you can't help but smile.
the boys return in swim shorts less than fifteen minutes later. garrett walks towards you carrying a bottle of sunscreen.
you're sitting on the edge of a lounger when he stops in front of you.
“turn around, y/n.”
you look up. “hello to you too.”
“when did you last put sunscreen on?”
“this morning.”
his expression turns immediately unimpressed. “turn around.”
you narrow your eyes, yet oblige anyway.
garrett sits behind you, one leg on either side of the lounger. he squeezes sunscreen into his palm before setting the bottle down.
his hands settle on your shoulders.
the touch begins practically, his palms smoothing sunscreen carefully over your skin before moving down your arms and across your shoulder blades. you lift your hair over one shoulder when he quietly asks, exposing the back of your neck.
his fingers eventually reach the thin bikini strap resting across your back. garrett hooks a finger beneath it, easing it gently aside before smoothing sunscreen into the strip of skin hidden underneath. the backs of his fingers graze your skin as he lets the strap settle back into place.
your breath catches almost imperceptibly. behind you, you feel his smile before you see it.
"sensitive?" he murmurs, amusement warming his voice.
“garrett.”
“what?”
“you’re meant to be helping.”
“i am.”
he presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another slightly closer to your neck.
“you’re not very good at concentrating.”
“you’re just distracting, baby.”
“i’m sitting still.”
“that’s the problem.”
you turn your head enough to look at him. “you’ve been here for an hour.”
“mhm.”
“behave.”
his hands slide around your waist, drawing you back against his chest.
“can’t keep my hands off you.”
the words are quiet, spoken against your skin rather than for anyone else. you try not to smile, “clearly.”
dean walks past carrying two drinks, immediately looking away. “i see nothing.”
garrett doesn't move. “good.”
“there are families here though.”
you grab the sunscreen bottle, throwing it at him. dean catches it against his chest. “right. noted."
allie takes it from him, handing it back to you. “leave them alone.”
-
the volleyball game begins after lunch.
you're sharing a drink with garrett when a voice calls out from across the beach.
“rematch?”
ethan stands near the net, volleyball tucked beneath one arm. liam, noah and tom are gathered behind him.
you groan, garrett follows your gaze.
“who is that?”
“ethan”
you look at garrett, noticing his eyebrows furrow. “don’t.”
“i didn’t say anything.”
“your face did.”
ethan and the others jog across the sand, greeting the girls first before slowing when they notice the four unfamiliar faces standing amongst them.
ethan looks from dean to logan, then tucker and finally garrett.
“hang on.”
liam looks between the boys before breaking into a grin. “these are the boyfriends.”
dean lifts his brows in confusion. “the boyfriends?”
“we've heard a lot” noah says.
allie smiles innocently.
“have you?” dean asks.
ethan points towards logan first. “logan's the sunscreen one.”
logan simply nods, accepting defeat.
“tucker packed the electrolyte tablets” liam says next.
tucker glances towards sabrina, “and they came in handy! she used them.”
“once” sabrina replies.
“dean...” ethan pauses, trying not to laugh. “is the overprotective one.”
dean looks straight at allie, mouth agape in shock. “what the?!”
"they weren't my words" she responds, immediately turning to point towards you.
you throw both hands up in mock defence. “i was only kidding,”
“you're actually the worst” dean mutters. you only smile back, entirely unrepentant.
ethan's attention eventually settles on garrett. “and that must make you garrett.”
garrett steps forward, offering his hand in greeting. “apparently.”
ethan shakes it. “mate, we've heard about you all week.”
garrett looks across at you. “all good things i hope.”
ethan hesitates, you narrow your eyes, saying his name in warning. “ethan.”
“mostly.”
garrett laughs. “i'll take mostly.”
“she does talk about you like you're the greatest person alive though” liam adds.
heat immediately climbs onto your features. “okay!" you clap your hands once. “volleyball. now.”
garrett looks far too pleased with himself. “greatest person alive hey?”
you shove lightly at his chest. “don't start.”
he raises his hands in defence. “wasn't going to.”
“yes, you were.”
teams are made with very little fairness. somehow, garrett and ethan end up on the same side.
you point between them. “are you two teaming up against me?”
ethan and garrett glance at each other, before answering in unison, as though their response had been rehearsed. “yeah.”
“you’ve literally known each other for five minutes.”
the game becomes chaotic almost immediately.
dean takes every point personally, logan argues over whether the ball touched the line, while tucker says very little, but becomes one of the strongest players.
when it's your turn to serve, you step behind the line, bouncing the ball once. garrett watches from the opposite side of the net.
“you've got this, baby.”
“don't patronise me.”
“i'm being supportive.”
ethan shifts beside him. “just make sure you get it over the net, y/n!”
you look at him, eyes narrowing. “thanks, ethan! that's some insightful advice.”
you toss the ball into the air, unfortunately, your hand connects with it poorly. the ball travels approximately three feet before dropping straight into the sand in front of you.
a beat of silence follows, until ethan folds over laughing, clearly amused. garrett presses his lips together, trying, and failing, not to join him.
you point across the net at your boyfriend. “don't.”
garrett nods solemnly. “that's a good effort.”
“garrett.”
“very controlled.”
ethan straightens, still grinning. “kept it in your half, y/n. well done."
you point between them, biting your lip in an attempt to stop yourself from laughing. “i hate you."
garrett's smile only widens. “who?”
before you can answer, dean wanders over to retrieve the ball. he pauses beside you, tucking it beneath one arm. “ignore those two.”
you glance towards him, “easier said than done.”
dean looks over at garrett and ethan, still talking quietly between themselves with matching smug expressions.
he scoffs, waving a hand dismissively. "nah, fuck 'em.”
you laugh in response, “seriously.”
“serve the ball.”
“that's your advice?”
“yep.”
dean tosses the ball back to you. “and if you accidentally hit garrett in the face…”
he shrugs. "bonus point.”
you snort, shaking your head. “you're unbelievable.”
“i know.”
you bounce the ball once, take a breath and serve again.
this time it sails cleanly over the net.
garrett throws himself forward, managing to get a hand beneath it at the very last second. the ball floats high towards ethan, who dives after it, fingertips outstretched, but it lands in the sand a heartbeat before he can reach it.
dean throws you a grin as he jogs past. “there you go!" he holds his hand up, “nice serve.”
you slap his palm, giving him a high five in celebration.
“see y/n?” dean nods towards garrett. “sometimes you've just gotta tell him to get fucked.”
garrett hears him. “i'm literally right here.”
dean shrugs, a small smirk gracing his features. “and?”
garrett laughs, shaking his head. “fuck you.”
“that's not very captain-like.”
“i'm off duty.”
the game ends without anyone agreeing who won. dean claims you guys did, while ethan declares that dean invented several points.
logan calls it a draw solely to end the argument.
by the time you reach the pool, the late afternoon sun has softened slightly.
waiters move between loungers carrying cocktails and late lunches while groups linger in the water or stretch out beneath umbrellas, the easy rhythm of the afternoon settling over the resort.
the eight of you naturally spread out, towels dropped across the nearest loungers as everyone reaches for water after an hour spent in the heat of the sun.
you have barely sat down when a familiar voice cuts through the conversation.
“there she is!”
oliver is walking towards you, sunglasses pushed into his hair, two drinks balanced in one hand.
your face lights up. “oliver!”
you hug him quickly, careful not to knock either glass from his hand.
“how was the rest of your afternoon yesterday?” he asks.
“really good.”
“better than cocktails with me?”
you gasp, nudging his shoulder playfully. "don't make me answer that!"
oliver laughs before his attention catches elsewhere, gaze drifting over your shoulder. his expression changes almost instantly.
“oh my god.”
you turn, curious as to what he's looking at. garrett is making his way across the pool deck, brushing the last of the sand from his hands after the volleyball game.
oliver blinks once. “i know you said he was handsome, but y/n, he's like a goddamn greek god."
garrett reaches the pair of you just in time, caught slightly off guard by oliver's comment. it's not long however until a small smile graces his features. “well... that's a hell of a way to say hello.”
“i'm serious.”
oliver looks back to you, gesturing at your boyfriend. “the photos, although amazing, definitely don't do him justice."
you laugh quietly.
garrett shakes his head with an embarrassed smile before holding out his hand in greeting. “it's really nice to meet you properly, oliver.”
oliver ignores garrett's hand completely, pulling him into a hug instead. garrett laughs, hugging him back without hesitation.
oliver steps away, “so much better than facetime.”
before you can respond dean approaches with allie beside him. “woah. hold on, you're the vacation co-parent, are you not!?”
oliver turns, responding with enthusiasm. “yes i am!”
dean holds out his hand. “it's so good to meet you, man.”
allie closes her eyes, “please don’t become friends, oliver is for us girls only.”
“too late” dean says, a warm smile planted across his features.
oliver stays long enough to properly meet the boys, though it quickly becomes apparent he knows most of them well through the stories you girls have spent the last two weeks telling.
he leaves once theo texts to say he is waiting in the lobby. before going, he hugs you again, then garrett.
“tell theo we said hi!" you call after him.
“i’ll tell him the famous boyfriends finally arrived.”
dean turns towards allie. “famous?”
“don’t let it go to your head.”
“already has.”
-
by late afternoon, everyone reluctantly agrees they need to get ready for dinner. the girls gather towels, books and abandoned drinks while the boys help carry everything back towards the rooms.
garrett stops outside your door, passing you your bag. “dinner in an hour?”
“that’s what allie said.”
he nods but doesn't move. you tap the key card against the reader. a soft click echoes through the hallway as the light flashes green. “are you planning to stand there while i shower?”
“no.”
“good.”
“was considering coming in.”
you glance at him. “absolutely not. it's still a girls trip.”
garrett opens his mouth to argue before you point a finger at him. “i need my girls getting-ready time.”
the corner of his mouth lifts. “fair enough.”
you laugh, pushing the door open. before you can step inside, garrett catches your waist, gently pulling you back towards him.
his mouth finds yours.
the kiss is unhurried at first, soft enough to make you smile against it before it deepens. your hands slide into his hair as your back comes to rest against the door.
his hand lifts to your neck, thumb brushing lightly beneath your jaw. when you finally pull away, he follows for one more quick kiss.
“you need to go.”
“yeah.”
neither of you moves.
“garrett.”
“i know.”
“you're still here.”
“just making sure.”
he steals one last kiss before finally taking a step back. you laugh, shaking your head. “one hour, graham. you can do it."
“wear the blue dress.”
you blink. “why?”
“because i like it.”
“you've seen it once.”
“yeah.”
“three months ago.”
“still like it.”
your expression softens before you can stop it, warmth creeping into your cheeks. “go shower.”
he lifts both hands in surrender, already walking backwards down the hallway. “i'm going!"
“goodbye!”
“see you in an hour.”
you wait until he disappears around the corner before stepping inside, closing the door behind you.
an hour later, there's a knock at the door.
you are fastening one of your earrings when you open it. garrett is leaning against the wall opposite your room, hands in the pockets of his trousers.
he's wearing the white linen shirt you've always liked on him, the sleeves pushed up to his forearms. his hair is still slightly damp, curling just enough as it falls over his forehead.
you pause in the doorway, he looks up. his eyes move over the blue dress, then back to your face.
“hi.”
you smile. “hi.”
garrett straightens, crossing the narrow hallway. “you look fucking beautiful."
“thank you.”
his hand settles at your waist, fingertips pressing lightly into the fabric. you look past him, trying to look for any sign of the other boys. “how long have you been standing out here for?”
“not long.”
“how long?”
“five minutes.”
“why didn’t you knock?”
“you said an hour.”
“it has been an hour.”
“exactly.”
you stare at him. “that makes no sense.”
“the others are already downstairs but i didn't want to rush you."
you can't help but smile. shaking your head, you slip your hand into his. together, the two of you make your way downstairs to meet everyone else.
allie is standing between dean’s knees while he sits on the arm of a chair, grace is fixing logan’s collar, while sabrina is removing a portable charger from tucker’s pocket.
“we’re going to dinner,” she tells him.
“phones die at dinner.”
“then it dies.”
“what if we need one?”
“there are eight of us.”
dean sees you and whistles, garrett looks at him.
“what? i was being nice.”
allie looks towards you. “you look gorgeous, y/n!"
dean gestures at her. “see? same thing.”
“she used words.”
“the whistle was more efficient, g.”
-
dinner is held at a restaurant overlooking the ocean.
the eight of you sit around a long table near the open edge of the terrace, candles flickering between glasses while the last of the sunset fades beyond the railing.
the first round of welcome drinks arrive before anyone has properly opened the menus. allie orders something bright pink that nobody can identify from the description alone, dean and logan settle on beers, while grace orders a margarita, pointing a finger in warning at logan.
“don't say a word about the salt.”
“i wasn't going to.”
“i know you were thinking it.”
after spending far too long comparing descriptions, tucker and sabrina eventually order the same cocktail.
garrett glances across at you. “what are you getting?”
“the house cocktail.”
“what's in it?”
“couldn't tell you.”
“that's reassuring.”
“live a little, graham.”
he closes the menu. “i'll have the same.”
you look at him. “garrett."
“what?”
“you're going to hate it.”
he teasingly throws your words back at you. "live a litte, baby."
laughing you shake your head in disbelief. "you don't like cocktails, you've said so yourself."
“i might surprise us both then. i could like it."
“i really don't think you will.”
when the drinks arrive, garrett eyes the bright orange cocktail with immediate suspicion.
“looks promising" dean says, clearly enjoying himself.
“doesn't it?” garrett raises his cocktail towards him in a mock cheers before taking a sip. his expression changes almost instantly. you don't even wait, your hand appearing beside his glass.
“give it here.”
“it's fine.”
“garrett.”
without another word, he slides the cocktail to you, reaching for your water instead.
across from you, dean watches the exchange over the rim of his beer. the corners of his mouth twitch, however he takes another sip instead, deciding, for once, to keep whatever comment he had to himself.
allie raises her glass, eyes moving around everyone at the table. “to the boys finally giving in!”
logan frowns. “giving in to what?”
“being incapable of surviving without us.”
“we survived.”
grace looks at him. “you called me because i didn’t answer one text, logan.”
“you were doing dangerous things.”
“i was eating breakfast.”
“after doing dangerous things" he clarifies, as though his fifteen calls could be justified.
tucker lifts his glass. “to nobody getting injured for the rest of the trip.”
you laugh at tucker's words, sending him a small nod in acknowledgement.
dean raises his beer, “and to me for organising this.”
allie looks at him. “dean stop taking all of the credit.”
conversation moves quickly once the food arrives. everyone talks over one another, filling in stories the boys only heard pieces of through calls and videos.
dean picks up exactly where he'd left off, still insisting the volleyball score had been different. allie calls him a liar before he finishes the sentence.
beside you, garrett's commentary on your serve is repeated back to him with more dramatic additions every time someone tells it.
“it did not go backwards” you say.
garrett looks at you. “nobody said it went backwards.”
dean frowns. “did it go backwards?”
“no.”
“almost” garrett says.
you kick his leg beneath the table. he laughs, catching your hand when you try to do it again.
-
sometime later, the lights dim. the music shifts from something soft in the background to something louder, brighter. staff begin moving a handful of tables away from the centre of the restaurant.
allie looks up. “is that becoming a dance floor?”
dean follows her gaze. “looks like it.”
his eyes drift across the table until they settle on you. you're absentmindedly tracing the rim of your glass, shoulders already moving slightly with the beat of the music.
a slow smile spreads across his features. standing up, he pushes his chair back. allie laughs, clearly already aware of his intentions.
dean makes his way around the table to you.
you shake your head, watching as he beelines for you. he simply holds out a hand in front of you, “come on, y/n.”
“dean.”
“up.”
you stay firmly planted in your chair. “i'm very comfortable here.”
“not for long.”
he takes your hands before you can pull them away. dean laughs, with one gentle tug, you're on your feet. you immediately look to garrett sitting next to you, mouthing a quick
save me.
garrett meets your eyes. completely unhelpfully, he smiles, giving you an apologetic little shrug.
"you're on your own, y/n."
the table erupts immediately. logan whistles loudly enough that several nearby tables turn to look, allie claps her hands together excitedly
“yes!”
dean starts leading you towards the dance floor. “i'm being publicly humiliated.”
“you're being dramatic.”
“look!”
you gesture vaguely around the restaurant. “people are watching.”
“good.”
“dean.”
“they'll enjoy it.”
sure enough, a few people nearby smile as you pass. you attempt to hide your face behind your free hand. “this is all your fault.”
“correct.”
by the time you reach the centre of the dance floor, every one of your friends are clapping and cheering. “why are they all encouraging this?” you ask.
“because” dean says simply, “they know you secretly love it.”
turning to face you, he keeps hold of both your hands. he lifts one arm, and your eyes widen in anticipation.
“don’t you dare spin me.”
he spins you, and despite every intention not to, laughter escapes you. your heel catches briefly against the floor, but dean's hand is already at your waist, steadying you before you have the chance to stumble.
“see? you're fine.”
“you nearly dropped me.”
“but i didn’t.”
he keeps moving, far more committed than skilled, dragging you through unnecessary, dramatic turns while everyone at the table laughs.
allie claps in time with the music, logan whistles, sabrina raises her phone for a few seconds, dean attempts another spin.
“absolutely not, di laurentis."
“you’re ruining my choreography, y/n.”
“there is no choreography.”
you push at his shoulder, laughing. for a moment, the teasing softens. dean glances towards the table.
“having a good night?”
“yeah.”
“good.”
you follow his gaze. garrett is watching you, one arm resting along the back of your chair, quiet amusement gracing his features whenever dean does something particularly ridiculous.
his eyes meet yours, and he smiles.
dean notices. “he certainly looks less miserable.”
you glance at him. “he wasn’t miserable.”
dean gives you a look. "you didn't have to deal with him for two weeks straight. thanks for that, by the way."
you laugh in response. "you're most welcome."
dean squeezes your hand once before spinning you a final time. he guides you back towards the table, placing your hand in garrett’s.
“your turn.”
garrett stands. “she still standing?”
“barely” you say.
dean looks offended. “i was excellent.”
allie catches his wrist, a grin gracing her features. “come prove it then!”
“thought you weren’t dancing.”
“i've changed my mind.” she pulls him away before he can argue.
garrett leads you back towards the floor as the music changes into something slower. his hand settles at your waist, you rest yours against his shoulder.
“did you arrange that?”
“the song?”
“very convenient timing.”
“maybe cabo just likes me.”
“well...you did travel far.”
“exactly.”
you sway together, neither of you moving particularly well. garrett’s hand shifts slowly across your back as you glance briefly towards dean and allie. he's trying to dip her while she repeatedly tells him not to.
“he’s going to drop her.”
“probably.”
allie, whose laughing hysterically, shoves at dean’s chest, straightening herself.
the noise of the restaurant softens around you, not disappearing, only becoming less important.
you rest your head against garrett's shoulder. beneath your cheek, you feel him finally relax.
there's no need for another conversation about the flight or the time apart. everything he wants to say is already here.
in the way his hand never leaves your waist. in the familiar weight of his cheek resting briefly against your hair, like he's reassuring himself you're really here.
when the song ends, neither of you move immediately.
the others begin gathering near the table, allie still laughing while dean argues that he did not almost drop her.
garrett looks down at you. “ready to go back?”
you glance towards the others. dean has allie’s heels in one hand, logan is helping grace find her bag, tucker is making sure nobody has left a phone behind while sabrina waits beside him.
the core eight together again.
“yeah” you say, sending him a warm smile.
garrett threads his fingers through yours. when everyone heads out towards the beach, still laughing over dean’s dancing, he falls into step beside you.
his hand remains loosely linked with yours. familiar, easy, exactly where it should be.
Summary: Dean Di Laurentis has one rule: betas only, until he finds his fated mate. Everyone thinks it’s a joke … until the day your dying scent hits him like a freight train in the middle of campus. You were raised to believe alphas, bonds, and fairytales were lies designed to make you small. Dean’s about to spend the rest of his life proving otherwise
Warning: 18+ content
Read part two here
The harsh fluorescent lights of the Briar University hockey locker room buzz overhead, but the sound is completely drowned out by the chaotic sounds of athletic tape ripping, skates clattering, and overlapping male voices.
“Another one, Di Laurentis? Really?” Garrett asks, tossing his sweaty practice jersey into the center bin with a wet slap. He leans back against his locker, crossing his arms over his chest. “That’s, what, three this week?”
“Four,” Dean corrects smoothly, not even looking up as he meticulously unlaces his skates. He offers a slow, easy grin that he knows is infuriating. “And it’s only Thursday. Don’t sell me short, G.”
Logan snorts from the bench across the room, tossing a roll of tape that bounces directly off Dean’s shoulder guard. “You’re an animal. Does your dick ever get tired, or is it powered by some kind of endless trust-fund energy?”
“It’s powered by charisma, Logan,” Dean says, catching the tape on the rebound and tossing it into his bag. “And the fact that I actually know what to do with it, which is more than I can say for some of the tragic beta performances I’ve heard about.”
“Hey, leave us out of it,” Tucker drawls in his thick Southern accent, leaning against the doorframe with a protein shake in hand. “Some of us prefer a little quality over quantity.”
“I offer exceptional quality,” Dean says, finally kicking off his left skate. “Ask anyone.”
“Oh, we don’t have to,” Garrett mutters, rolling his eyes. “They literally line up outside the frat house. I tripped over a sophomore trying to get to the kitchen this morning.”
Dean chuckles, running a hand through his damp blonde hair. He knows what they think of him. To the guys, to the whole campus, he’s exactly what he appears to be: Briar’s resident playboy alpha. He’s got the wealthy attorney parents, the maternal family money tied up in luxury hotels across the globe, the looks, the charm, and the seemingly insatiable appetite.
But there’s a line he doesn’t cross. A line the guys love to give him shit for.
“Was she a beta too?” Tucker asks, taking a slow sip of his shake.
Dean pauses, his easy smile tightening just a fraction before he forces it back into place. “Always. You know the rule, Tuck.”
“It’s a stupid rule,” Logan points out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “I mean, I get the whole old money, traditional thing your family has going on. But only sleeping with betas? Refusing to even look at an omega unless you think she’s the one? It’s archaic, man. It’s the twenty-first century.”
“It’s not archaic, it’s respect,” Dean fires back, his tone dropping its playful edge for a fleeting second. He stands up, pulling his t-shirt over his head. “When I meet my fated mate, she’s going to be the only omega I’ve ever touched. She gets all of me. The whole alpha package, untainted by anyone else’s scent or biology.”
Garrett groans. “You sound like a Victorian romance novel. What if you never meet her? Or what if she doesn’t care if you’ve slept with other omegas?”
“She’ll care,” Dean says simply, his voice firm. He grabs his duffel bag and hoists it over his shoulder. “Because I care. Betas are fun. They’re safe. There’s no biological complication, no scent-bonding, no risk of an accidental mating bite during a heat. It’s just physical.”
“So you’re just going to keep running through the beta population of Massachusetts until this mythical girl shows up?” Logan asks, amused.
“Pretty much,” Dean says, flashing his signature grin again, burying the sudden, sharp pang of longing that hits him square in the chest. “Keeps my skills sharp. When she finally shows up, I need to be ready to worship the ground she walks on. See you at the house, boys.”
He pushes through the locker room doors, the heavy scent of alpha pheromones fading into the sterile smell of the hallway. Dean keeps his smile locked in place as he walks out to his car, but the bravado slowly bleeds out of him.
He plays the part perfectly. He loves the attention, the sex, the careless fun. But God, he is so fucking tired of the emptiness of it. He was raised in circles where the alpha-omega bond was sacred, something to be revered. His parents had it. His grandparents had it.
He wants the fairytale. He wants the intoxicating, head-spinning rush of a fated scent hitting his system. He wants to fiercely protect someone, to provide for them, to spoil them absolutely rotten with every dime his family has to their name. He wants to be looking at a beta girl across a crowded room and suddenly realize she means nothing, because his mate just walked in.
He grips the steering wheel of his car, staring out at the campus parking lot.
“Where are you?” He murmurs to the empty car. “Come on, baby. I’m waiting.”
***
You stare at the tiny, pale blue pill resting in the center of your palm.
It looks entirely harmless. It looks like a breath mint, or a generic painkiller. It doesn’t look like something that is actively destroying you from the inside out.
Your stomach performs a violent, rolling flip just looking at it, and you have to close your eyes and grip the edge of the bathroom sink to steady yourself. The porcelain is cold under your hands.
“Hey,” a voice calls out, accompanied by a soft knock on the bathroom door. “You alive in there?”
It’s Grace, your roommate. You swallow hard, fighting the rising bile in your throat. “Yeah. Just … getting ready.”
“You’ve been staring at the mirror for ten minutes. The pizza is getting cold.”
“Coming,” you manage to say.
You look at the pill again. The suppressants. Grade-A, top-of-the-line, incredibly expensive synthetic hormones designed to completely mute your omega biology. Your parents, both highly pragmatic, fiercely independent betas, had insisted on the absolute strongest prescription available the moment you presented.
To them, being an omega is a biological inconvenience. A liability in the modern world.
You take a deep breath, tossing the pill to the back of your throat and immediately chasing it with a massive gulp of tap water. You gag as it goes down, your body instinctively rejecting it. You lean over the sink, breathing heavily, waiting to see if it’s going to come right back up.
When your stomach finally settles into a dull, throbbing ache, you wipe your mouth and open the door.
Grace is sitting cross-legged on her bed, a slice of pepperoni pizza in one hand and her laptop balanced precariously on her knees. She looks up, her eyes immediately narrowing.
“You look like garbage,” she says bluntly.
“Thanks,” you mutter, shuffling over to your own bed and curling up into a tight ball, pulling your oversized hoodie down over your hands. You don’t want the pizza. The smell of the grease is making your head spin.
“Seriously,” Grace presses, setting her pizza down on a paper plate. “You’re completely pale, and you’ve been shivering since you got back from class. Are you sick?”
“It’s just the new dosage,” you whisper, closing your eyes. “Dr. Davidson upped my suppressants last week. My body is just … adjusting.”
Grace sighs, a very loud, very beta sigh. She doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body, but she doesn’t understand. She can’t. “I don’t get why you let your parents push you into taking those things. Especially the intense ones. They make you miserable.”
“Because according to them, the alternative is worse,” you say, your voice muffled by your pillow. “They think heats are degrading. They think the whole dynamic is outdated.”
“And what do you think?”
You open your eyes, looking at the faded poster on your wall. “I think I feel like I’m constantly walking underwater. I feel … muted. Like a part of me is just locked in a box.”
Grace softens a bit. “Have you tried talking to them again? Telling them how sick you feel?”
Right on cue, your cell phone vibrates on the nightstand. The screen lights up with Mom.
You groan, reaching out a trembling hand to grab it. You swipe to accept the call, bringing it to your ear. “Hi, Mom.”
“Hi, sweetie,” your mother’s brisk, efficient voice comes through the speaker. There is no background noise, she’s likely in her corner office.
“I only have a minute before a conference call, but I wanted to check in. Did Dr. Davidson confirm the new prescription went through?”
“Yes,” you say, your voice flat. “I just took it.”
“Good. That higher dose should completely eliminate any residual pre-heat symptoms you were having. You can’t afford to be distracted right now, not with midterms coming up.”
“Mom, it’s making me really sick,” you say, forcing the words out before you can lose your nerve. “I threw up twice yesterday. I can barely eat. I feel weak all the time.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end. Not of sympathy, but of calculation. “It’s a transition period. Your body is just fighting the regulation. Give it another week.”
“What if I don’t want my body to be regulated?” You ask, your voice cracking slightly. “What if I just want to be normal?”
“You are being normal,” your mother corrects sharply. “You’re a modern woman. You don’t need your biology dictating your schedule, or your emotions, or who you choose to partner with. We’ve talked about this. Those old fairytale ideas about fated alphas swooping in to take care of you? They’re fantasies. They don’t happen in the real world, and relying on some archaic bond is a recipe for losing your independence.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes, hot and frustrating. “I know.”
“You’re a smart girl. You’re going to get a great degree, build a career, and find a nice, stable beta partner who respects you as an equal, not as a biological imperative. Okay?”
“Okay,” you whisper, the fight completely draining out of you.
“Good. Call me on Sunday. Love you.”
“Love you too.”
You drop the phone onto the bed.
“That sounded like it went well,” Grace notes sarcastically.
You roll onto your back, staring at the popcorn ceiling. You love your family, you really do. But being the only omega in a house full of betas is like speaking a language no one else understands. They look at you and see a problem that needs to be medicated away.
But sometimes, when you’re alone in the dark, you let yourself remember the dreams you used to have. Before the pills started.
You dream of a heavy, comforting warmth. You dream of a scent that smells like home, of strong arms wrapping around you and making the rest of the world disappear. You dream of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of their entire universe. An alpha who wants to protect you, who wants to provide for you, who wants to adore you exactly as you are, biology and all.
You close your eyes, letting a single tear slip down your cheek into your hairline.
Fantasies, your mom called them.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe fated mates only exist in Hallmark movies and trashy romance novels. Maybe you just need to accept that you’re going to spend the rest of your life taking little blue pills and pretending you aren’t half-empty.
***
The bass from the speakers is rattling Dean’s teeth, and he is painfully, agonizingly bored.
He’s currently trapped in the kitchen, leaning against the counter while a stunning brunette — a junior named Alice, or maybe Alyssa, he honestly can’t remember — runs her hand up and down his bicep. She smells perfectly nice. Like vanilla body spray and vodka.
She smells like a beta.
“So,” she purrs, leaning in close so he can feel the heat of her body. “I was thinking maybe we could go upstairs? It’s getting kind of crowded down here.”
Dean looks at her. She’s beautiful. She’s eager. She’s exactly his type, or at least, the type he pretends to have. A year ago, he would have already had her pinned against the wall of his bedroom.
Tonight, he just feels … tired.
“You know, sweetheart, I’m actually really beat tonight,” Dean says, offering her a perfectly practiced, apologetic smile. He reaches out and gently untangles her fingers from his shirt. “Coach ran us into the ground at practice. I think I’m just gonna grab a water and crash.”
The beta pouts, clearly taken aback. Dean Di Laurentis turning down a sure thing? It’s practically a campus anomaly. “Are you sure? I give really good massages.”
“I bet you do,” Dean says, leaning in to press a brief, charming kiss to her cheek. “Next time, I promise.”
He slips past her before she can argue, navigating through the sweaty bodies of his classmates with the practiced ease of a guy who owns the room. He makes his way to the back patio, shoving the sliding glass door open and stepping out into the cool night air.
He lets out a long exhale, running a hand over his face.
“Well, that’s a first.”
Dean turns to see Tucker sitting on the patio railing, nursing a beer.
“Shut up,” Dean mutters, walking over and leaning against the railing next to him.
“I’m just saying,” Tucker drawls, looking amused. “I just watched you turn down a ten. Are you feeling okay? Do we need to call a doctor? Maybe a priest?”
“I’m fine,” Dean says, staring out at the dark expanse of the backyard. “Just not in the mood.”
Tucker chuckles, taking a sip of his beer. “You know, for a guy who sleeps around as much as you do, you’re surprisingly miserable doing it.”
Dean glares at him. “I’m not miserable.”
“You’re empty calories, man,” Tucker says, shrugging. “You’re eating junk food when you really want a steak. You’re waiting for this magic omega to drop out of the sky, and until she does, you’re just going through the motions to keep yourself occupied.”
Dean wants to argue, but the words die in his throat. Because Tucker is right. He’s so right it hurts.
“What if she’s not out there?” Dean asks, the vulnerability slipping out before he can stop it. He hates sounding like this. He’s Dean Di Laurentis. He’s confident. He’s cocky. He doesn’t whine about feelings.
“She’s out there,” Tucker says simply. “You just haven’t crossed paths yet. But you will. The universe has a funny way of sorting these things out. And when you do …” Tucker grins. “I fully expect to see you turn into a pathetic, lovesick sap.”
“I am never pathetic,” Dean scoffs, some of his usual bravado returning. “I’ll be a goddamn delight. I’m going to spoil her rotten.”
“Sure you will, buddy. Sure you will.”
Dean looks back up at the sky, the stars mostly obscured by the campus light pollution. He wonders where she is right now. He wonders what she’s doing. Is she at a party? Is she studying? Is she waiting for him, too?
Hold on, he thinks, sending the thought out into the universe like a prayer. Just hold on. I’m looking for you.
***
You are practically shivering under your blankets, despite the fact that your dorm room is perfectly temperature-controlled.
The nausea from the suppressant has finally passed, leaving behind a dull, hollow ache in your chest. You have your laptop propped up on your stomach, playing a painfully cheesy rom-com from the early 2000s. On screen, the male lead is currently running through an airport to catch the female lead before she gets on a plane.
Grace walks back into the room, fresh from the shower, a towel wrapped around her hair. She glances at your screen and sighs.
“Again?” She asks, walking over to her dresser. “You watched this same movie three days ago.”
“It’s comforting,” you say defensively, pulling the blankets up higher around your neck.
“It’s masochistic,” Grace corrects gently. She turns to look at you, her expression softening. “You watch these movies, and you read those books about fated mates, and then you let your parents convince you to take pills that stop you from ever actually having it. You’re torturing yourself.”
“They’re just movies, Grace,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “It’s not real life.”
“How do you know?” She challenges. “You’ve never even given yourself the chance to find out. You’ve been on suppressants since the day you presented. You hide your scent under perfume. You avoid alpha-heavy places like the plague. You’re terrified of your own biology.”
“I’m not terrified,” you snap, though the lie is weak even to your own ears. “I’m being practical.”
“You’re being miserable,” Grace says, walking over and sitting on the edge of your bed. She reaches out, gently resting a hand on your blanket-covered leg. “Look, I’m a beta. I know I don’t get the whole scent-bond, fated-mate thing. To me, it sounds totally overwhelming. But you’re an omega. It’s in your blood. And watching you try to squash it down to make your parents happy is really hard.”
You look away from her, staring at the screen. The male lead has finally caught the female lead. They are kissing passionately while a sweeping orchestral score plays in the background.
“What am I supposed to do?” You whisper, a tear finally escaping and tracking down your cheek. “My family thinks it’s a weakness. They think if I let myself be an omega, I’ll just end up completely dependent on some alpha who treats me like property.”
“Then find an alpha who treats you like a queen,” Grace says simply. “They exist, you know. Not every alpha is some dominating jerk. Some of them actually like the romantic stuff as much as you do.”
You let out a wet, humorless laugh. “Right. Where am I going to find a romantic alpha at Briar? Have you seen the guys here? They’re all frat bros and athletes who sleep with a different girl every night.”
“Not all of them,” Grace points out.
“Name one.”
Grace hesitates. “Okay, fine, a lot of them are like that. But you won’t know if you don’t look. And you definitely won’t know if you keep taking those pills and pretending you’re a beta.”
You look back at the movie. The couple is walking hand-in-hand, smiling, completely wrapped up in each other. A deep, agonizing ache settles in the pit of your stomach. It’s a physical craving, a biological imperative that the pills are desperately trying to smother, but it’s still there. Faint, but undeniable.
You want to be cherished. You want to be protected. You want to belong to someone, and have them belong to you.
“I have to take them,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “If I stop, if I go into heat, it’ll ruin everything. My classes, my family’s expectations …”
“Is it really ruining things if it makes you happy?” Grace asks softly.
She doesn’t wait for an answer. She just squeezes your leg once more, stands up, and walks over to her desk to dry her hair.
You lay there for a long time, the glow of the laptop screen illuminating the dark room. You reach a hand up, resting it over your heart. It’s beating a steady, rhythmic thud.
I’m here, it seems to say. I’m still here.
You look over at your nightstand. The small, orange plastic pill bottle is sitting there, looking entirely unassuming.
For the first time in your life, you look at the bottle, and instead of feeling a sense of dutiful obligation … you feel a spark of resentment.
***
The summer heat is usually oppressive, but today, you can’t feel it at all. In fact, you’re freezing.
You grip the strap of your backpack, your knuckles turning white, and force yourself to take another step down the crowded brick pathway of the Briar University quad. Your teeth are chattering so hard your jaw aches. Every muscle in your body feels like it’s been pulled taut, vibrating like a violin string right before it snaps.
“I’m telling you, you need to go to the campus clinic,” Grace’s voice sounds tinny and distant coming through your AirPods. “You looked like a ghost when I left for my eight AM. I seriously considered skipping to stay with you.”
“I’m fine,” you lie, your voice breathless and shaky. You stumble slightly over a crack in the pavement. “It’s just … it’s just the adjustment period. Like my mom said. It’s normal.”
“It doesn’t look normal, and it doesn’t sound normal,” Grace snaps back, her tone sharp with genuine worry. “You were sweating through your sheets, but you were shivering. That’s a fever. Please, just skip the midterm. Professor Harrington is a hardass, but he’s not going to fail you for a medical emergency.”
“I don’t have a medical emergency, Grace,” you say stubbornly, though black spots are beginning to dance at the edges of your vision. “I just need to sit down. Once I’m in the lecture hall, I’ll be fine.”
You don’t feel fine.
Your skin feels too tight. There’s a strange, metallic taste in the back of your mouth, and your heart is hammering against your ribs like a trapped bird. You reach up to wipe a bead of sweat from your forehead and realize your hand is trembling uncontrollably.
“Just … let me call you after the test, okay?” You mumble, not waiting for her response before you tap your ear to disconnect the call.
The campus around you seems to blur. The voices of passing students melt into a loud, ringing hum in your ears. You try to take another step, but your legs feel like lead. Your knee buckles.
You manage to catch yourself against a large oak tree, pressing your back against the rough bark. You just need to breathe. Just a deep breath.
But your chest won’t expand. The muscles in your torso are locking up, rigid and unyielding. Panic flares hot and bright in your chest.
Something is wrong, your brain finally screams, cutting through the haze of your mother’s assurances. Something is really, really wrong.
You try to push off the tree, to ask the guy walking past you for help, but your vocal cords seize. A sudden, violent tremor rips through your body. The world tilts sharply to the left.
The last thing you feel is the harsh impact of the concrete against your shoulder before the darkness swallows you whole.
***
“I’m just saying, if she asks me to explain the offside rule one more time, I might actually lose my mind,” Logan groans, taking a massive bite of his breakfast sandwich.
Dean chuckles, adjusting the strap of his gym bag on his shoulder. He and Logan are walking back from a brutal morning lift session, the sun beating down on the bustling campus. “Maybe she doesn’t care about hockey, man. Maybe she just likes watching you get all worked up trying to explain it.”
“It’s not cute,” Logan argues around a mouthful of egg and bacon. “It’s a foundational rule of the sport. It’s an insult to my life’s work.”
“Your life’s work is putting a piece of rubber into a net,” Dean points out lazily.
“Yeah, well, my life’s work pays my tuition.”
Dean grins, shaking his head. He feels good today. The lingering annoyance from last night’s party has faded, replaced by the familiar, comfortable rhythm of his routine. Workout, class, practice, sleep. It’s easy. It’s manageable.
He’s about to make another joke at Logan’s expense when a sudden, collective gasp ripples through the crowd of students about fifty yards ahead of them.
Dean stops walking.
“Whoa,” Logan says, swallowing his bite. “What’s going on over there?”
A cluster of students is rapidly forming near one of the large oak trees lining the path. People are pointing, pulling out their phones, taking hesitant steps backward.
“Someone fell,” Dean says, his eyes narrowing as he tries to see over the crowd.
Then, the murmurs turn into alarmed shouts.
“Holy shit, is she having a seizure?”
“Someone call 911!”
“Don’t touch her, you’re supposed to put something in her mouth, right?”
“No, idiot, don’t do that!”
Dean doesn’t even realize he’s moving until he’s sprinting. The heavy gym bag drops from his shoulder, hitting the grass with a thud, but he doesn’t look back. His heart is suddenly pounding a frantic, erratic rhythm against his ribs. His alpha instincts, usually tightly leashed beneath his charming exterior, roar to life with blinding suddenness.
“Move!” Dean barks, his voice carrying the deep, resonant command of an alpha that has the surrounding students instantly stepping aside. “Get the fuck back, give her some space!”
He pushes through the inner circle of onlookers and drops to his knees on the concrete.
It’s a girl. She’s small, swallowed up by an oversized Briar University hoodie, and she is violently convulsing against the hard pavement. Her head is thrashing, perilously close to the brick border of a flower bed.
“Logan!” Dean yells, not looking away from her. “Call 911! Now!”
“Already on it!” Logan shouts from somewhere behind him.
Dean strips off his thick varsity jacket in one fluid motion, rolling it up. He moves quickly but carefully, sliding the jacket under her head to cushion the brutal impacts.
“Hey,” Dean says loudly, his hands hovering over her trembling shoulders, wanting to restrain her but knowing better. “Hey, I’ve got you. You’re okay. Just let it happen, sweetheart. Help is coming.”
Her eyes are rolled back, and a sickening, strained sound is pushing past her lips.
“What happened?” Dean snaps at a terrified-looking sophomore standing nearby.
“I-I don’t know!” The guy stammers. “She was just leaning against the tree, and then she just … dropped. She was shaking before she even fell.”
Dean curses under his breath. He reaches out, carefully checking her wrist for a pulse.
The second his skin makes contact with hers, he recoils.
“Christ, she’s burning up,” Dean mutters, his eyes widening. She’s radiating heat like a furnace. Her skin is drenched in sweat, yet her muscles are locked in terrifying rigidity beneath the convulsions.
“Dispatch says EMTs are three minutes out,” Logan says, kneeling next to Dean. He takes one look at the girl and pales. “Man, she looks bad.”
“She’s boiling,” Dean says, his voice tight. He shifts closer, using his body to block the harsh sunlight from hitting her face. “Her muscles are completely locked. This isn’t just a normal seizure.”
He leans in closer, checking to make sure her airway is clear. As he drops his face near her neck, he inhales sharply.
It hits him like a freight train.
At first, it’s nothing but the sharp, sterile, metallic stench of pharmaceuticals. It’s the distinct, bitter smell of clinical suppressants. It burns his nose, making his alpha recoil in disgust.
But then …
Underneath the chemical blockade, forced to the surface by the intense heat of her raging fever, is a scent.
It’s faint. It’s a whisper. It’s barely there.
But Dean feels it in his teeth.
It’s vanilla. Warm, rich vanilla, and spun sugar, and rain-soaked earth. It’s a scent so perfect, so impossibly right, that for a split second, the entire world goes completely, deafeningly silent.
Dean stops breathing.
His pupils blow wide, his irises flashing from their usual warm green to pitch black. A possessive, ferocious roar tears through his mind, so loud he almost claps his hands over his ears.
Mine.
The realization doesn’t tiptoe in. It kicks the door down and shatters every window in the house.
Mine. Omega. Mine.
“Dean?” Logan’s voice sounds like it’s coming from underwater. “Hey, man, you good? The ambulance is pulling into the quad.”
Dean blinks, the world rushing back in with a dizzying rush of noise. He looks down at the girl — his girl, his mate, his omega — and a wave of terror so overwhelming t makes him nauseous crashes over him.
The convulsions are finally slowing down, tapering off into violent, whole-body shudders. But she isn’t waking up. Her lips are taking on a faint blue tint, and her breathing is shallow and ragged.
“Where the fuck are they?!” Dean snarls, his head whipping around. He spots the flashing lights of the ambulance navigating the crowded pedestrian path.
He looks back down at you. The acrid smell of the suppressants is choking the beautiful, perfect vanilla scent, suffocating it. Suffocating you.
“What did they do to you?” He whispers, his voice breaking. His hands are shaking now. He reaches out, gently brushing a damp lock of hair away from your sweaty forehead. “What did you take?”
“Step back, please! Let us through!”
Two paramedics shove their way through the crowd, carrying heavy jump bags.
“Move, Logan,” Dean barks, shoving his friend back to give the medics room. But Dean doesn’t stand up. He shifts to the side, refusing to break contact with the girl, keeping one hand firmly planted on her shoulder.
“Sir, you need to step back,” the first paramedic, a stern-looking woman, says as she drops to her knees beside you.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean says, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that makes the medic pause. It’s pure alpha command, unyielding and terrifying. “Tell me what to do.”
The medic shares a quick, cautious look with her partner before turning back to the patient. “What happened?”
“She collapsed,” Dean says rapidly, his eyes tracking the medic’s every movement. “A seizure. Lasted about two minutes. She’s burning up, her muscles are rigid, and she smells like she swallowed a pharmacy.”
The second medic pulls out a thermometer and presses it to your ear. It beeps almost instantly.
“104.2,” he calls out grimly. He grabs your arm, checking the rigidity. “Severe muscle rigidity. Tachycardia. Is she a friend of yours? Do you know what she’s taken?”
“I don’t know her name,” Dean says, the admission tasting like ash in his mouth. “But she’s an omega. And she smells like heavy, heavy suppressants. Industrial-grade blockers, or stronger.”
The female medic curses sharply. “Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Her body is having a toxic reaction to the suppressants. We need to cool her down immediately and get her an IV, or her organs are going to shut down.”
Dean’s heart stops. The words echo in his head.
“Do it,” Dean snarls, the terrifying helplessness morphing into blistering rage. “Fix her.”
“We’re loading her up,” the male medic says, unrolling a stretcher. “Let’s go, let’s go!”
They hoist you onto the stretcher with practiced efficiency. Dean grabs his jacket from the ground and stands up, his eyes never leaving your pale, unconscious face.
As they start wheeling the stretcher toward the ambulance, Dean falls into step right beside them.
“Sir, you can’t ride in the back,” the female medic says over her shoulder.
“Watch me,” Dean says flatly.
“Dean,” Logan says, grabbing Dean’s arm. “Hey. Stop. You can’t just jump in the ambulance. You don’t even know her.”
Dean rips his arm out of Logan’s grip with a viciousness that makes his best friend stumble backward.
“Don’t touch me,” Dean snaps, his eyes flashing black again. He points a shaking finger at the stretcher. “She’s mine. That’s my mate.”
Logan freezes, the color draining from his face. He looks at the girl, then back at Dean, his mouth falling open. “Holy shit. Are you … are you sure?”
“Yes,” Dean breathes, the anger cracking to reveal the absolute terror underneath. “And she’s dying, Logan. I just found her, and she’s dying.”
Logan swallows hard, nodding quickly. “Go. Get in the ambulance. I’ll get Garrett and Tucker and we’ll follow you to the hospital in my truck. Go!”
Dean doesn’t need to be told twice. He sprints to the back of the ambulance, jumping in right before the doors close.
The medic glares at him. “I told you-”
“I’m her fated mate,” Dean says, his voice thick with a desperation he’s never felt before in his entire life. “I am not leaving her. Do your job, and let me stay.”
The medic looks at the absolute devastation on his face, the frantic, protective set of his jaw, and sighs. “Sit in the corner. Stay out of my way.”
“Thank you.”
The ambulance sirens wail to life, the sound deafening in the confined space. The vehicle jerks into motion, throwing Dean back against the metal wall.
He watches as the medics cut away the sleeve of your favorite hoodie, swabbing your arm to start an IV. They place a cold compress on your forehead and an oxygen mask over your mouth and nose.
You look so incredibly fragile.
Dean leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped so tightly together his knuckles ache.
He’s dreamed of this moment for years. He thought he knew exactly how it would happen. He thought it would be at a party, or a coffee shop, or maybe a fancy gala his parents dragged him to. He thought their eyes would meet across the room, the scent would hit him, and he would sweep her off her feet with his charm and his smile. It was supposed to be a fairytale.
Instead, it’s a nightmare.
He watches the steady, agonizing drip of the IV fluid. He listens to the erratic beep of the heart monitor they hooked you up to.
Underneath the smell of the sterile ambulance and the heavy, toxic blockers, that tiny whisper of vanilla and honey reaches him again. It’s so weak, struggling to survive under the chemical warfare going on inside your body.
Whoever prescribed those pills, whoever pushed her to take them … Dean is going to find them. And he is going to destroy them.
But right now, all that matters is you.
Dean carefully reaches out, ignoring the medic’s warning glance, and gently wraps his large, warm hand around your freezing fingers.
“I’m here,” he whispers, leaning in close so only you can hear him over the sirens. “I’m right here, sweetheart. I finally found you. Don’t you dare leave me now.”
Your hand remains limp in his grip.
Dean squeezes tighter, bowing his head as a single, hot tear tracks down his cheek.
Please, he begs the universe. Just let her be okay.
***
The emergency room at Boston General is a chaotic clamor of shouting doctors, crying children, and blaring alarms.
Dean is pacing. He has been pacing for two hours.
The small waiting area off the main ER floor is practically vibrating with his nervous, angry alpha energy. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting in a row of plastic chairs, watching him with varying degrees of concern and awe.
They’ve never seen Dean like this. None of them have. The easy-going, arrogant playboy is gone, completely erased. In his place is a terrifyingly focused, lethal-looking man who looks like he’s ready to tear the hospital down brick by brick if someone doesn’t give him an answer soon.
“Man, you’re going to wear a trench in the linoleum,” Garrett says quietly, leaning forward. “You need to sit down. You’re making the nurses nervous.”
Dean stops abruptly, turning his fierce glare on Garrett. “I don’t give a shit about that. I want to speak with a doctor. They took her behind those doors two hours ago and no one will tell me anything!”
“They’re working on her, Dean,” Tucker says, his Southern drawl slow and soothing, trying to de-escalate the situation. “NMS is serious business. They have to flush her system and get her temperature down. It takes time.”
“She was freezing when I touched her,” Dean mutters, running both hands through his disheveled blonde hair. He starts pacing again. “She was shaking so hard. And the smell of those pills … Tuck, it was repulsive. It smelled like bleach and metal. Who the fuck puts an omega on that kind of dosage?”
“Someone who doesn’t want her to be an omega,” Logan says quietly.
Dean stops dead. He looks at Logan, his jaw ticking. “What?”
“You said she was dressed in a massive hoodie, trying to hide. She’s taking industrial-strength blockers,” Logan explains gently. “A lot of omegas from beta families do it. They don’t want the stigma. They don’t want the heats. They try to suppress it so they can live ‘normal’ lives.”
“Normal?” Dean scoffs, his voice thick with disbelief and rising anger. “She almost died on the pavement! How the hell is that normal? It’s biology! You can’t just medicate it away!”
“We know that,” Garrett says. “But clearly, she didn’t. Or someone convinced her otherwise.”
Dean closes his eyes, trying to reign in the explosive fury building in his chest. He remembers the fragility of your wrist in his hand. He remembers the agonizingly weak scent of vanilla fighting through the poison.
He wants to wrap you in a blanket and lock you in his bedroom where the world can never hurt you again. He wants to buy you a new wardrobe, throw every pill bottle you own into the ocean, and spend the rest of his life making sure you never look that pale again.
“Family of the Jane Doe from Briar University?”
Dean’s eyes snap open. A tired-looking doctor in blue scrubs is standing by the double doors, holding a clipboard.
Dean covers the distance between them in three massive strides. “That’s me. I’m with her.”
The doctor looks him up and down, raising an eyebrow. “Are you a relative?”
“I’m her mate,” Dean says, the words feeling heavy and permanent and incredibly right on his tongue.
The doctor’s expression softens immediately. In their world, a fated bond overrides almost everything else. It’s an undeniable biological link. “Ah. I see. I’m Dr. Goldstein. Come with me, please.”
Dean follows the doctor down a quiet, sterile hallway, his heart thumping erratically. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker stay behind, giving him space.
“How is she?” Dean asks, his voice surprisingly steady despite the chaos in his head.
“She’s stable,” Dr. Goldstein says, pushing open the door to a private room. “The EMTs were right, it was a severe case of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome brought on by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. We’ve managed to bring her fever down, and the muscle rigidity is subsiding. We have her on IV fluids and muscle relaxants.”
Dean steps into the room, and the breath leaves his lungs in a rush.
You are lying in the hospital bed, looking incredibly small amidst the stark white sheets. Your eyes are closed, your breathing steady but shallow. The bluish tint is gone from your lips, replaced by a pale, exhausted pallor. The IV is taped securely to the back of your hand.
“She’s sleeping,” Dr. Goldstein continues softly. “Her body has been through an immense trauma. It’s going to take a few days for the suppressants to completely flush out of her system.”
“And then what?” Dean asks, his eyes glued to the slow rise and fall of your chest.
“And then … her biology is going to rebound,” the doctor says carefully. “When an omega comes off suppressants cold turkey like this, especially at the dosage she was taking, it usually triggers an immediate, intense heat.”
Dean swallows hard. He steps closer to the bed, entirely captivated by you.
“She can’t take those pills ever again,” Dean says, his voice low and hard. It’s not a question. It’s a fact.
“I strongly advise against it,” Dr. Goldstein agrees. “Her system clearly can’t tolerate them. But she’s going to need a lot of support through the withdrawal process, and the subsequent heat. It will be overwhelming for her.”
“She’ll have it,” Dean says immediately. “She’ll have me.”
The doctor nods, offering a small, sympathetic smile. “I’ll leave you to it. Press the call button if she wakes up and seems disoriented.”
The door clicks shut, leaving Dean alone with you.
The silence in the room is heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the monitors.
Dean pulls a chair up to the side of the bed and sits down. He reaches out, slowly, reverently, and takes your hand in his. Your skin is cool now, lacking that terrifying, burning heat from the quad.
He brings your knuckles to his lips, pressing a gentle, lingering kiss to your skin.
Now that the suppressants are beginning to wash out of your system, your scent is getting stronger. It’s filling the small hospital room, wrapping around him like a physical embrace. Vanilla. Honey. Rain. It’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever breathed in.
His alpha settles, a deep, rumbling purr vibrating in his chest. Mate. Safe.
“You really scared the shit out of me, sweetheart,” Dean whispers, his thumb stroking soothing circles over the back of your hand. “We haven’t even officially met, and you’re already giving me gray hairs.”
You don’t move, but Dean doesn’t care. He has all the time in the world.
He leans back in the chair, his eyes never leaving your face. He maps out the slope of your nose, the curve of your cheekbones, the soft part of your lips. He tries to imagine what color your eyes are. He tries to imagine what your voice sounds like when you aren’t screaming in agony.
“I don’t know who told you that you had to hide,” Dean says quietly to the empty room. “I don’t know who made you feel like you weren’t perfect exactly the way you are. But they were wrong.”
He squeezes your hand gently.
“I’m going to show you,” he promises, his voice a vow. “I’m going to take care of you. You’re never taking another one of those pills again. You’re going to be a queen. My queen.”
Dean settles in, letting the steady beat of your heart anchor him. The playboy of Briar University is dead.
And as he watches you sleep, inhaling the sweet, perfect scent of his fated mate, Dean Di Laurentis has never felt more alive.
***
Coming back to consciousness is a slow, heavy process. Your eyelids feel like they have lead weights attached to them, and your mouth is as dry as cotton. A steady, rhythmic beeping sound echoes somewhere to your left, pulling you inch by inch out of the dark.
But before you can even force your eyes open, a smell hits you.
It’s completely overwhelming, wrapping around your senses like a thick, warm blanket. It’s sandalwood and cedar, rain-soaked asphalt, and a deep, purely masculine musk. It doesn’t smell like your dorm room. It doesn’t smell like your childhood bedroom in your parents’ sterile, modern house.
It smells like home. Like a place you’ve never been, but have spent your entire life desperately searching for.
Your breath hitches, your omega biology — newly freed from the chemical cage of the suppressants — flaring to life with a desperate, greedy hunger. You inhale deeply, chasing the scent, and finally manage to blink your eyes open.
The harsh, fluorescent light of a hospital room makes you wince, but a large shadow immediately shifts, blocking the glare.
“Hey,” a low, incredibly gentle voice rumbles. “Take it easy, sweetheart. Don’t rush.”
You blink the blurriness away, your vision slowly coming into focus. Sitting in a plastic chair pulled right up against the edge of your bed is a guy. A devastatingly handsome guy. He has messy, golden-blonde hair, striking green eyes that are completely locked onto you, and the kind of broad, muscular shoulders that a varsity jacket was practically invented for.
You don’t recognize his face. But the second you inhale again, you know exactly who the scent belongs to. It’s him. He is radiating it.
Panic spikes in your chest. You try to sit up, but your muscles feel entirely hollowed out, weak and trembling.
“Whoa, hey, stay still,” he says, instantly standing up. His hands hover over your shoulders, close enough to offer comfort but respectful enough not to touch without permission. With one hand, he reaches up and hits the red call button above your bed. “You’ve been through a lot. Just lay back.”
“Where …” Your voice comes out as a harsh, painful croak. Your throat feels like sandpaper.
“You’re at Boston General,” he explains calmly, his eyes tracing your face with an intensity that makes your breath catch. He reaches for a plastic pitcher on the bedside table and pours water into a cup, sliding a bendy straw in. “Here. Just a little sip at first.”
He leans over, guiding the straw to your lips. You are so thirsty you don’t even hesitate, taking a slow, glorious pull of the ice-cold water.
“Thank you,” you whisper, leaning your head back against the pillows. You look at him, really look at him, trying to piece together the shattered fragments of your memory. “I was on the quad. I was walking to my midterm, and then …”
“You collapsed,” he finishes for you. The easy gentleness in his expression hardens just a fraction, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “You had a severe seizure. Your body was rejecting your suppressants.”
The word hits you like a bucket of ice water.
“Oh my god,” you breathe, your hands immediately flying to your face. “My mom. My mom is going to kill me. She told me it was just an adjustment period. I have to call her, she has to talk to Dr. Davidson-”
“Hey. Look at me.”
The command in his voice isn’t loud, but it vibrates straight through your bones. Your hands drop, and your eyes lock onto his.
“No one is calling anyone to adjust those pills,” he says, his tone firm, brooking absolute zero argument. “They were poisoning you. You had Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. If I hadn’t been walking by when you went down …” He stops, swallowing hard. The absolute terror in his eyes is raw and jarring. “You’re done with them. Forever.”
You stare at him, completely bewildered. Why is this beautiful, random alpha hockey player looking at you like the thought of losing you physically pains him?
“Who are you?” You ask softly.
He smiles, and it’s a beautiful, devastating thing. The harshness completely melts out of his face. “I’m Dean. Dean Di Laurentis.”
“I don’t know you, Dean,” you say, your brow furrowing. “Why are you sitting here? Why do you smell like …”
You trail off, your cheeks flushing a deep, embarrassed crimson. You can’t just tell a stranger that his scent makes you want to curl up into his chest and never leave.
Dean’s smile softens even more, turning into something completely wrecked and reverent. He slowly reaches out, giving you plenty of time to pull away, and gently wraps his large hand over yours where it rests on the blanket. His skin is so warm.
“I smell like home,” Dean finishes for you, his voice dropping to a low, intimate whisper. “Don’t I?”
You can only nod, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“That’s because I’m your mate, sweetheart,” Dean says, the words hanging in the quiet hospital room like a religious vow. “Your fated mate.”
Your entire world stops.
You stare at him, your brain desperately trying to process the words. Your fated mate. The thing you had secretly dreamed of. The thing your mother had ruthlessly mocked. The thing you had been medicated to avoid.
You yank your hand out from under his, shaking your head frantically. “No. No, that’s … that’s not real. That’s a fairytale.”
Dean looks at his empty hand for a second before his gaze snaps back up to yours. “Excuse me?”
“My family,” you stammer, pushing yourself backward against the pillows, trying to put distance between you and the intoxicating pull of his scent. “They told me it’s not real. It’s just biological chemistry that gets romanticized in Hallmark movies. Fated mates don’t actually exist in real life. It’s just an archaic myth.”
Dean stares at you for a long, silent moment. The air in the room suddenly feels very heavy, his alpha presence expanding, pressing against the walls.
“Then your family,” Dean says, his voice dangerously quiet, “is full of idiots.”
“Don’t call them that,” you say automatically, though your defense sounds incredibly weak.
“I’ll call them whatever I want if they’re the ones who filled your head with that garbage,” Dean fires back, leaning closer. The intensity rolling off him is entirely focused on you. “Look at me. Look at how my hand is shaking right now. I smelled you underneath whatever toxic sludge you were taking, and my heart literally stopped beating in my chest. You are my omega. Mine. The universe literally carved my soul to match yours. Don’t tell me that’s a goddamn myth.”
Tears prick at the corners of your eyes. You want to believe him. You want to believe him so badly it hurts.
Dean sees the tears and his entire demeanor fractures. “Hey, no, don’t cry. Shh, I’m sorry.” He sits on the very edge of your mattress, ignoring the hospital rules, and carefully reaches out again. This time, he doesn’t take your hand. He brings his fingers up to your face, gently wiping a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “I’m sorry. I’m just … I’m angry. Not at you. Never at you.”
He traces the line of your jaw, his touch so achingly tender it makes a sob catch in your throat.
“Who put you on those pills?” Dean asks, his voice barely above a whisper. “Who gave you a dosage that high?”
You look away, ashamed. “Dr. Davidson. My family doctor.”
“And who asked for it?” Dean presses, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “Because an omega doesn’t walk into a clinic and ask for an industrial-grade chemical lobotomy on their own.”
You close your eyes. “My mom.”
The silence that follows is deafening. You open your eyes to see Dean staring at the wall, his jaw locked so tight the muscle is twitching wildly. His green eyes have darkened, the pupils blown wide in pure, unadulterated fury. You have never seen a man look so lethal.
“Dean?” You whisper nervously.
He blinks, forcing his focus back to you. “Whoever she is,” Dean says, his voice flat and deadly cold, “I have never hated a human being more in my entire life.”
“You can’t say that!” You defend, the lifelong habit of protecting your parents kicking in. “She’s a beta. My whole family is full of betas. They don’t understand the alpha-omega dynamics, okay? To them, it’s a liability. She just wanted me to be independent. She wanted me to have a normal life, a good career, without being tied down by my biology. She thought she was protecting me.”
“Protecting you?” Dean snarls, the anger finally slipping the leash. He stands up, pacing away from the bed before whirling back around to face you. “You were seizing on the concrete! You were freezing to death and burning up at the same time! Is that her version of protection? Forcing you to suppress a fundamental part of who you are just because it inconveniences her worldview?”
“She didn’t know the pills would do this!”
“She didn’t care!” Dean shouts, running a hand aggressively through his hair. “Just because she’s a beta and she’ll never experience the absolute fucking magic of having a fated mate doesn’t give her the right to try and rip it away from you! It is a gift, and she treated it like a disease!”
You flinch, pulling your knees up to your chest. The truth of his words hits you like a physical blow, breaking through the decades of conditioning your parents had carefully layered over you.
Dean sees you flinch and curses violently under his breath. He crosses the room in two strides, dropping to his knees right beside your bed so he’s perfectly eye-level with you.
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m yelling,” he breathes, his hands coming up to grip the metal bedrails. “I’m just so angry that you got hurt. You have no idea what it did to me, watching you on that pavement. Thinking I finally found you, only to watch you die.”
He reaches through the rails, gently taking your left arm. He turns your wrist over, exposing the pale skin of your inner forearm. Right over your pulse point, where a mating gland sits dormant beneath the skin.
He lowers his head and presses a long, firm, agonizingly soft kiss directly over the gland.
A jolt of pure electricity shoots up your arm, straight into your chest. Your omega purrs, a deep, vibrating sound of absolute contentment that you didn’t even know you were capable of making.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you in the eyes, his lips still hovering mere inches from your skin.
“She’s not in charge anymore,” Dean vows, his voice a low, rough rumble. “I’m here now. I am your mate. I will take care of you, I will protect you, and I swear on my life, you will never experience anything like that ever again. You are done hiding.”
You stare down at him, entirely captivated. For the first time in your life, you don’t feel broken. You don’t feel like a problem that needs to be solved. Under Dean’s heavy, devoted gaze, you feel perfect.
Before you can formulate a response, the heavy wooden door to your room pushes open.
“Ah, you’re awake,” a female voice says briskly.
Dean immediately stands up, though he doesn’t step away from your bed. He slides his hand down to tangle his fingers firmly with yours, presenting a united front as the doctor walks in, followed by a nurse holding a chart.
“I’m Dr. Goldstein,” the doctor says, offering a warm smile as she approaches the foot of the bed. “It’s good to see your eyes open. How are you feeling?”
“Weak,” you admit honestly, your voice still raspy. “My muscles ache.”
“That’s to be expected,” Dr. Goldstein says, flipping through your chart. “You suffered a severe tonic-clonic seizure caused by a toxic buildup of synthetic suppressants. Your body went into a state of Neuroleptic Malignant Syndrome. Frankly, you’re very lucky your mate here acted as quickly as he did, and that the ambulance was close.”
You look up at Dean. He gives your hand a reassuring squeeze, though his eyes remain locked sharply on the doctor.
“We’ve pumped you full of fluids and muscle relaxants, and we’ve successfully flushed the majority of the chemical toxicity out of your system,” Dr. Goldstein continues. She lowers the clipboard, looking at you with serious, sympathetic eyes. “But we need to talk about what comes next.”
The knot of anxiety in your stomach, which Dean had momentarily smoothed away, twists tight again. “What comes next?”
“You cannot go back on suppressants,” Dr. Goldstein says firmly. “Your body has developed a severe, life-threatening allergy to them. If you try to take even a low dose, you could go into anaphylactic shock, or worse.”
“Never again,” Dean states, his voice leaving absolutely no room for debate.
You swallow hard. “Okay. No more pills. But … what does that mean?”
Dr. Goldstein sighs softly. “It means your biology is going to rebound. Hard. You’ve been forcibly suppressing your omega nature for years. Now that the dam is broken, your hormones are going to spike to compensate. I need you to be prepared. Within the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours, you are going to go into heat.”
The blood completely drains from your face.
Heat. The thought echoes in your head, a terrifying, abstract concept that your mother had always spoken about in hushed, disgusted tones. A loss of control. A feverish, degrading biological imperative.
“No,” you whisper, true, visceral panic setting in. You start to shake, pulling your hand out of Dean’s grip to clutch at the hospital blanket. “No, I can’t. I don’t know how. I’ve never had one.”
Dr. Goldstein looks surprised. “Never?”
“My parents put me on suppressants the day I presented at fourteen,” you say, your breathing turning shallow and frantic. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how it feels. Please, isn’t there something else you can give me? A lighter pill? An injection? I can’t just … I can’t!”
“Sweetheart, hey, look at me,” Dean says, his voice cutting through the rising tide of your panic.
You look at him, tears freely spilling down your cheeks.
Internally, Dean is a hurricane of pure, unadulterated violence. The realization that your parents essentially chemically sterilized you at fourteen — robbing you of every natural milestone of your secondary gender out of their own beta prejudice — makes him want to find them and tear them apart with his bare hands. The rage is so hot and blinding he can barely see straight.
But outwardly? Outwardly, he is a mountain. Unshakeable. Calm.
He sits back down on the edge of the bed, completely ignoring the doctor and nurse. He frames your face with both of his large, warm hands, his thumbs sweeping away your tears.
“Breathe with me,” Dean murmurs, locking his green eyes onto yours. He takes an exaggerated, deep breath in. “Come on. In.”
You drag a ragged breath into your lungs, mirroring him.
“Good. Out,” he praises softly.
He keeps his scent deliberately calm, pushing out waves of soothing cedar and rain, blanketing your panic in layers of alpha protection.
“I’m terrified,” you sob, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “My mom always said heats make you lose your mind. She said it’s humiliating.”
“Your mom doesn’t know a damn thing about what it means to be an omega,” Dean says, his voice dripping with absolute certainty. “She lied to you. It’s not humiliating. It’s natural. It’s beautiful.”
“But I don’t know what to do!”
“You don’t have to know what to do,” Dean says gently, leaning in until his forehead is resting against yours. “Because I know what to do. That’s what mates are for, baby. I am going to be right by your side the entire time. I’ll take care of everything. You won’t have to think, you won’t have to worry, you just have to let your body do what it was meant to do.”
“You promise?” You whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his solid strength.
“I swear it on my life,” Dean vows, his lips brushing against your forehead. “I’ve been waiting for you for a very long time. I’m not going to let anything scare you ever again. We’re going to get through this together.”
Dr. Goldstein clears her throat softly, a small smile playing on her lips. “He’s right. A mate bond makes the biological transition significantly smoother. You’re in very good hands.”
You open your eyes, looking at Dean. The arrogant, charming playboy of Briar University is entirely gone. In his place is a devoted, fiercely protective alpha who is looking at you like you hold the stars in your hands.
For the first time in your life, you stop fighting your own biology. You take a deep breath of sandalwood and rain, and finally, you let yourself just be an omega.
***
The next thirty-two hours are a masterclass in anticipation.
The hospital staff insists on keeping you for observation to ensure the suppressants are completely flushed from your system and that your organs haven’t suffered any lasting damage from the toxicity.
Dean never leaves your side. He sleeps in the wildly uncomfortable plastic chair next to your bed, his hand tangled with yours. He eats terrible cafeteria food. He charms the nurses into bringing you extra pillows and smuggled-in hot chocolate.
He only leaves once. On the second morning, he kisses your forehead, promises he’ll be back before you can even miss him, and vanishes for two hours. He returns smelling like his expensive cedar body wash, wearing fresh clothes, and carrying a massive duffel bag.
“I had to prep,” Dean explains simply when you ask about the bag, a devastating smirk playing on his lips. “And I had to threaten Logan with bodily harm if he ever breathed a word about my panic attack.”
When Dr. Goldstein finally signs your discharge papers, the shift in your body is undeniable.
You feel … heavy. There is a deep, pulsing warmth settling low in your abdomen, a completely foreign sensation that makes your breath catch every few minutes. Your skin feels highly sensitized, the friction of your sweatpants against your legs sends tiny shocks up your spine.
But the most obvious change is the scent.
As Dean leads you out to his car, you notice the way his nostrils flare. His jaw is tight, his grip on your hand firm and possessive. The faint, smothered vanilla scent that had barely survived the suppressants has bloomed. It’s rich, thick, and intoxicatingly sweet, dripping with the undeniable pheromones of an omega on the absolute precipice of her first heat.
“We aren’t going to my house,” Dean says, opening the passenger door for you and helping you climb inside. “Logan and the guys are great, but you don’t need three other alphas in the house right now. And you definitely aren’t going back to your dorm.”
“Where are we going?” You ask, your voice already a little breathless. The leather of the car seat feels incredibly soft against your back.
“My family owns the Heyward Harbor Hotel downtown,” Dean says, shutting your door and walking around to the driver’s side. He climbs in, immediately locking the doors and starting the engine. “There’s a private penthouse suite on the top floor. It’s soundproof, secure, and completely ours. The staff knows not to come up unless I call.”
You swallow hard, your heart doing a nervous, excited flutter. “You really planned this out.”
Dean shoots you a dark, heated look as he pulls out of the hospital parking lot. “Sweetheart, I’ve been planning for you since I was sixteen years old. And right now, you smell so incredibly sweet that it’s taking every ounce of my willpower not to pull this car over and climb into the backseat with you.”
You flush a deep crimson, a rush of slick heat pooling between your thighs at his words. “Dean …”
“I know,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave. “Hold on for me. Just a little longer.”
The drive is a blur of city lights and the heavy, electric tension filling the cabin of the car. By the time Dean pulls into the private underground garage of the hotel, you are practically vibrating.
He leads you to a private elevator that opens directly into the penthouse. The space is massive, all floor-to-ceiling windows, modern art, and sleek furniture. But Dean bypasses the living area entirely, guiding you straight into the sprawling master bedroom.
You stop dead in your tracks.
The king-sized bed in the center of the room has been completely transformed. It’s a nest. A massive, chaotic, incredibly inviting pile of faux fur blankets, high-thread-count sheets, and enormous plush pillows. And woven through every single layer of fabric is the heavy, comforting scent of sandalwood, cedar, and rain. Dean’s scent.
“You built this?” You whisper, staring at the bed. Your omega instincts are practically screaming at you to dive into the center of it and roll around until you are completely coated in his scent.
“When I went back to shower,” Dean says, stepping up behind you. He rests his hands on your hips, pulling your back flush against his solid chest.
“I bought every soft blanket I could find in a ten-mile radius. Does it look okay?”
“It looks perfect,” you breathe, leaning back against him.
“Good. But you can’t get in it yet,” Dean says, his hands sliding up to grip your waist. He kisses the side of your neck, sending a violent shiver down your body. “You need a bath. And you need to eat. Once the heat fully hits, you aren’t going to care about food, and you need your strength.”
He is as good as his word. Dean leads you into a massive marble bathroom and starts the water in a deep soaking tub. He helps you strip out of your hospital clothes with a terrifyingly gentle reverence, his eyes dark and hungry, but his hands entirely respectful.
The warm water feels like heaven on your aching muscles. Dean kneels beside the tub, rolling up his sleeves, and actually washes your hair. His large fingers massage your scalp with a perfect, agonizingly slow pressure.
“You’re shaking,” Dean notes softly, rinsing the shampoo from your hair.
“I feel … weird,” you admit, your eyes fluttering shut. The ache low in your belly is turning into a sharp, demanding throb. “It’s like there’s a wire pulled tight inside me, and it keeps getting tighter.”
“That’s the pre-heat,” Dean explains, his voice a soothing rumble. “Your body is prepping. It’s waking up. Just breathe through it.”
After the bath, he wraps you in a massive, fluffy towel and carries you out to the kitchen island. He’s ordered room service — a massive plate of carbonara, warm bread, and fruit.
“Eat,” he commands gently, pushing a fork into your hand. “As much as you can.”
You manage to eat half the pasta, though your appetite is rapidly being eclipsed by a different kind of hunger. The scent in the room is overwhelming now. Your vanilla and honey has mixed entirely with his cedar and rain, creating a thick, heady atmosphere that makes your head spin.
You drop the fork, a sudden, violent hot flash tearing through your body. You gasp, your hands gripping the edge of the marble counter.
Dean is there in a second. “Hey. Look at me.”
You look up, panting slightly. “Dean … it hurts. It’s so hot.”
“I know,” Dean says, his eyes flashing to a pitch-black, predatory dark. The leash he’s been keeping on his alpha is snapping. He reaches down and effortlessly scoops you up into his arms, carrying you back to the bedroom. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
He drops you gently into the center of the nest. The sheer volume of his scent embedded in the blankets hits your system like a drug. You instantly curl onto your side, burying your face in one of his oversized t-shirts he left in the pile, a loud, desperate whine tearing from your throat.
Dean strips off his shirt in one fluid motion, tossing it aside. He kicks off his shoes and jeans, left only in his boxer briefs, before he crawls into the nest with you.
The moment his bare skin touches yours, the final thread snaps.
The heat hits.
It is a tidal wave of biological demand. The dull ache turns into a blinding, searing need that completely consumes your mind. You don’t think. You just react. You scramble toward him, your hands desperately clutching at his broad, muscular shoulders, pulling him down over you.
“Dean, please,” you beg, your voice a fractured sob. You arch your hips upward, seeking the heavy, solid weight of him. “Please, I need … I need …”
“I know what you need,” Dean growls, his voice a guttural, vibrating sound that makes your core clench. He pins your wrists gently above your head with one hand, his chest hovering inches from yours. “You are so incredibly beautiful. You smell like pure sugar, baby.”
He lowers his head, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating, bruising kiss. It’s nothing like the polite, gentle care he’s shown you for the last two days. This is raw, possessive, and entirely alpha. He parts your lips with his tongue, tasting you deeply, drinking in your soft moans.
You writhe beneath him, your legs tangling with his. You are soaked, a slick, hot mess of arousal that your body has naturally produced in terrifying abundance.
Dean breaks the kiss, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw and the sensitive column of your neck. He pauses right over your scent gland, inhaling sharply.
“You’re mine,” he breathes against the skin, his hot breath making you arch off the mattress. “Only mine. Tell me.”
“Yours,” you gasp, your eyes rolling back. “Dean, please, it’s so empty. Please.”
“Impatient,” Dean chuckles darkly. His free hand trails down your torso, slipping past the waistband of your underwear. “We have to do this right, sweetheart. I need you completely ready for me. I’m not going to hurt you.”
His hand slips between your thighs, and you let out a high, fractured cry at the contact. His fingers are large, calloused from years of gripping a hockey stick, but they are impossibly gentle. He parts your slick folds, tracing the sensitive bundle of nerves at your peak.
You thrash against his hold, completely overwhelmed by the sensation. “Dean!”
“I’m here,” he murmurs, his thumb applying a steady, rhythmic pressure. “Let go for me. Come for me, baby.”
He slides two fingers deep inside you, and you completely shatter. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your throat as your first orgasm rips through you. It’s blinding. It’s a rush of pure pleasure that leaves you gasping for air, your muscles trembling violently as your inner walls clench around his fingers.
Dean watches you unravel, a look of pure worship on his face. He doesn’t stop. As you ride out the agonizingly long waves of the climax, he shifts lower down the bed.
“Dean, wait, I’m too sensitive-” you stammer, trying to push yourself backward.
“I’m not done,” he says simply.
He parts your thighs wider, settling between your legs. He grips your hips to hold you completely still, and then he lowers his mouth to your core.
You scream his name, your hands flying to tangle in his blonde hair. The slide of his tongue is expertly cruel, lapping up your slick with a greedy, starving desperation. He finds your clit again, sucking gently before swirling his tongue over it, sending you plummeting right back into the fire.
Your mind goes completely blank. There is only the heat, the overwhelming scent of cedar, and the devastating perfection of his mouth. You climax again, harder this time, sobbing into the pillows as your vision literally whites out.
Dean pulls back, his chest heaving as he crawls back up your body. His eyes are glazed, completely feral. He strips away your underwear and tears his boxers off, discarding them off the edge of the bed.
You feel the heavy, thick press of him against your entrance. The sheer size of him makes you gasp, a fleeting moment of apprehension piercing through the haze of the heat.
Dean senses it immediately. He pauses, his forearms bracketing your head, and looks down into your eyes.
“Look at me,” he commands softly.
You meet his gaze.
“I’m going to take care of you,” Dean vows, his voice a rough, desperate rasp. “I am going to fill you up, and I am going to make you feel so goddamn good. Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” you whisper, meaning it with every fiber of your being. “I trust you. Please.”
Dean groans, a deeply satisfied, rumbling sound. “Good girl.”
He pushes his hips forward, burying himself inside you in one long, agonizingly slow thrust.
You cry out, your fingernails digging into his shoulders. It is the most intense, overwhelming feeling you have ever experienced. You are completely full, stretched taut, the physical connection bridging the gap your soul has been aching to fill for years.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his breath coming in harsh pants. He stays perfectly still, giving your body time to adjust to his massive size. “Fuck. You feel … you feel like heaven. So tight. So wet for me.”
“Don’t stop,” you beg, lifting your hips to meet him. “Dean, please move.”
He chuckles, a dark, breathless sound, and begins to pull back. The friction is absolute torture in the best way possible. He sets a brutal, driving pace, his hips snapping against yours with audible slaps of skin.
You are completely lost in it. You match his rhythm perfectly, meeting his thrusts, your legs wrapping tightly around his waist to draw him in even deeper. The room smells like sex and alpha command and the intoxicating sweetness of an omega in the throes of a mating heat.
“That’s it,” Dean praises, his voice strained. “Take it all, baby. You’re doing so good.”
The pressure is building again, twisting into a tight, coiled spring low in your belly. Dean recognizes the shift in your breathing, the frantic, desperate hitch in your chest.
He slides one hand under your lower back, angling your hips up to hit a spot deep inside you that makes you see stars.
“Dean!” You scream, your head thrashing side to side.
“I’ve got you,” he growls. He shifts his weight, pinning you down, and buries his face in the crook of your neck. His lips brush directly over your scent gland. “I’m going to claim you now. I’m going to make you mine permanently. Let me mark you.”
“Yes,” you sob, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, mark me!”
Dean bites down.
His sharp canines pierce the delicate skin over your scent gland. The pain is a sharp, brief sting, instantly swallowed by a blinding, explosive rush of euphoria.
The bond snaps into place.
It is physical. It is emotional. It is a sudden, brilliant tether forming between your chest and his, locking your souls together with an undeniable, permanent gravity. You can feel him. You can feel his love, his possessiveness, his absolute devotion flooding into your mind.
At the exact same moment his teeth break the skin, Dean drives his hips forward, burying himself to the hilt, and unloads deep inside you.
Your own climax hits like a freight train, your body convulsing violently around his knot as it swells, locking you together. You scream his name, your hands desperately clutching at his back.
“Bite me,” Dean commands, his voice muffled against your skin. He pulls back just enough to expose his own neck, baring his throat to you in the ultimate display of alpha submission. “Mark me back, sweetheart. Claim me.”
You don’t hesitate. You surge upward, your lips finding the pulsing scent gland on the side of his neck. You sink your teeth in, tasting the salt of his sweat and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Dean lets out a roaring groan, his head falling back as the bond solidifies on his end. The tether snaps tight, completely unbreakable. He grips your hips, riding out the devastating aftershocks of your shared climax, completely lost in the overwhelming high of the mating bond.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
The room is silent except for your ragged, synchronized breathing. Dean’s knot is still firmly locked inside you, keeping you intimately tethered. He collapses completely against you, his heavy weight a comforting, grounding presence.
He gently buries his face in your hair, pressing soft, reverent kisses to your temple.
“Mine,” he whispers, the word laced with pure awe. “You’re actually mine.”
“Yours,” you echo softly, running your hands through his damp blonde hair.
Slowly, the frantic racing of your heart begins to settle. The feverish edge of the heat dulls into a bone-deep, lethargic exhaustion. Your eyelids droop, the sheer physical toll of the last few hours finally catching up to you.
Dean senses it. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms securely around your waist. “Tired?”
“Exhausted,” you murmur, nuzzling your face into the hollow of his shoulder. “Is it … is it over?”
Dean chuckles softly, his chest rumbling against yours. He reaches up, gently petting your hair, his fingers smoothing the tangled strands.
“Not even close, sweetheart,” Dean says, pressing a kiss to the healing bite mark on your neck. “A normal heat usually lasts anywhere from four to seven days, depending on the omega.”
Your eyes widen slightly, and you try to pull back to look at him, but he keeps you flush against his chest. “Four to seven days? Of that?”
“Usually,” Dean continues, his voice soothing and calm. “But given the circumstances … given how long your parents had you on those heavy suppressants, and how violently your body rejected them … Dr. Goldstein warned me that this one is going to be different. Your biology is rebounding. Hard. This heat is going to be significantly longer, and the peaks are going to be a lot more extreme.”
A spike of nervous anxiety flares in your chest. “Dean, I don’t know if I can-”
“Hey,” Dean interrupts gently, his hand sweeping down your back in a steady, calming rhythm. “Stop. What did I promise you in the hospital?”
You swallow hard. “That you’d take care of me.”
“Exactly. And I will,” Dean says, his gaze burning with absolute certainty. “I am not going anywhere. I’ve got enough food and water in this suite to last us two weeks. I’ll be here for every single wave. You don’t have to think, you don’t have to worry. You just have to let your body do what it needs to do, and I will handle the rest.”
You look at him, really look at the beautiful, devoted alpha who has completely upended your entire life in the span of three days. The fear melts away, completely smothered by the warm, buzzing hum of the mating bond currently singing in your veins.
“Okay,” you whisper, resting your head back against his chest.
“Okay,” Dean echoes. His knot slowly begins to recede, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, pulling the heavy faux fur blankets up over both of you, completely cocooning you in the nest.
He wraps his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin. His thumb resumes its slow, hypnotic petting of your hair.
“You did so good for me, baby,” Dean murmurs, his voice growing heavy with his own exhaustion. “So perfect. Try to get some sleep. You need to rest before the next wave hits.”
You close your eyes, the scent of cedar and vanilla wrapping around you like a physical shield. The ache is still there, simmering just beneath the surface, but it’s no longer terrifying. It’s natural. It’s right.
For the first time in your life, you aren’t fighting who you are. You aren’t suppressing the deepest, most fundamental parts of your soul. You are exactly where you are supposed to be, safe in the arms of an alpha who looks at you like you are the center of his entire universe.
This is the fairytale. This is everything your mother said didn’t exist.
As you drift off to sleep, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of Dean’s heart beneath your ear, you realize one simple, absolute truth.
Synopsis: The third arrow strikes, sealing the fate of Jacaerys Velaryon… except he wakes up in a world without dragons, convinced it was only a dream. Or was it? Because there is one promise his soul never forgot, and somehow… yours remembers it too.
Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader
Genre: reincarnation au, modern!jacaerys, established relationship
Warning: None tbh its just fluff (coping mechanism🥹), there is no specific description of reader so enjoy, no aegon or viserys, Rhaenyra is married to Laenor but its platonic, inaccurate description of battle of the gullet? (I tried-).
A/N: I recently got into HOTD and then I lost my favourite character aka Jace. I made this blog so I can be delulu about him 😭. Also half of this is me word vomiting🥴.
Word Count: 10.1k
- English is not my first language so / apologise in advance for any mistakes or typos!
The sea did not merely roll that day, it burned.
Fire danced with a horrific, erratic grace across the blackened waters of the Gullet, transforming the vital shipping lane into a sprawling, floating graveyard. Flames leapt from ship to ship in hungry arcs, feeding on timber and pitch and the desperate prayers of drowning men. Beneath the merciless onslaught of Team Black’s dragons, mighty Triarchy war-galleys splintered like kindling, their hulls cracking open to swallow their crews whole. Great masts toppled into the waves with the slow, theatrical finality of falling monuments. And yet, this was no easy victory. No clean triumph etched into the history books with golden ink. Below, Lord Corlys Velaryon’s fleet fought with everything it had, attempting to trap the armada in the narrow, choking passage, buying time in blood and smoke and screaming iron.
The atmosphere was a living thing, a suffocating shroud woven from the sharp salt tang of brine, the acrid bite of billowing smoke, the unmistakable iron-sweetness of fresh blood, and the sickening, almost honeyed stench of burning pitch. It coated the throat and burned the eyes.
High above the carnage, roaring through the roiling tempest of fire and ash, rode Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.
He sat astride Vermax like a man born to the sky because he was. The great emerald dragon cut through the smoke-choked air like a gleaming blade, his scales catching the hellish firelight below, wings spread wide. Jace’s riding leathers were already dark with spray and soot. His dark curls whipped against his face. He did not notice. His eyes were fixed on the battle, calculating and measuring, feeling the terrible weight of command settle across his shoulders with the intimacy of something he had worn all his life.
He had locked his mother in her chambers at Dragonstone before leaving. Had stood outside the door and listened to her pound against it, her voice cracking on his name. The sound had nearly unmade him entirely. But she was the queen. She was the cause. She could not be lost, and Jacaerys Velaryon had long since made peace with the arithmetic of that.
She lives. Therefore, I go.
Beside him, Baela streaked across the smoke on Moondancer fierce and brilliant, her silver hair streaming behind her like a war banner. And then, piercing through the mist like something half-imagined, a new silhouette emerged. Jace’s eyes snapped to it. His stomach lurched with shock before his heart swelled with a pride so fierce it nearly hurt.
Rhaena. Flying the wild dragon Sheepstealer.
Of course she was.
Together they were three dragons raining hell from the heavens, and for one blazing, exhilarating moment, Jace believed they might actually win this despite Sheepstealer almost knocking him out. He watched their collective fire devastate Admiral Lohar’s vanguard below, great tongues of flame consuming the armada’s leading ships, sending men screaming into the sea. He felt the savage triumph of it. The rightness.
Then the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began.
Massive iron bolts tore through the clouds around them. The Triarchy fleet was enormous, he had known this, had known it academically the way one knows a thing from maps and reports but knowing it and watching it materialize below him in all its terrible scale were entirely different experiences.
He pressed Vermax into a steep, dangerously low dive.
Below, through the roiling chaos, Jace had spotted Lord Corlys’s flagship being violently rammed by Lohar’s vessel. The silver-haired sea snake, his grandfather by every measure that mattered, surrounded and struggling. Jace made his decision in the space of half a breath. He would break the enemy lines. He would fly low. He would end this.
He flew too close to the water.
His focus had narrowed to a single burning point, the ships, the threat, the duty and so he did not hear the volley until it was already too late.
A heavy iron shaft sliced violently through the membrane of Vermax’s right wing with a sound like tearing cloth and screaming metal fused together. Another slammed directly into the dragon’s chest with a concussive, world-shaking force that Jace felt through every bone in his body.
Vermax screamed.
The sound ripped through Jace like a physical blade. Not a roar, not the magnificent, terrible declaration of a dragon in battle. A scream. Raw and agonizing and so deeply personal that Jace felt his own lungs seize in sympathy, as though the bolt had pierced him too. The great emerald body shuddered beneath him. The massive wings faltered, losing the steady rhythm that held them aloft. The world tilted.
They were falling.
“No-”
Jace yanked desperately on the reins, his boots straining hard against the stirrups, body thrown forward as the sea rushed upward to meet them with terrifying speed. Wind screamed past his ears. The fire and the smoke and the battle became a chaotic blur of sensation.
“Vermax, fly!”
The dragon fought. Even now, even broken and burning, Vermax fought. A beast born of fire, refusing absolutely to yield to the water. One wing beat heavily, then another. The torn membrane fluttered uselessly, a tattered rag of what it had been, but still Vermax tried, and something in Jace’s chest shattered at the sight of it.
“Soves!” His voice broke on the word, all royal dignity stripped away, reduced to something raw and helpless and very young. “Soves, Vermax! Please-”
One final, agonizing beat of the wings.
It was not enough.
Freezing, brine-heavy water swallowed Jacaerys Velaryon whole. It was not like diving, it was like being struck by the earth itself, like the sea had become solid in the last instant before collision, and he felt the shock travel up through his ankles, his knees, his spine, rattling his teeth in his skull. The sheer velocity of the crash tore his fingers from the saddle. The weight of his armor dragged at him immediately, a slow, patient, lethal pull downward into the dark.
Primal instinct flared.
He unhooked himself and practically clawed upward. His lungs burned. The cold was absolute, the kind that doesn’t feel cold at all but rather feels like being unmade, like the sea was simply erasing him a layer at a time. He could see nothing, only dark water and distant fire and the enormous bulk of Vermax somewhere below him, a shadow become a nightmare.
He burst through the surface with a gasp so violent it tore his throat.
“Vermax!”
He spun in the churning water, hair plastered to his face, salt burning his eyes. The battle raged on around him, ships groaning and splitting, men screaming, iron raining from all directions. The world had not paused for him.
“Vermax!”
Through the haze of cresting waves, he found him. His dragon, his Vermax, who had carried him since boyhood, who had grown as he had grown, who had been as much a part of him as his own heartbeat was desperately trying to swim. The damaged wings beat uselessly to try to swim up. His great neck was straining upward. His eyes, when they met Jace’s from below the water, held something that a person with less grief in them might have dismissed as imagination.
They did not look like the eyes of an animal.
They looked like the eyes of someone saying goodbye.
A massive anchor, or debris, Jace could not tell which, tangled around Vermax’s exhausted body. The sea accepted its offering. With a final, sorrowful look that Jacaerys Velaryon would carry with him for the rest of his life.
He never resurfaced.
Something inside Jace broke. Not cracked. Not bent. Broke, the way an old bone breaks, the kind that doesn’t ever quite knit back the same way. He hauled his upper body onto a large piece of floating wreckage with the determination of a body that had not yet received the message from his mind that none of this mattered anymore. His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. He was shaking. He was exhausted in a way that reached all the way down into whatever part of him had believed, until this moment, that he might survive this.
He had not brought enough of that belief. He saw that now.
He thought of his mother.
The image of her face, proud and terrified and trying not to show either rose unbidden. He had done this for her. Had done all of it for her. He hoped she would understand, someday, that locking her in her chambers had been the most love he had ever offered anyone.
He thought of Baela. Of Rhaena.
He thought of-
A sharp, dull impact struck his upper back.
Jace lurched forward with a sound that was almost nothing, barely a breath. Confused, of all things, not yet understanding, he glanced over his shoulder. A heavy crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder blade at an angle that his mind catalogued with strange, distant calm, the way one notices a detail in a painting.
Slowly, numbly, he turned his head toward the source.
A Triarchy war-galley drifted just yards away. Lined along the wooden railing stood a row of Admiral Lohar’s soldiers, unhurried, methodical, their crossbows leveled at the figure in the water.
They knew exactly who he was. There was no urgency in their posture, no battlefield fever. This was an execution.
The heir to the Iron Throne, stranded and defenseless.
A second bolt flew. It slammed into his chest. He heard it before he felt it.
Then a third...straight to the neck.
A strange, sudden calm washed over him.
The deafening roar of the battle receded, becoming muffled, distant, the way sounds narrow when one goes underwater. The sea rocked him gently now, almost tenderly, as if it had been waiting all along to offer this small mercy at the end. He had not expected kindness. He was grateful for it.
He thought of his mother, safe on Dragonstone.
He thought of Baela’s laughter.
He thought of his brothers.
And he thought with a softness that surprised him, with something that might have been the very last warmth his body could generate, of you. Of a future that would not be built. Of a promise he was not sure, now, that he had ever been given the chance to make.
The last image to imprint itself on the fading mind of Jacaerys Velaryon was that reflection.
A burning sky, mirrored in the water.
Beautiful.
Tragic.
Then everything went black.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Jacaerys bolted upright with a gasp that felt like surfacing.
His eyes flew open. His hand flew to his chest and then to his neck, pressing hard against his sternum, feeling for something, a wound, an absence, a bolt buried in bone and found nothing but the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the solid, living rhythm of his own heart.
He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, and simply stared at the ceiling.
White plaster. Crown moulding. A small water stain shaped vaguely like a continent.
No smoke.
No dragon.
No sea.
No battle.
Just a bedroom. His bedroom.
Morning sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows in long, clean shafts, illuminating the warm disorder of his life: the desk buried under business textbooks and notebooks with pages dog-eared and margins crowded with his handwriting, his laptop open from the night before with a lecture slide still visible on the screen, a hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair. Outside the windows, King’s Landing stretched endlessly in the early light, the city already stirring, glass towers catching the sun.
His alarm clock flashed 7:00 AM.
No swords or the banners of House Targaryen.
Jace pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes and breathed.
The memories were still there. That was the wrong word for them, memories. They did not feel like the soft, dissolving stuff of ordinary dreams that faded on the edges as soon as you tried to examine them. They felt like the other kind of remembering, the kind that lives in the body rather than the mind. He could still feel the cold of the Gullet in his fingers. He could still smell the smoke. He could still feel the weight of dragon-riding leathers across his shoulders, the particular pull of Vermax’s movement through the air, the way the saddle had sat against the backs of his thighs.
He could still feel the bolts.
Just a dream, he told himself. The words felt inadequate in his own mouth, like trying to describe a storm with the word weather. He muttered them anyway, pressing his face harder into his palms.
“Just a dream.”
A dream where he had been a prince.
A prince who had died.
His stomach dropped with a physical lurch. The alarm was still beeping. He silenced it with a slap and sat on the edge of the bed for one more moment, just one, breathing in the ordinary scent of his ordinary room..
Then his brain supplied the information he had been avoiding.
Classes.
Shit.
He was already late.
He moved through his morning routine with the efficiency of someone running on instinct rather than thought, shower, clothes, a cursory battle with his curls that ended, as it always did, in a draw. He emerged from the bathroom in jeans and sneakers and his favorite dark hoodie, his hair doing exactly what it wanted. There wasn’t time to argue with it. There was rarely ever time.
The smell of coffee reached him in the hallway. It pulled at something in his chest and he followed it through the penthouse to the kitchen.
His steps halted in the doorway.
Rhaenyra stood at the island counter, reading something on her tablet with the focused, slightly stern expression she wore when she was processing information she found annoying. A coffee mug steamed beside her elbow, forgotten. She was already dressed soft grey, elegant, effortlessly so in the way that had always seemed to come naturally to her and she looked exactly as she always looked in the morning, tired by all the corporate bullshit.
CEO of Targaryen Corporation. One of the most influential women in King’s Landing. The most formidable person he had ever known.
His mother.
The word hit him somewhere unsteady. Something twisted painfully in his chest, relief so acute it nearly hurt, threaded through with the dreaming grief of a boy who had watched her face in his mind as the water closed over him, who had spent his last conscious moment believing she was safe, needing her to be safe, and had been right without ever knowing he was right.
He crossed the room before he had consciously decided to.
He wrapped his arms around her.
Rhaenyra nearly dropped her coffee.
“Jacaerys-”
She caught herself, setting the mug down with a firm clink on the marble countertop, and then without hesitation, because she had always been this, whatever else she was, she wrapped her arms around him and held him back.
“Sweet boy.” Her voice was softer now. Her fingers found their way into his curls the way they had when he was very small. “What’s the matter?”
Jace swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
The dream came rushing back through him like a tide, the war, the weight of a crown his mother should have inherited without blood, the desperate, bone-deep need to protect her. The image of her face as he had walked away from Dragonstone, toward the dragon, toward the battle, toward the Gullet. The way he had looked back.
He shook his head against her shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“You are clearly not fine.”
Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles against his back. Despite himself, despite everything, Jace felt something in him begin to loosen.
He laughed. A weak, slightly broken sound, but genuine. “I just…” His voice cracked on the nothing he was trying to say.
Rhaenyra pulled back slightly to look at him. Not the way she looked at her board of directors, or at rivals across conference tables, or at the city from thirty floors up. The other way. The private way, that only he and his brothers ever saw.
“What happened?”
He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping she wouldn’t comment on it and took a breath.
“I had the most vivid dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
He hesitated. There was something strange about saying it. As though speaking about it aloud would make it either more real or less, and he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted.
“I was a prince,” he said.
Rhaenyra blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that.
“A prince?”
“Yeah.” A small smile found its way onto his face, unwilling, almost involuntary. “You were a queen.”
Something passed across her expression something soft, something she would never have allowed in a meeting room. “Oh?”
“I died fighting a battle for you.”
Silence.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead with the gentleness that had no performance in it, something she reserved for the three of them and no one else.
“Well,” she said finally, her smile warming to something that was almost, almost teasing. “That sounds exhausting.”
Jace stared. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“You are standing in my kitchen wearing yesterday’s hoodie and telling me about dragon wars, Jacaerys.”
He opened his mouth to protest then closed it. “Fair.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “It was only a dream.”
“You know,” said a new voice from the doorway, “some families start their mornings with good morning.”
Luke wandered in carrying a cereal box like a trophy, nineteen years old and permanently, professionally smug. He surveyed the scene with the cheerful heartlessness of a younger brother who had found ammunition and intended to use it.
“Did Jace finally lose his mind?”
Behind him, Joffrey, fourteen and grinning with the particular delight of someone who had been waiting for this squeezed past into the kitchen. “About time.”
Jace rolled his eyes so hard it was almost an athletic achievement. “There he is.”
“Dreaming about being a prince?” Luke plucked a bowl from the cupboard with casual ease. “That’s because you’re already treated like one.”
The napkin Jace threw hit him square in the face. Luke threw it back. Rhaenyra sighed with the air of a woman who had calculated exactly how many more years of this lay before her and found the number disheartening.
“My sons,” she said, picking up her coffee. “Truly intellectual giants.”
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
Breakfast passed with the comfortable velocity of mornings that had been rehearsed through repetition until they ran themselves. Luke complaining about something, Joffrey eating cereal in quantities that defied his size, Rhaenyra reading from her tablet while simultaneously tracking all three of them with the peripheral attention of someone who had never once been entirely off duty.
Jace was reaching for his coffee when Rhaenyra glanced up.
“Are you still picking up your girlfriend?”
He froze.
The coffee cup remained halfway to his face, arrested in mid-air.
“…My what?”
Luke’s head snapped up. The expression that crossed his face was one of pure, unalloyed joy. He looked like he had been handed a gift.
Rhaenyra stared at her eldest with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of a woman who had not expected to be performing this particular reality check on a Tuesday morning.
“Your girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Jace set the cup down carefully. “Right.”
You.
He had a girlfriend.
A beautiful girlfriend, and she was his girlfriend, and she had been his girlfriend for- he was briefly lost in the arithmetic of it, which was itself a kind of answer and she was wonderful, she was brilliant, she made him laugh, and somehow in the space between waking up with the sea in his lungs and standing in his mother’s kitchen in yesterday’s hoodie, he had momentarily forgotten she existed.
And then, because his brain was apparently in full catastrophic mode this morning: betrothed.
Not yet. Not technically. But the word had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he woke up from his dream.
Heat flooded his face with spectacular completeness.
Luke nearly choked on his cereal.
“Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“You forgot your girlfriend.”
“Only briefly.”
“Only” Luke dissolved entirely, shoulders shaking. Across the table, Joffrey watched with the dignified appreciation of a connoisseur.
Rhaenyra shook her head slowly. “Honestly, Jace.”
“It was a very intense dream,” he said, with as much dignity as one can muster while slowly turning the color of a sunset.
“You forgot your girlfriend.”
“The dream had dragons, Mum.”
She gave him the look. The specific look, the one that had been making him feel twelve years old since he was actually twelve years old. “She’s a lovely girl. I wish you’d bring her home more often.”
Jace stood from the table with the decisive energy of a man drawing a conversation to a close.
“I was planning to.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Today?”
“…Possibly.”
“Good.” Rhaenyra returned to her tablet, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth saying everything she was too dignified to say aloud.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The underground parking garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and oil and the expensive quiet of a building where people took the lift rather than the stairs. Jace’s Porsche sat in its usual spot, Oak Green Metallic, catching the fluorescent light.
Vermax.
He had named the car Vermax which now sounded so ionic to him.
He stood beside the driver’s door for a moment, hand on the handle, the thought arriving fully formed and then sitting there in his chest with an odd weight. He had named his car Vermax years ago. He had thought it was because he liked the sound of it, or because it was the name of a character in a book he’d read, or because of some half-remembered reason that had never quite solidified into anything coherent.
He looked at the car. The deep green of it. The long, low lines of it, built for speed, built for the sky-
Built for the sky.
A strange feeling settled over him, the kind of not-quite-vertigo that comes with recognizing something without being able to name what it is you’re recognizing. Like seeing an old friend across a crowd before you’ve registered their face.
He shook it off. Got in and drove.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The street outside your house was quiet in the way that Tuesday mornings in King’s Landing occasionally managed to be, with the morning light that made ordinary things seem briefly considered. Jace pulled to the curb and sat for a moment with the engine idling, window down.
Then the front door opened and you stepped out.
He got out of the car.
The morning light caught your hair the way it always did, making you look almost angelic in Jace’s eyes in that moment. You were still in the act of adjusting the strap of your bag when you spotted him, and the smile that crossed your face. Happy just to see him.
And for one strange, suspended moment, another image overlapped the morning like a transparency laid over a photograph. A figure standing on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea grey below and the wind pulling at dark fabric. Watching him leave. The expression on her face, your face, heartbroken and resolute and trying to be neither.
Waiting for him to come back.
The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. The morning reasserted itself. You were walking toward the car, your bag settled on your shoulder now, your smile still in place, and Jace found himself already stepping forward already moving toward with certainty that was less decision than gravity.
Before you could say a word, he took your hand and raised it, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.
Deliberatea and unhurried. Like he’d done it a thousand times before, in other rooms, in other centuries.
“How are you, my beloved?”
You stopped.
Looked at the hand.
Looked at him.
And then, because you were you, you laughed, the bright, surprised sound of someone caught genuinely off guard. “What has gotten into you this morning?” you questioned him.
Jace grinned, and the grin felt more like him than anything else had all morning. “I genuinely have no idea.”
“You’re being sooo weird.” You studied him with the narrowed eyes trying to grasp his words and actions. “How weird is this going to get?”
“I had the wildest dream.”
“Oh?” Already your expression was shifting into the one you wore when you were preparing to be entertained.
He leaned forward and kissed you softly quick, warm and certain.
“In it,” he said against your smile, “you were my princess too.”
Your cheeks went pink with entirely gratifying speed.
“Oh my God.”
“You asked.”
“I asked what was wrong with you, not-”
“Details.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon, I am going to need you to be normal for the next five minutes-”
“I make no promises.”
He opened the passenger door for you, still grinning, and the morning felt lighter than it had when he’d left the penthouse.
The dream wasn’t entirely terrible, he thought, settling behind the wheel. If nothing else, it had done this, sharpened his vision, made ordinary things brilliant again. Made you more vivid than you’d already been, which was saying something considerable.
He found himself smiling the entire drive to university.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
University should have felt normal.
Instead, Jace spent the entire morning convinced he was losing his mind by degrees as new details of his dream would hit him.
The dream lingered with a persistence that ordinary dreams did not have, the kind he usually forgot by the time he reached the kitchen. This one clung. Every corridor he walked reminded him of castle hallways, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the smell of torch smoke. Every crowded lecture hall conjured the geometry of noble courts; the subtle theatre of power performed through proximity. His Strategic Management lecture had an entire section on resource allocation that kept pulling his thoughts sideways, toward councils and war rooms and Dragonstone.
He stared at his notebook.
He had written, in the margin: Corlys was right about the Gullet.
He had no idea when.
“You’re disassociating again.”
Jace blinked.
Across the seminar table sat Cregan Stark, regarding him with the expression he used on everything: tall, dark-haired, slow-blinking, fundamentally and constitutionally unimpressed by the world and all its events. He was from Winterfell like genuinely, actually from Winterfell, which Jace had always found slightly funny without ever quite being able to explain why.
They’d been best friends since secondary school, the friendship that had calcified into something so much more. They were like brothers in every sense.
Also, he looked almost exactly like the Cregan from the dream.
Same jaw. Same eyes. Same expression, the one that said I am listening to you and I find you exhausting.
Same, in other words, as he always looked well except his had slightly shorter hair.
“What?” Jace managed.
Cregan raised one eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at me for ten seconds with an expressionless face.”
“Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I had a strange dream. I feel like I keep repeating these words over and over again.”
“You texted me at four in the morning.”
Jace went very still.
“I did?”
Cregan reached for his phone with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the chaos of being Jace Velaryon’s closest friend. He scrolled briefly, then began reading aloud in the flat, informational tone of a news anchor delivering a weather report.
“‘Brother, imagine if we were medieval nobles.’”
“Oh, God.”
“‘You would have loved Winterfell.’”
“Cregan-”
“‘You were Lord of the North.’” He glanced up briefly. “I’m from Winterfell, Jace. I grew up in Winterfell. I know what Winterfell is.”
“Please stop-”
‘I miss Vermax.’
Cregan lowered the phone.
“I don’t know what Vermax is, if its not talking about your car.” he said.
Jace buried his face in both hands and made a sound that was less a word than a comprehensive statement.
“You were never meant to read those.”
“You sent them to me.”
“I was apparently not fully conscious at four in the morning. I don’t remember doing this at all.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
The question arrived without ceremony, Cregan always asked things he actually wanted to know, dropped into a conversation like a stone dropped into water, watching to see what it displaced. Jace hesitated for long enough that the silence became its own answer.
“Yeah,” he said. Then, quietly: “Not entirely.”
Cregan nodded. He didn’t push. This was something Jace had always valued about him, the Stark capacity to hold space without filling it.
“Tell me later,” Cregan said, and turned back to his laptop.
Mostly, Jace thought. He was mostly okay.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
You found him outside the business building at noon, materializing from the flow of students and your smile arrived before you did.
Jace felt the thing in his chest that had been clenched since 7 AM ease, slowly, like a hand opening. There was something about you that operated on him this way, had always operated on him this way, since the beginning. A quality of presence that grounded him, that made the world’s coordinates make sense again. He’d never found quite the right words for it. He’d stopped trying.
You slipped your hand into his without ceremony.
“Better than this morning?”
“A little.”
“Still thinking about your prince dream?”
He laughed, the sound freer than he expected. “Unfortunately.”
“You are such a nerd.”
“I was literally fighting a war.”
“You were dreaming about fighting a war.”
“Details.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon, if this dream becomes your entire personality, I want it on the record that I tried to prevent it-”
“Noted and rejected.”
You rolled your eyes with magnificent feeling. “I make no promises about what I tell your mother.”
Together you walked toward the café nearby. A small, overcrowded place called something Jace could never quite remember but it had had excellent coffee and terrible lighting and was perpetually full of students and professors who had clearly rather be somewhere else. The place that existed to absorb the ambient anxiety of a university and convert it, through caffeine, into something marginally more functional.
You had barely settled into your seats when a familiar voice arrived from approximately two tables away, belonging to someone who had apparently been watching for them.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”
Aegon Targaryen dropped into the empty chair beside Jace with the comfortable confidence of a man who owned, and this was literally true, approximately half the building they were sitting in. Twenty-six, blond, expensive, reliably catastrophic. His jacket probably cost more than Jace’s car maintenance for the year, and he wore it with the carelessness never once considering the cost of anything.
He was nothing like the monster from the dream. The dream-Aegon had been something Jace couldn’t fully bring himself to examine yet. Jealous and bitter and capable of terrible things. This Aegon was mostly known for throwing parties that became local legend and mysteriously managing to avoid all professional consequences for anything he did, ever. Jacaerys supposed that has something to do with his mother and his uncle Aemond keeping these things contained.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Jace asked.
Aegon’s attention had already moved to you.
“And how are you?”
“Good,” you said politely.
“Still putting up with him?”
You smiled. “Barely.”
“Excellent answer.”
Jace groaned. Aegon looked absolutely delighted.
“You’re blushing,” Aegon observed, with the tone of someone reporting a natural phenomenon.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
You leaned over the table, and Jace recognized the look on your face immediately. The collaborative look. The look that meant you had identified an ally.
“He was calling me his beloved this morning.”
Aegon’s chair nearly lost him. He grabbed the table.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“In what context?”
“He kissed my hand. In the street. Before nine in the morning.”
Aegon looked at Jace the way someone looks at an archaeological discovery with facination, slightly appalled, deeply pleased. “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened.”
Jace contemplated his options. Leaving. Changing his name and moving to Braavos. Committing entirely to the persona of someone who had never been caught calling his girlfriend my beloved at eight forty-five on a Tuesday.
None of these were practical.
He reached for his coffee and said nothing, which Aegon correctly interpreted as total defeat.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
After Aegon eventually wandered off, ostensibly to a meeting, credibly to cause chaos somewhere else and so the café settled back into its ordinary rhythms. Students came and went. Espresso machines hissed. The ambient noise absorbed itself.
You and Jace remained at your table, and the laughter faded naturally, the way good laughter does, not dying but simply becoming something quieter.
He was staring into his coffee again.
You watched him for a moment.
“You never told me the whole dream, since it has you in a weird mindset today.” you said quietly.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup. He was aware of you looking at him, with your full attention, which had always been more like listening than looking, patient and genuine and without agenda.
“To put it simply, there was a war,” he said.
You didn’t ask him to explain. You waited.
“A civil war.” He looked up briefly, then back at the table. “A war over who would rule over Westeros. My mother was supposed to inherit as was the rightful heir to the throne but there were those who didn’t accept it. Didn’t accept her.”
“And you fought for her.”
“Of course.”
The images came without invitation, Dragonstone’s grey halls, the council table, the maps spreading the whole kingdom out before them like a wound. The feeling of duty that had lived in his chest since childhood, not as a burden but as a definition. This is who you are. This is what you do.
You reached across the table and took his hand.
He continued.
“I flew a dragon. I know this sounds no so scary but-” Despite everything, he heard the ghost of wonder in his own voice. “Vermax. He was- he was mine. Since I was a boy. He knew me.” The wonder curdled, softened into something heavier. “He died with me.”
Your thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles.
“The last thing I remember,” he said quietly, “was dying. Floating in the sea, after everything.” He paused.
“It was strange. It wasn’t- it wasn’t the way I would have imagined. It wasn’t terrifying.”
“What was it?”
He thought about it honestly.
“It was sad,” he said. “But calm.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then you reached up, and the gesture was so unexpected that he went still, your hand cupping his cheek, steady and warm, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye.
He leaned into it without thinking.
“I’m glad it was only a dream,” you said softly trying to calm his anxieties that he didn’t want to confess out loud.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The tightness in his chest released, not all at once but in stages, like a knot worked loose over time. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips briefly to your palm, and you let him, and neither of you made anything of it.
She’s right, he thought. Whatever that was. Whatever it meant.
He was here. Alive. With his family, with his best friend, with his girl.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was, actually, everything.
The afternoon passed.
Classes ended. The university slowly emptied like it did every day at dusk, students and professors releasing themselves back into the city like a pressure valve opening. The parking lot filled briefly with the usual chaos and then thinned.
“My mother wants you over more often,” Jace mentioned, as they walked toward the Porsche.
“Apparently she likes you.”
You brightened immediately. “Really?”
“She said so unprompted. First thing this morning.”
“Good.” You smiled with satisfaction. “I’m charming.”
Jace looked at you sideways. “You are deeply smug about this.”
“I’m charming,” you repeated, pleasantly.
He laughed. “Come over tonight?”
You looked at him, with that look you had, the one he’d never found a word for, the one that made him feel simultaneously seen and unsteady in the best possible way. Made him feel a bit giddy.
“I’d love to,” you said.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The penthouse was unusually quiet when they arrived.
Rhaenyra was visible through the glass of her home office, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, reading from a document with the focused intensity and it was clear that the woman needed a break from everything. Luke had evaporated somewhere. Joffrey was reportedly studying, a claim no one in the household had ever been successfully able to verify.
You and Jace settled at the dining table with laptops and scattered notes and the collective fiction of productivity.
For forty minutes, it was remarkably functional.
Jace had his economics module open. You were working through something, he didn’t ask, didn’t need to and the sound of quiet typing and the occasional turn of a page created a kind of companionable silence that he had always thought of as the specific luxury of being comfortable with someone. presence. You could simply be in it.
He was reading about capital allocation.
“Jace.”
He looked up.
“You’re getting lost in your mind again.”
“I’m not what are you talking about?” he said automatically. Then, because honesty was something he’d apparently committed to today: “I was thinking about- uhhh. Economics?”
“That is not better.”
“You look pretty,” he said simply.
The silence that followed had a distinct texture.
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slowly, deliberately, closed your laptop.
“No,” you said.
“What?”
“You don’t get to say things like that when I’m trying to study.”
“I was simply making an observation.”
“You are impossible.”
He was very pleased with himself. He did not bother hiding it.
An hour later, the economics module had not progressed. The textbooks had been consolidated into a single pile and pushed to the far end of the table, a gesture that meant these exist and will eventually be addressed, which was as much as either of you were willing to commit to. A film had been agreed upon via negotiation.
Blankets appeared.
The overhead lights went off.
And somehow, as these things always somehow managed, you ended up curled against his chest on the enormous sectional, his arm around your waist, the film playing distantly while neither of you particularly watched it. Your breathing slowed first. His heartbeat was steady and familiar beneath your ear.
The city moved quietly outside the windows.
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The prince stood before you.
The wind came off the sea like a cold hand, whipping through his dark, curling hair, pressing his black riding coat against his frame. Behind him, Dragonstone rose in its glory against a steel-grey sky, all sharp towers and dark stone, magnificent and terrible, built by people who had never believed in half measures. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon with the patient, deliberate advance of something inevitable.
“No.”
Your voice came out broken.
“No, please.”
He looked at you the way he always looked at you as if you were the clearest thing in a world that had lately become very unclear, like looking at you was the one thing he could do without effort in a life that had demanded extraordinary effort from him since the moment he was old enough to understand what he was.
“I have to go.”
“You don’t,” you said, even though you knew it wasn’t true. Even though somewhere beneath the desperate present tense of the argument, the truer, older part of you already knew exactly what was coming. Already knew the shape of this farewell.
His hands found yours.
They were warm. Strong and real, so real that makes their loss so much more brutal than the loss of things you never fully believed in.
“You can stay,” you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. “You can let someone else-”
“I cannot.” His voice was gentle but stern. He was stubborn and so if he made peace with this decisions, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Tears burned behind your eyes. The fear inside you was almost unbearable and burning, it was twisted and layered, because you knew. You already knew. This was not a premonition, not a vague presentiment. It was knowledge, carried somewhere beneath language, beneath memory, in whatever part of you had been this person before.
You knew what awaited him at the Gullet.
Fire.
Water.
“You promised.” The words escaped before you could decide to say them.
His expression shifted. Something moved across it, grief, tenderness, the ache of a man who loves something too well to pretend it isn’t breaking.
“And I will keep that promise but this is a battle I must fight for both myself and my mother.”
He stepped closer, and you let him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead so gently it barely qualified as a touch at all.
Then he rested his brow against yours.
His eyes never left yours.
“If I do not return- which I intend to,”
The world seemed to hold its breath.
“I will find you.”
A tear escaped. Traced the line of your cheek. He watched it with eyes that were very dark and very steady.
“In every lifetime if not this one. I promise.”
The words landed somewhere deep in you, somewhere wordless, somewhere older than the language you used to think with. A promise that had the weight of truth rather than intention.
You memorized his face. The curls. The strong jaw. The eyes, brown and earnest and alive, so alive.
He smiled.
Then he stepped away.
He turned toward the waiting dragon.
Toward the dark water below.
Toward a destiny that was also a death.
And all you could do was watch him leave.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
You woke with a gasp that tore itself from somewhere past your chest.
For several seconds, you could not find the room. Could not find yourself in it. There was only the dream...the cliffs, the wind, his forehead against yours, the sound of his footsteps retreating and the grief of it, which was specific and devastating and nothing at all like the vague emotional residue of ordinary sleep.
Tears burned behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding.
You pushed yourself upright. A blanket tangled around your legs. The room was dim, the film long since ended, the television showing a menu screen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, King’s Landing glittered in the full dark of night, the city’s lights reflected upward in a warm wash against the low clouds. Jace must have moved you to his room when you fell asleep.
The bedroom door opened.
Jace stepped in carrying two mugs, steam rising from both. He had apparently, at some point during your sleep, been productive.
The moment he saw your face, he froze.
“Hey.”
The concern in his voice was immediate, the shift from normal to careful happening in the space of a single syllable.
“What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer. The words were somewhere on the way, but in the meantime your body had already decided what it needed, and what it needed was to close the distance between you and him as quickly as possible.
You stood.
Crossed the room.
The mugs barely survived. He caught them against the edge of the side table with an impressive reflex, setting them down quickly before his arms came around your waist, and you buried your face against the side of his neck, and breathed him in.
“Sweetheart?” Low and careful. His chin came to rest on top of your head.
You stayed there for a moment just letting the reality of him replace the dream of him. The warmth of him. The solidness.
Then you pulled back. Not far. Your forehead came to rest against his, which put you close enough to feel his breath and see the small crease of worry between his brows.
“I had a dream,” you said. It seems it was your turn to utter those words.
Something moved across his face. He went very still in the way that meant he was paying every variety of attention he had.
“What kind of dream?”
“I saw a prince.”
His breath caught. You felt it.
“I saw him leaving for a battle. He was going to fight-”
Your voice faltered, then steadied. “He knew he might not come back. And he said-” You stopped.
Jace’s arms tightened around you, almost involuntarily.
“He said he would find me,” you continued. “That if he didn’t return-” Your eyes met his, and something in your chest recognized something in his. “He would find me in every lifetime.”
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Jace stared at you.
Because those were the exact words. Not a version of them, not a paraphrase but the exact promise, the exact phrasing, the exact scene, the stone of Dragonstone under grey skies and wind coming off the sea. He had lived it from one side and you had lived it from the other, and here you both were, in a penthouse above a city that did not have dragons, with the memory of them living in your bones.
His throat moved.
You smiled softly with tears still bright at the corners of your eyes. Your hand lifted, your fingers moving gently through his curls, the same gesture that felt simultaneously new and ancient.
“I don’t know what any of that means,” you said.
“Neither do I.”
“But if it was real-”
His forehead pressed more firmly against yours.
“You kept your promise,” you whispered.
He felt his throat close.
And for the first time since he had woken to the sound of an alarm clock and a bedroom that wasn’t the sea, he stopped wondering whether the dream had been real. He stopped wondering whether he was grieving something imagined or something true. He stopped needing to know.
Because you knew.
You had been there.
You rose onto your toes.
Your lips met his.
It was slow and gentle. He kissed you back like someone returning to something, like a navigator finding a landmark in familiar water.
Like he had been waiting centuries and perhaps his soul had waited for this moment. The moment to return to her.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The knock was soft.
They both startled apart with the excellent reflexes of guilty consciences, then immediately demonstrated the dignity of two people pretending they hadn’t.
Jace cleared his throat. Rested his forehead against yours for one final second. His breath was unsteady in the best way.
Another knock.
“Jacaerys?”
Rhaenyra’s voice, measured, carrying through the door with the easy authority of a woman who managed board rooms and board members and the shenanigans of three sons as a single uninterrupted professional skill.
“Dinner is ready.” They heard the muffled voice of his mother.
Jace answered at a volume calibrated for normalcy “We’ll be there in a minute!”
A pause that had weight.
“Five minutes,” his mother’s voice returned, drier than a desert, and entirely aware of everything and perhaps making a wrong assumption of you two being alone in his room.
You laughed, pressing your face briefly against his shoulder to muffle it. He was already smiling.
“Your mother doesn’t trust you.”
“She absolutely does not.”
“And honestly?” You poked his chest. “I don’t blame her.”
“You wound me.”
“Good.” You pulled your hand back, but he caught it, quick and easy, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles again. The same gesture as that morning. The echo of it traveled through both of you clearly.
Your cheeks went pink.
He watched it happen with a feeling in his chest that was too large and too simple to require any examination at all.
There she is, he thought. My girl.
My princess.
He took your hand properly, fingers laced and led you toward the dining room.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
They heard the argument before they reached the dinner table.
Luke and Joffrey, seated across from each other in the arrangement that the family had collectively accepted as a flaw, were conducting a debate with the commitment of two people who had come to win.
“No, because you’re objectively wrong-”
“I’m objectively right-”
“You don’t even know what objectively means.”
“I literally do.”
“You used it wrong.”
Joffrey groaned with his whole body. “I hate this family.”
“You are this family,” Luke pointed out.
Joffrey considered this. “Exactly.”
Rhaenyra, at the head of the table, was pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. This was her normal and yet it was tiring.
The moment she saw you, her face entirely changed.
“There she is.”
You smiled. “Hi.”
She stood and pulled you into a hug with a warmth that was, Jace thought privately, rather more enthusiastic than his own homecoming greeting most mornings. “I was beginning to think my son had invented you.”
“Mum.”
“What? He never brings you over.”
“That’s his fault,” you said.
“Traitor,” Jace said.
“You’re literally my boyfriend.”
“Exactly.”
You smiled sweetly. “I’m allowed.”
Rhaenyra looked delighted in the specific way she allowed herself to look delighted when she was genuinely pleased, a rarity outside this apartment. Luke immediately leaned toward you.
“See? This is why she’s my favorite.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“Unfortunately.”
Jace threw a bread roll at him.
Luke threw one back.
The war began immediately, and lasted approximately five seconds before Rhaenyra’s single sharp look ended it. She had a look for this. It was very effective.
“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, settling back into her chair and accepting a bread roll from the basket with the serenity of someone who had already mentally exited the building, “if I raised wolves.”
“That’s insulting,” Joffrey said.
Everyone looked at him.
The fourteen-year-old shrugged with the composure of someone who had thought this through. “Wolves are smarter.”
The silence held for two seconds before Luke’s expression cracked. Jace looked at the ceiling. Rhaenyra’s attempt at severity collapsed at its foundations.
You sat beside Jace with your hand warm against his under the table, and you were already laughing, and the sound of it filled the room the way laughter does when a room is already full of people who are glad to be there.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
Dinner found its rhythm.
Conversation moved in the easy, overlapping way it does with people who have logged enough hours together that they no longer need to manage it consciously. Luke complained about a group project with the vivid resentment of having decided the problem was everyone else.
Joffrey explained something about a game or a film or a historical period but the audience could not quite keep up, but that seemed to be part of the experience. Rhaenyra complained, with great economy, about company politics, and then told a story about a colleague that had everyone at the table paying full attention (It was Aemond who everytone is afraid of in their company).
You listened to all of it.
Jace, mostly, watched.
He had not expected this. Had woken this morning in the sea, or the memory of it. Had spent the drive to university with the dream still active in his body, had sat through lectures half-present, had carried the weight of Vermax’s last look in his chest all day like a stone.
And now.
He watched his mother smile at something you said. He watched Luke do the thing he did when he was actually amused, which was different from when he is pretending. Watched Joffrey explain something to you directly, having apparently determined that you were worth the effort, and watched your face do the thing it did when you were genuinely interested in something, slightly forward, slightly bright, entirely present.
You fit here. Not as a guest, not as someone being accommodated. As someone who belonged.
He thought of the dream again.
Remembered standing at the dragonpit of Dragonstone with his armor on and the dragon saddled and the sea grey behind him, and looking back at everything he was leaving, his mother, his brothers, you, the stone halls and the cold salt wind and the ordinary miracle of a morning that didn’t require a king’s son to die for it.
He had wondered, in those last seconds at Dragonstone, if he would ever see any of them again.
He had his answer now.
The realization settled in his chest quietly, without drama. Not a revelation, something more like a confirmation. A peace he hadn’t known he was looking for, finding him here, at a dinner table with a bread roll dent in the tablecloth and Joffrey currently holding forth on something no one else understood.
No war. No dragons. No succession. No battles. Just family. Just love.
Just this.
Halfway through dessert, Joffrey’s phone lit up.
“Oh!” He reached for it with the speed of receiving news they’d been waiting for. “Dad’s calling.”
Jace felt himself smile before the screen even showed Laenor’s face.
It appeared a moment later, that face, familiar and warm and slightly tanned by whatever sun was currently shining on whatever harbor on whatever coast he was sailing toward. Behind him, a bright blue sky suggested somewhere in Essos, probably. The man was perpetually in motion, perpetually somewhere else and yet found time for them. He was not their real father, but he might as well have been. After Harwin passed away, Rhaenyra had remarried Laenor as more of a deal since Laenor wasn’t interested in anything but he cared for Rhaenyra platonically and it seemed to have worked out great and that’s all that mattered.
“There are my favorite children.”
Luke snorted. “We’re your only children.”
“And yet somehow still my favorites.” Laenor’s gaze found you across the table, and his face smiled “There she is.”
You laughed. “Hello.”
“Good. Finally, someone sensible has arrived.”
“Hey!” Three voices, simultaneous.
Laenor continued as though he hadn’t heard. “How are you, darling?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
Jace groaned. “Why does everyone in my family like her more than me?”
“Because,” Laenor said, and the timing was beautiful, “she has manners.”
The table erupted. Even Rhaenyra, which was a significant achievement.
Laenor spent twenty minutes on the call, chatting about his route, trading insults with. He heard both Luke and Joffery’s rambling. He asked Rhaenyra about the board meeting she’d complained about, and listened to her answer. He asked you about your studies, and remembered something you’d mentioned three calls ago, and asked a follow-up question about it.
The man had walked into their lives years ago and simply decided, without announcement or conditions, that these were his sons. No performance of it. No documentation. Just- love, extended to fill the available space.
Dream Laenor had disappeared. The thought arrived gently, without bitterness. The dream-Laenor, who had been present mostly in his absence, who Jace had barely known, who had been lost before Jace could understand what losing someone meant. This version was here. This version showed up.
And Jace was, quietly and completely, grateful for that.
The call ended. The dessert finished. The evening moved toward its natural conclusion with the comfortable inevitability of all good evenings. Luke vanished in the direction of his room. Joffrey disappeared with a quantity of snacks that could feed a whole army. Rhaenyra retreated to finish what she’d started, she always had something she was finishing, this was simply who she was and the penthouse settled into quiet
Which left you and Jace, alone on the balcony.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
King’s Landing stretched below them without end.
The city was all light from up here, not the individual lights, not streets and windows and the moving points of cars, but the collective glow of it, the warmth of a few million people living their lives in proximity, translated upward into something that looked, from this height, almost like its own kind of fire.
A cool breeze moved through the dark, carrying the city’s particular nighttime mixture of warm pavement and distant food and the faint, improbable ghost of something floral from a rooftop garden somewhere below. It found its way into Jace’s curls and did what it wanted with them.
You stood beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The city was enough, for a while.
Then you broke the silence the way you often did when a thought entered your head.
“Do you think it was real?”
He didn’t ask what you meant.
The dreams. The prince and the princess. The battle. The promise made at the edge of the world on the morning of an ending. The specific weight of standing on Dragonstone and knowing.
“I don’t know,” he said.
You slipped your hand into his. Your fingers were cool from the night air. He closed his hand around yours.
“But it felt real,” you said.
“It did.”
Another silence, this one richer. Weighted, but not heavily, weighted the way a good book is heavy, in a way you want.
“If it was real…”
Jace looked toward you. The city’s light caught you from below, softening the angles, turning you luminous in the warm way of a portrait painted with care. The same thing he’d thought this morning returned, effortlessly, as though it had simply been waiting for the right lighting.
Radiant.
The same as the princess from the dream. The same, and also entirely herself.
“If it was real,” you continued, a smile finding the corner of your mouth, “I think she’d be happy.”
“Who?”
“The princess.”
Your fingers squeezed his.
“Because she got her prince back.”
Something moved in his chest and he felt a giddy sensation.
“And he got his princess,” he said quietly.
The smile you gave him in return was the specific, undone kind that he privately thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He doubted this would change.
“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I’ve spent all day thinking about the battle.”
“The Gullet?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the city. “The part where I died.”
You were quiet beside him.
“And?” you said, finally.
He looked back through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.
His mother, visible in her office, signing something. The small movement of her hand showing her actions.
Luke in the hallway beyond, typing away at his phone aggressively with determinations of someone looking to win an argument even if he may be wrong.
Joffrey somewhere in his room planning a prank on his mother.
And all of it, all of this life, this ordinary, extraordinary life, glowing warm behind glass thirty floors above a city that had never known a dragon. His family.
“I think that prince would’ve liked this,” he said.
You followed his gaze.
You understood immediately. He could see it in the way your face softened, not with sadness but with tenderness that recognizes grief and holds it carefully.
A life without war. Without the weight of a crown.
Without sacrifice, the kind that swaps one beloved thing for another in an endless, devastating ledger.
Just family.
Just love.
Just peace.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your hair, slow and quiet.
Neither of you saw it.
But just for a moment, a breath, almost a blink, the glass of the balcony door held a reflection that was not quite yours.
Two figures. Side by side. Dressed in black and red, the colours of a house that had once held the world.
Standing exactly as you were standing. Looking out at exactly what you were looking at.
Smiling.
At each other, and at this, and at everything that had managed, against all odds, to survive.
Then the image dissolved.
The glass held only the room behind it, warm and lit and full of the sound of Luke losing the argument.
summary: months after a drunk photobooth kiss, dean finds the pictures tucked neatly inside beau’s wallet, forcing you to finally confront what that night meant
friends to lovers
warnings: alcohol consumption, mutual pining, dean being a protective older brother, and a lot of yearning<3
word count: 11.4k
a/n: i can’t stop writing for beau someone help me. this ended up longer than i expected lmfao but it’s still a fun one, i hope you guys like it<3
── ᵎᵎ ✦
tonight’s problem was beau after several drinks, when the easy affection he usually kept hidden beneath teasing and casual touches became considerably harder for him to disguise.
you had been friends for long enough to know the difference.
beau was affectionate with everyone he cared about. that was simply part of who he was. he threw arms around shoulders, bumped knees beneath tables, and had never seemed to understand the concept of personal space when he was comfortable with someone. for the first few months of your friendship, you had convinced yourself that the way he behaved with you was no different.
eventually, that argument had become harder to maintain.
you weren’t sure when it had happened. there had been no single moment you could point to, no sudden realization dramatic enough to justify the increasingly inconvenient way your stomach behaved whenever he smiled at you across a crowded room.
it had happened gradually.
somewhere between late-night food runs and afternoons spent studying together, between him walking you home when he was already late to meet someone else and you sitting through football games you barely understood because he always looked for you in the stands afterward, beau had become something slightly more dangerous than a friend.
not that he knew that.
as far as you were concerned, he was never going to know that. besides, your brother would probably kill you both.
you were standing near the kitchen doorway when beau found you that night. the party had been going on for hours by then, though you had lost any reliable sense of time somewhere between your fourth drink and watching your brother attempt to convince allie that he could definitely open a bottle with the edge of a countertop.
he could not.
the resulting argument had lasted considerably longer than the bottle itself had survived.
you had been listening to allie complain about him when an arm suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you backward into a familiar chest. you barely had time to react before beau rested his chin against your shoulder, “found you.”
his voice was warm against your ear, slightly rough from having spent most of the night talking over music that was far too loud.
you hated the immediate response of your body to his proximity. the warmth that spread through you had nothing to do with the alcohol, but you smiled anyway and hoped the crowded room would hide the slight flush creeping into your cheeks, “i wasn’t hiding.”
“still found you.”there was an irritating satisfaction in his voice, as though locating you at a party neither of you had left was some kind of accomplishment.
you turned your head enough to look at him, which was a mistake. his face was far too close to yours, and he was already smiling. his hair had become increasingly messy throughout the night, probably because he had spent the last few hours running his hands through it, and his cheeks were faintly flushed from the alcohol and heat of the crowded house.
there was something loose and content about him when he drank. the usual energy remained, but the sharper edges disappeared. his smiles came more easily, his laughter grew louder, and whatever internal filter usually reminded him that friends did not need to be touching constantly seemed to stop working entirely.
not that it was particularly effective when he was sober. “where have you been?” he asked.
you glanced toward allie, who was standing approximately two feet away and watching the interaction with poorly concealed amusement, “right here.”
beau followed your gaze. when allie lifted her eyebrows at him he looked back at you, apparently unbothered by the silent judgment, “right.”
you laughed, unable to help yourself, “how much have you had to drink?”
his expression became thoughtful, “not that much.”
as you stared at him, his mouth twitched, and before you could question him further, his attention shifted toward something across the room. you watched his eyes narrow slightly before his entire face brightened with sudden interest.
you knew that expression. nothing good ever followed that expression, “what?”
he didn’t answer. instead, the arm around your waist disappeared only for his hand to find yours, “come with me.”
“where?”
beau had already started pulling you through the crowd, and you had little choice but to follow unless you wanted to create a human chain across the middle of the basement.
you stumbled after him, laughing when you nearly walked into somebody carrying a dangerously full cup. beau glanced back immediately and slowed just enough to make sure you were steady before continuing, his fingers tightening around yours.
finally, he stopped in front of a photo booth. it looked like it had been borrowed from somewhere and never returned. the red curtain was slightly crooked, one corner of the screen was cracked, and somebody had taped a handwritten sign above the coin slot informing everyone that the machine was free.
you stared at it. then at him; he was smiling. you immediately shook your head.
“why not?”
“because i know what i look like right now.”
his eyebrows drew together as though the answer was obvious, “you look good.”
the response came too quickly to be flirtatious, which somehow made it worse. you looked away, pretending to inspect the photo booth while your heart made an embarrassing attempt to climb into your throat, “my hair is a mess.”
“looks fine.”
“my makeup probably isn’t even on my face anymore.”
beau leaned closer, examining you with exaggerated concentration. the movement brought him into your space again, close enough that you caught the familiar scent of his cologne beneath the smell of alcohol and somebody’s aggressively sweet candle burning nearby. his teasing expression faded slightly as his eyes moved over your face, “you look pretty.”
your breath caught.
beau didn’t seem to notice what he had done. or maybe he did, because something changed in his expression too, the smile becoming quieter around the edges as the two of you looked at each other.
the moment lasted long enough to become dangerous. then someone shouted from across the basement, a cup hit the floor, and the noise of the party rushed back in around you.
you cleared your throat, “you’re drunk.”
“a little.”
“that explains it.”
beau frowned, “explains what?”
you pulled the curtain aside before he could make you answer, “get in the booth, maxwell.”
his confusion lasted only a second before satisfaction replaced it.
the bench inside was considerably smaller than it had looked from outside, something you suspected beau had known before convincing you to enter. you slid toward one side, pressing yourself against the wall to make room.
it didn’t help.
beau sat beside you and immediately took up most of the available space. your shoulders pressed together, one of his knees knocked against yours, and when he tried to adjust his position, he somehow managed to trap part of your leg beneath his.
you shoved at his shoulder, “move.”
“where?”
“i don’t know. somewhere else.”
he looked around the tiny booth as though genuinely considering his options before settling back into exactly the same position, “there is nowhere else.”
“then become smaller.”
beau laughed, the sound warm and close in the cramped space. you could feel the movement of it where his shoulder pressed against yours, and you suddenly became much too aware of how little room there was between you.
outside the booth, being close to beau was easy to ignore. inside it, there was nowhere else to look.
you reached forward and pressed the large green button beneath the screen before your thoughts could become any less helpful.
a countdown appeared.
five.
four.
beau leaned forward, “wait.”
three.
you looked at him, “what?”
two.
“i wasn’t ready.”
one.
the flash went off.
you blinked at the screen as the first photograph appeared in the corner.
you were looking directly at the camera, though your expression suggested you had been caught somewhere between confusion and laughter.
beau wasn’t looking at the camera at all. he was looking at you.
your amusement faded slightly. you glanced sideways at him, but he was already studying the screen with an expression that gave nothing away.
“you weren’t looking.”
“i know.”
“you ruined the first one.”
“seems fine to me.”
you looked back at the photograph. there was something strangely intimate about seeing the moment from the outside. you were turned toward the camera, completely unaware, while beau’s attention was fixed entirely on you.
you swallowed and looked away, “try looking at the camera this time.”
the countdown had already begun again. beau straightened, arranging his expression into something so absurdly serious that you immediately started laughing, “what are you doing?”
“taking a good picture.”
“you look miserable.”
“i’m concentrating.”
the flash caught him staring sternly into the camera while you were turned toward him, laughing. when the photograph appeared, you covered your mouth with one hand, “you look like you’ve been arrested.”
beau studied it, “i look good.”
“you look like you’re waiting for a lawyer.”
he turned toward you, visibly offended, and the third countdown began before either of you noticed, “you don’t think i look good?”
“not in that picture.”
“that’s very different from what you said earlier.”
“i didn’t say anything earlier.”
“you implied it.”
you stared at him, “when?”
“just then.”
“that makes no sense.”
“you said i only look bad in that picture.”
“that does not mean—”
the flash went off; the third picture caught you halfway through arguing while beau looked at you with an infuriatingly pleased grin.
you stared at the screen, then at him, “we have one picture left.”
“mhmm.”
“can we please take one normal one?”
beau leaned back against the booth, “you’re the one who keeps talking.”
“because you keep annoying me.”
“you started it.”
“i didn’t even want to do this.”
“you’re having fun,” he smirked and you hated that he was right.
the countdown appeared for the final picture.
this time, you faced the camera immediately, determined to get at least one photograph that didn’t capture you looking confused or arguing with him, “just smile normally.”
there was no response as you kept your eyes on the screen.
three.
“beau?”
two.
you turned your head. that was when you realized he was already looking at you. the smile had disappeared from his face and for one strange, suspended second, neither of you moved.
you were suddenly aware of everything at once. his knee pressed against yours, his shoulder warm beside you, the music outside the booth reduced to a dull pulse behind the curtain. your heart seemed to stumble over itself as his eyes dropped briefly to your mouth.
one.
you could have looked away.
you didn’t.
beau leaned in.
the kiss was soft enough that, for the first second, you almost wondered whether you had imagined it. then his hand came up, fingers settling carefully against the side of your face, and the flash went off behind your closed eyelids.
neither of you moved.
the picture had already been taken, but beau was still kissing you.
there was no cheering crowd to make it into a joke, no one pulling back immediately with a drunken laugh and an excuse. his mouth moved softly against yours, hesitant in a way you had never associated with him, as though he was waiting for you to decide whether this was a mistake.
you should have. because, dean was somewhere in the house and beau was his friend. beau was your friend.
there were a hundred reasons why you should have pulled away. instead, your fingers curled into the front of his shirt.
something changed in the kiss. only slightly.
his thumb moved against your cheek, and you tilted your face toward him without thinking, your heart beating so hard you were certain he could feel it in the cramped space between you.
you had thought about kissing beau before. far more often than you were willing to admit, but none of those imagined versions had felt like this.
there was nothing dramatic about it. no sudden certainty or fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. it was warmer than that, and somehow more frightening. it felt familiar when it shouldn’t have. natural in a way that made all the careful boundaries of your friendship seem suddenly ridiculous.
when you finally pulled apart, neither of you moved very far. beau’s hand remained against your face and your fingers were still twisted into his shirt.
for several seconds, the only sound inside the booth was the faint mechanical hum of the machine processing the pictures.
you stared at each other. the alcohol that had made everything seem pleasantly blurred five minutes ago suddenly felt entirely insufficient as an excuse. “well,” you murmured.
beau exhaled a quiet laugh, though he didn’t look particularly amused, “yeah.”
you waited for him to make a joke. he didn’t, which unsettled you more than anything else could have.
his eyes moved over your face, searching for something you weren’t sure how to give him, and the uncertainty in his expression made your chest tighten. you had known beau for long enough to recognize when he was nervous.
he was nervous now.
because he had kissed you. because you had kissed him back. because somewhere outside the booth, reality was waiting.
you were the first to look away, “we should probably get out.”
beau nodded, though neither of you moved immediately. eventually, you untangled yourselves from the tiny space. you stepped out first, grateful for the cooler air outside the booth, while beau followed behind you.
the machine made a mechanical whirring sound before the strip of photographs slowly emerged.
you both looked at it, but neither of you moved.
then beau reached for it. he held the strip between his fingers, his eyes moving over the four photographs. the first three made his mouth twitch faintly.
his expression changed at the last one. you couldn’t read it and you weren’t entirely sure you even wanted to.
“well,” you said again, because apparently your vocabulary had abandoned you.
beau glanced at you, “you said that already.”
“i did.”
“still processing?”
you folded your arms, “are you?”
he looked back at the picture, “maybe.”
your stomach flipped, but before either of you could say anything else, you heard dean calling your name from somewhere across the basement.
both of you froze.
you looked toward the sound, then at beau. his expression was so immediately guilty that a laugh escaped you, “you look terrified.”
“i’m not terrified.”
“you look like my brother just caught us.”
“he didn’t.”
“you don’t know that.”
beau glanced toward the crowd. the fact that he genuinely checked made you laugh again. some of the tension broke. not all of it, but enough for you to breathe normally.
dean called your name again, this time followed by allie telling him to stop shouting when you were clearly only twenty feet away. you started backing toward them, “we should probably…”
“yeah.”
you nodded toward the photo strip, “don’t lose that.”
beau glanced down at it for a second before looking back at you, “i won’t.”
something about the way he said it made you hesitate. but dean was still calling you, allie was threatening to leave without both of you, and you had no idea what you were supposed to say to the boy you had been friends with for months after kissing him in a photo booth.
so you smiled faintly and turned away, telling yourself you would talk about the kiss later.
you didn’t.
not the next morning, when you woke up with a headache and a message from beau asking whether you were alive. the conversation had been painfully normal, beginning with his complaint about the state of his head and ending twenty minutes later with the two of you arguing about whose fault it was that neither of you had eaten anything resembling an actual meal the night before.
neither of you mentioned the photo booth.
you didn’t mention it three days later either, when beau appeared outside one of your classes with coffee because he had been nearby and apparently remembered you complaining that morning about being tired. you had walked across campus together like you always did, shoulders occasionally brushing, conversation easy enough that you could almost convince yourself nothing had changed.
almost.
because things had changed, even if neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge it.
before the party, touching beau had been thoughtless. you had leaned against him during movies and stolen his hoodies when you were cold. he had thrown an arm around your shoulders whenever he felt like it and occasionally rested his head in your lap while complaining about something that had happened at practice. none of it had required thought because you had both understood the boundaries of it.
after the photo booth, every touch seemed to linger in your awareness.
when his hand found the small of your back in a crowded room, you remembered the feeling of his palm against your cheek. when he leaned close to hear you over the noise somewhere, your attention dropped helplessly toward his mouth. when he hugged you goodbye, you became painfully conscious of how long his arms stayed around you and wondered whether he was counting the seconds too.
the worst part was that beau seemed just as confused by the shift as you were.
sometimes, you caught him looking at you. not casually. not in the easy, absent way people looked at friends they had known for a long time. his attention would linger until you noticed it, and then one of you would look away while the other pretended nothing had happened.
once, while studying together in the library, you had looked up from your notes and found him already watching you from across the table, “what?” you had whispered.
beau had blinked, as though you had pulled him from somewhere far away, “nothing.” you had waited and watched him as he had looked down at his textbook, “you had something on your face.”
you hadn’t, you both knew you hadn’t. still, neither of you said anything.
weeks passed that way.
then months.
somewhere along the line, the awkwardness faded enough that your friendship returned to something resembling normal, but the kiss never disappeared completely. it lived somewhere beneath everything else, quiet but present, surfacing in the pauses that occasionally stretched between you or in the moments when beau stood slightly too close and neither of you moved away.
you eventually assumed the photo strip itself had disappeared.
beau lost things constantly. keys, chargers, his phone, water bottles, notes he needed for class. once, he had spent fifteen minutes searching for his sunglasses while they were resting on top of his head.
there was no reason to think the photograph from a drunken party had survived his particular brand of chaos.
months later, dean stopped by beau’s place after hockey practice with sore shoulders, damp hair, and the increasingly specific irritation of someone who had sent three unanswered messages over the course of an hour.
by the time beau finally opened the door, dean had already decided he was taking the twenty dollars beau owed him whether beau remembered owing it or not. beau, unsurprisingly, looked entirely unconcerned by the situation. he stood aside to let dean in, barely reacting when the heavy hockey bag was dropped beside his couch with enough force to make something inside it shift noisily.
“you still owe me twenty bucks,” dean said, following beau toward the kitchen.
beau opened the refrigerator and stared into it, “for what?”
“food last week.”
there was a short pause while beau seemed to search his memory. dean watched the back of his head with growing impatience, already knowing there was a good chance beau had absolutely no recollection of the meal in question. eventually, beau gave up trying to remember and gestured vaguely toward the kitchen counter, “wallet’s over there. just take it.”
dean crossed the room while beau disappeared down the hallway in search of a shirt. there was nothing unusual about dean opening his wallet; they had known each other for years, long enough for boundaries surrounding things like borrowed clothes, stolen food, and taking money one of them had explicitly been told to take to become fairly relaxed.
the twenty-dollar bill was tucked behind a collection of old receipts and cards. dean had just pulled it free when a piece of folded glossy paper shifted in one of the inner pockets.
he almost ignored it. almost.
then he noticed the edge of a photograph. that was unusual enough to make him pause. beau didn’t carry photographs around, at least not as far as dean knew, and curiosity won before he could give much thought to whether he was crossing a line.
he pulled the strip free and unfolded it.
the first picture confused him more than anything else.
he recognized you immediately. you were looking directly at the camera with the beginnings of a smile on your face, seemingly unaware that the person beside you had failed entirely to do the same. beau wasn’t looking toward the camera at all. his head was turned slightly in your direction, his attention fixed on you with an expression dean couldn’t immediately read.
dean’s eyebrows pulled together as he moved to the second photograph. that one made considerably more sense. beau looked absurdly serious while you were caught laughing beside him, your face turned toward him instead of the camera. the third showed the two of you in the middle of what looked like an argument, although beau’s grin suggested he was enjoying it far more than you were.
then dean reached the fourth picture.
for several seconds, he didn’t react at all. his mind seemed to reject the image before him, forcing him to look away and then back again as though the photograph might somehow rearrange itself into something less concerning.
it didn’t.
his best friend was kissing his sister.
and judging by the way your hand was curled into the front of beau’s shirt, his sister was very clearly kissing him back.
dean was still staring at the photograph when footsteps sounded behind him, “how was—”
beau stopped speaking and dean slowly raised his head. the change in beau’s expression was immediate. his attention dropped to the photo strip in dean’s hand, and something between recognition and dread crossed his face before he could hide it.
for a few seconds, neither of them spoke. the apartment suddenly felt unusually quiet, and dean became aware of the refrigerator humming behind him and the faint noise of traffic coming through an open window.
he lifted the photo strip slightly, “want to explain this?”
beau’s jaw tightened, “you were supposed to take twenty dollars.”
“i did.”
“then why are you holding that?”
dean looked down at the photograph again, irritation returning now that the initial shock had worn off enough for him to think properly, “because i opened your wallet and found a picture of you kissing my sister.”his eyes returned to the photo strip, moving back over the pictures with a new kind of attention.
the kiss itself was bad enough. what bothered him more, strangely, was everything that came before it.
he looked at the first photograph again.
you were smiling toward the camera while beau was looking at you. not accidentally, either. there was nothing distracted about his expression. dean had known him for years, and even captured in a blurry photo booth picture, there was something unmistakable about the way his attention had settled entirely on you, “when was this?”
beau didn’t answer immediately, and that small hesitation was enough to sharpen dean’s suspicion, “maxwell.”
“a few months ago.”
dean stared at him. he knew exactly which party it had been now. the memory returned in pieces: the crowded basement, allie complaining about the music, the photo booth shoved into one corner. he vaguely remembered you disappearing at some point, although he hadn’t thought much of it at the time.
apparently, he should have. his attention moved from the strip to the wallet still lying open on the counter, “you’ve had this since then?”
beau looked increasingly uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny, “yeah.”
“in your wallet?”
“yeah.”
dean waited for more, but nothing came, “you kissed my sister months ago, neither of you told me, and you’ve been carrying the pictures around ever since?”
beau’s expression hardened slightly, “i don’t remember there being a rule that said i had to report everything to you.”
“she’s my sister.”
“i’m aware.”
“you’re my best friend.”
“also aware.”
dean stared at him, trying to decide which part of the situation he wanted to be angry about first. there were too many options. the fact that the kiss had happened at all was one thing, but the fact that it had apparently happened months ago while he remained completely oblivious was considerably worse.
then another thought occurred to him, “you two aren’t even together.”
something in beau’s face changed. it wasn’t dramatic. his expression didn’t collapse, and he didn’t look away immediately. there was simply a slight shift in his shoulders, a brief tension around his mouth that disappeared almost as soon as dean noticed it.
“no,” beau said. “we’re not.”
dean looked at the photograph again. then back at his friend. the irritation inside him began making room for something more complicated, “why do you still have these?”
beau held out his hand, “give them back.”
“why?”
“because they’re mine.”
dean didn’t move as beau’s hand remained extended between them for another moment before falling back to his side, frustration beginning to show more clearly in his face, “dean.”
“i’m asking a question.”
“and i don’t owe you an answer to that one.”
the words should have made dean angrier. instead, they made him pay closer attention.
he looked down at the photo strip again, noticing details he had missed during the initial shock. the paper had been folded neatly along the blank space between two photographs so none of the pictures themselves were damaged. despite having spent months inside beau’s wallet, the strip was in surprisingly good condition.
that was almost more concerning than the kiss.
dean knew beau. he knew the state of his backpack, his car, and every bedroom he had ever occupied. he had watched him lose important documents within minutes of receiving them and once spent an entire afternoon helping him search for a set of keys that eventually turned up in the pocket of the jeans beau was wearing. yet somehow, this had survived.
dean’s attention lifted slowly, “you like her.”
beau’s face closed immediately, “don’t.”
“i’m not asking.”
“and i’m not talking to you about this.”
dean let out a quiet breath, but the realization had already begun rearranging months of memories in his head.
there had been all those times beau had shown up at their place without any particular reason. all those casual questions about whether you were going somewhere, asked in a tone that had clearly been designed to suggest the answer didn’t matter. the way beau somehow knew your class schedule despite regularly forgetting his own.
then there had been the strange few weeks after the party.
you and beau had still spent time together, but there had been something off about both of you. an unfamiliar carefulness. you had avoided looking at each other for too long, then stared when you thought nobody was paying attention. dean had assumed you had argued about something stupid and would eventually get over it.
he felt profoundly irritated with himself, “how long?”
beau’s expression remained guarded, “it doesn’t matter.”
“it does to me.”
“why?”
“because i’m her brother.”
“and i’m aware of that every single time i think about doing something about it.” the answer came out sharper than beau had probably intended.
both of them went quiet as dean stared at him.
beau looked away first, his jaw tightening as though he regretted saying anything at all. the irritation in dean’s chest didn’t disappear, but it shifted, “doing something about what?”
beau gave him a flat look, “seriously?”
“i want to hear you say it.”
“absolutely not.”
despite himself, dean almost laughed. instead, he looked down at the photo strip again. the whole situation was deeply uncomfortable, and a protective part of him still wanted to be angry simply because anger was easier than whatever else he was beginning to feel.
but this was beau.
dean knew the parts of him other people didn’t always see. he knew how loyal beau was once he cared about someone and how seriously he took the people he considered his. he knew that beneath the easy confidence and constant joking, beau was capable of worrying himself into silence when something genuinely mattered.
looking at him now, dean understood that the problem wasn’t whether beau cared about you. the problem was probably that he cared too much.
dean finally held the photo strip out.
beau took it immediately, his attention dropping toward the pictures as he smoothed one thumb over the fold before carefully closing the strip and sliding it back into the same compartment of his wallet.
dean watched the entire process, “does she know you kept them?”
beau’s hand paused briefly over the wallet, “no.”
“why not?”
beau shut it and placed it back on the counter, “because she doesn’t.”
“very informative.”
“i’m not doing this with you.”
dean leaned back against the counter, studying his friend, “you know, for someone who usually never shuts up, you’re being incredibly difficult.”
“this is different.”
the simplicity of the answer quieted dean. beau looked irritated, but there was something else beneath it now. something that made dean think of all the times he had watched his friend walk confidently into situations that would make other people nervous.
this was not one of those situations.
beau was scared. not of dean, but of getting this wrong. the realization softened something in dean against his will, “you know she likes you too, right?”
beau’s head turned so quickly that dean almost laughed, “what?”
dean felt the corner of his mouth lift.
beau immediately caught himself, suspicion replacing surprise, “don’t do that.”
“do what?”
“whatever you’re doing.”
“i’m standing here.”
“you’re enjoying this.”
dean was, a little. he pushed away from the counter and picked up the twenty-dollar bill he had almost forgotten about, “i’m telling her about the pictures.”
beau’s expression changed immediately, “don’t.”
“why?”
“because this is none of your business.”
“you made it my business when you kissed my sister.”
“that logic makes absolutely no sense.”
dean reached for his hockey bag, pulling the strap over his shoulder while beau watched him with growing distrust, “she deserves to know.”
“dean.”
“relax.”
“that sentence has never made anyone relax.”
dean headed toward the door, unable to stop the faint smile pulling at his mouth. behind him, beau muttered something that sounded deeply uncomplimentary.
the blonde ignored it. he was still not thrilled about any of this, but, unfortunately for both of them, he had a sister who had spent the last several months pretending she didn’t look at beau exactly the way beau looked at her.
and dean had never been particularly good at minding his own business.
you knew dean wanted something from you within five minutes of sitting down with him for lunch.
he had texted you that morning asking whether you were free between classes, which, on its own, hadn’t been unusual. despite the way he occasionally behaved as though being seen willingly spending time with his sister would destroy his reputation, the two of you got lunch together often enough that you hadn’t thought much of it. he had even offered to pay, and although that should have made you suspicious, you had decided not to question good fortune when it appeared.
now, sitting across from him in a booth near the back of della’s diner, you were beginning to think you should have questioned it immediately.
dean had been acting strange since you arrived. not strange enough that anyone else would have noticed, probably, but you had spent your entire life learning his habits against your will. you knew the difference between dean being quiet because he was tired and dean being quiet because he was waiting to say something. you knew the particular way the corner of his mouth moved when he was trying not to laugh, and you knew that when he repeatedly checked whether you had finished reading the menu despite already knowing your order, there was something occupying his attention.
you let it continue for a while, mostly because you were curious to see how long he would last.
the answer, apparently, was longer than expected.
by the time your food arrived, dean still hadn’t said anything. he had asked about your classes, complained about an early practice, and spent several minutes telling you a story about one of his teammates that you were fairly certain had no point. through all of it, though, you caught him watching you every few minutes with an expression that disappeared the second you noticed.
eventually, you put down the fry you had been about to eat and looked at him, “what do you want?”
dean paused with his drink halfway to his mouth “what makes you think i want something?”
the attempt at innocence was insulting. you leaned back against the booth and folded your arms, taking a moment to study him in exaggerated silence. dean stared back, his expression carefully blank, but you saw the slight shift in his mouth when he realized you weren’t going to answer.
“you asked me to lunch,” you said eventually. “you offered to pay, and you’ve been staring at me for the last fifteen minutes.”
“i haven’t been staring at you.”
“you have.”
“maybe you had something on your face.”
you narrowed your eyes, “you’re so annoying.”
“you came voluntarily.”
“you bribed me.”
“that sounds like a you problem.”
the familiar irritation was almost enough to distract you, but you knew him too well. there was still something beneath the teasing, something he was clearly enjoying keeping from you, and your patience was beginning to disappear.
you reached across the table and stole one of his fries. dean frowned, “you have your own.”
“you have information.”
his expression shifted for half a second. you sat back with the fry, satisfaction warming through you as dean realized he had given himself away, “i knew it.”
“you don’t know anything.”
“you invited me to lunch to tell me something and now you’re dragging it out because you enjoy being irritating.”
dean looked genuinely offended, “that is a terrible thing to say about your brother.”
“is it inaccurate?”
he considered the question while reaching for another fry, “not entirely.”
you lasted another ten seconds before kicking him lightly beneath the table. his knee knocked against the underside with a dull thud, “ow. what the hell?”
“talk.”
he looked at you for a moment, and some of the amusement slowly left his expression. the change was subtle, but it was enough to make you sit a little straighter. whatever you had expected from this conversation, the sudden seriousness in his face made uncertainty curl low in your stomach.
dean leaned back against the booth and ran a hand over his jaw, appearing to reconsider how he wanted to begin, “i went to beau’s place yesterday.”
the reaction to his name was immediate and deeply inconvenient. your attention sharpened before you could stop it, and although you kept your face carefully neutral, you had the uncomfortable suspicion that dean noticed anyway. dean was almost impossible to fool when he was actually paying attention.
you reached for your drink in an attempt to look unaffected, “that’s nice.”
“he owed me money.”
“riveting.”
“you’re being sarcastic.”
“because so far, this story is terrible.”
dean gave you a look before continuing, “he told me to get it out of his wallet.”
your fingers tightened slightly around your glass, “and?”
he hesitated. it wasn’t long, but it was enough for the strange feeling in your stomach to sharpen, “there was something in it.”
you tried to keep your voice light, “money, presumably.”
“besides the money.”
there was no reason for that to mean anything to you. none at all. beau’s wallet was not something you had ever given much thought to, and there were probably a hundred things dean could have found inside it that would be more interesting than anything involving you.
still, your mind went somewhere specific. a cramped photo booth. a flash behind your closed eyelids. beau’s hand warm against your cheek. you pushed the memory away almost as quickly as it appeared.
the pictures were gone.
it had been months since the party, and this was beau you were talking about. he lost things with a consistency that almost seemed intentional.
dean was still watching you.
you remembered the strip emerging slowly from the machine and beau taking it before you could. you remembered telling him not to lose it as you backed away through the crowd. you remembered the way he had looked down at the pictures.
you had never asked about them again.
“what did you find?” you asked as you set down your glass.
dean’s expression changed when he heard your voice. some of the satisfaction he had been carrying since you sat down disappeared, replaced by something more thoughtful. for the first time, you wondered whether he had expected you to react differently, “a photo strip.”
your hand went still beside your plate. the sounds of the diner continued around you. plates clattered somewhere behind the counter, the door opened with a small bell, and someone in the booth behind dean laughed loudly at something you couldn’t heard but you barely noticed any of it, “what photo strip?”
the question was pointless. dean knew it as well as you did. his eyebrows lifted slightly, “you want me to describe it?”
heat immediately climbed into your face as you looked down at your plate, “no.”
dean was silent for a second, “thought so.”
you glared at him, but there wasn’t much force behind it. your thoughts were moving too quickly now, struggling to settle around the only part of the story that seemed to matter, “was it just… in there?”
“it was folded up in one of the inside pockets.”
“folded?”
“carefully,” dean added, and something about his tone made you look at him. he was watching you closely now, all traces of teasing gone, “it wasn’t damaged or anything.”
beau had kept them.
the realization came slowly, even though dean had already told you everything you needed to know. there was something about hearing the details that made it real in a way you hadn’t been prepared for.
the strip hadn’t been forgotten in a drawer. it hadn’t survived by accident beneath the seat of his car or at the bottom of some bag. beau had folded it, put it inside his wallet, and he had kept it there for months.
you looked down before dean could see too much in your face, though you suspected you were already too late.
the memory of that night returned with painful clarity.
you remembered the cramped warmth of the booth and the way beau’s leg had been pressed against yours because there wasn’t enough space. you remembered turning your head during the final countdown and finding him already looking at you.
most of all, you remembered the kiss. you had replayed it often enough afterward to hate yourself for it.
at first, you had expected beau to mention it. every time your phone lit up with his name the next day, your stomach had tightened in anticipation, only for the conversation to remain painfully normal. then you had seen him in person, and the strange carefulness between you had made you think the conversation was coming.
it never did.
eventually, you had begun to wonder whether the kiss simply hadn’t meant as much to him as it had to you. you had hated that possibility, but it was easier than asking.
now, months later, the photographs were still in his wallet, “he kept them,” you said quietly.
you hadn’t meant to say it aloud.
dean’s face softened. it was a small change, one you might not have noticed if you didn’t know him as well as you did. his shoulders relaxed slightly, and the teasing comment you could practically see forming behind his eyes never made it to his mouth. “yeah,” he said. “he did.”
you ran your thumb absently along the edge of your napkin, “did you ask him why?”
dean let out a short breath through his nose, “obviously.”
despite everything happening inside your head, you almost smiled, “of course you did.”
“i had questions.”
“i’m sure you were very calm about it.”
“i was perfectly calm.” you looked at him and he looked back with a small smirk playing on his lips, “mostly.”
you shook your head, but the brief amusement faded quickly. curiosity was beginning to press against you now, uncomfortable in its intensity, “what did he say?”
dean’s gaze dropped briefly toward the table. the hesitation made your stomach twist, “dean.”
“he didn’t really answer.”
disappointment arrived faster than you wanted it to. you looked away, reaching for your drink even though you weren’t thirsty, “oh.”
your brother watched you for a moment, “hey, that doesn’t mean what you think it means.”
you looked at him, “you don’t know what i think it means.”
“i’m your brother. unfortunately, i know what most of your faces mean.”
“that’s not true.”
“you have about six expressions.” you wanted to argue, but dean’s expression remained serious. he leaned back against the booth, his eyes moving briefly toward the window beside you as he seemed to consider how much he wanted to say, “he wanted the pictures back immediately.”
you frowned, “because you took them out of his wallet.”
“yes, thank you, i understand the concept of personal property.” dean paused, “that’s not what i mean.”
you waited as he rubbed one hand across the back of his neck, and for the first time since the conversation began, dean looked genuinely uncomfortable, “i know beau.”
you raised an eyebrow, “very insightful.”
“can you not be annoying for thirty seconds?”
“you’re asking a lot.”
dean ignored you, “i know when he doesn’t care about something. i also know when he does.” he looked down at the table for a moment before continuing, “he cared that i found those pictures.”
you were quiet. there were several questions you wanted to ask, but all of them felt too revealing. dean was your brother, and although there were very few things you genuinely kept from each other, beau had somehow become one of them.
not intentionally. you had simply never found the right way to explain it.
how were you supposed to tell your brother that somewhere along the way, his best friend had become the person you looked for first in every room? that the easiest friendship in your life had somehow turned into the most confusing thing you had ever felt?
you looked down at your hands, “did he say anything else?”
dean was quiet long enough that you looked up again. his expression was conflicted, “he said enough.”
“what does that mean?” you stared at him.
he sighed. for a moment, he looked less like the brother who had spent your entire childhood annoying you for sport and more like the person who knew you better than anyone else in the world, “he’s scared of messing this up.”
you went very still, but dean continued before you could ask, “that’s all i’m saying. the rest is between you and him.”
your heartbeat had become unpleasantly loud, “messing what up?”
dean gave you a tired look, “seriously?”
“i want to know what he said.”
“and i just told you i’m not repeating everything.”
“then why tell me any of it?”the question came out sharper than you intended.
dean didn’t react defensively. instead, he looked at you for a long moment, and you had the uncomfortable feeling that he was deciding whether to say something you might not want to hear, “because you’ve been miserable.”
you blinked, “i have not.”
“you have.”
“dean—”
“not all the time,” he said, cutting you off before you could become properly offended. “but whenever it comes to him, you have. for months.”
you stared at your brother. he shrugged slightly, but there was no humor in his expression, “you think i didn’t notice?”dean sighed, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “i didn’t know what happened. i thought maybe you two had an argument after that party, because you were both acting weird as hell for weeks.”
“we were not.”
“you were. you could barely look at each other, and then whenever one of you wasn’t looking, the other one was staring.”
mortification spread slowly through you, “please stop talking.”
“gladly.”
you covered part of your face with one hand. dean gave you several seconds before continuing, apparently incapable of honoring his own promise, “for what it’s worth, he was worse.”
your hand lowered slightly and dean smiled, “knew that would get your attention.”
“you’re awful.”
“probably.”
you shook your head, but something inside your chest had begun to loosen. the feeling was frightening. you had spent months protecting yourself from it, carefully explaining away every look and touch and moment that seemed to mean more than friendship. it had been easier to assume you were imagining things than risk discovering you weren’t.
now dean had placed the photo strip back in the center of everything. you looked at him, “you really think i should talk to him?”
dean’s face tightened immediately, “i hate this question.”
despite yourself, you smiled, “why?”
“because every instinct i have as your brother is telling me to say no.”
“dramatic.”
“you’re my sister.”
“and he’s your best friend.”
“exactly. it’s a nightmare.”
you laughed softly, and dean shook his head, though his mouth had begun to twitch too. after a moment, his expression settled again, “but yes.”
the answer surprised you with its simplicity. dean looked down at his plate, nudging a fry through a small pool of ketchup as though the movement required his full attention, “you should talk to him.”
you studied him, “you trust him.”
dean’s eyes lifted. for a second, something unreadable moved through his expression. then he leaned back in the booth and crossed his arms, “unfortunately.”
for a few minutes, neither of you spoke. the conversation shifted into the comfortable silence that had always existed between you, one that didn’t need filling simply because you were siblings and had spent most of your lives occupying the same spaces.
your thoughts, however, were nowhere near quiet. you kept thinking about the wallet. about the photographs. about beau.
dean seemed to know where your mind had gone, because after a while, he sighed, “you’re going to see him tonight, aren’t you?”
you looked up, “maybe
“you are.”
“i haven’t decided.”
“you’ve been staring at the same french fry for two minutes.”
you looked down at the french fry squeezed between your fingers before putting it back on the plate, “i might talk to him.”
dean nodded slowly, his expression becoming serious again, “good.”
you raised an eyebrow, “that’s it?”
“what else do you want?”
“i don’t know. some kind of threatening older brother speech?” you raised a brow.
“older by three minutes.”
“you mention it constantly.”
“because those were a very peaceful three minutes.”
you kicked him beneath the table again. this time, dean was ready and moved his leg out of reach, “violent,” he muttered.
you rolled your eyes, but a smile remained on your face. the anxiety was still there, twisting low in your stomach whenever you thought about seeing beau, but it no longer felt impossible. for months, you had wondered whether the photo booth kiss had meant anything to him.
you still didn’t have an answer. not really.
but there was a folded strip of photographs tucked carefully inside beau’s wallet, and for the first time in months, you were beginning to think you might be brave enough to ask him why.
you found beau that evening. or, more accurately, you spent most of the evening trying to convince yourself to find beau before finally giving in and walking across campus to his frat.
the decision had seemed manageable while you were still sitting across from dean at lunch. even after you had left him and returned to your dorm, there had been a brief period when you felt strangely certain about the whole thing. you would go to beau’s place, ask him about the pictures, and finally have the conversation the two of you should have had months ago. simple enough, at least in theory.
then you had spent almost three hours thinking about it.
by the time you reached beau’s building, every bit of confidence you had managed to collect had been thoroughly dismantled. there were too many possible ways for the conversation to go wrong, and your mind had helpfully supplied you with all of them during the walk over. dean might have misunderstood the entire interaction. beau might have kept the pictures without attaching any particular meaning to them. maybe they had disappeared into his wallet after the party and remained there simply because he had forgotten about them.
you knew that last possibility wasn’t particularly convincing.
still, you clung to it all the way up the stairs.
one of his frat brothers let you in, and you slowed as you approached his door. you had been there countless times before, enough that there was nothing unfamiliar about the faded number or the slight scratch in the paint near the handle. usually, you knocked without thinking. sometimes you let yourself in after texting him first, because beau had long ago stopped treating your presence in his room as something that required permission.
tonight, you stood in front of the door and stared at it.
your hand lifted. then lowered. this was ridiculous.
you had known beau for years. you had fallen asleep on his bed, eaten breakfast with him while both of you were too tired to form complete sentences, and once sat on the floor of his bathroom while he attempted to fix a leaking pipe despite having absolutely no idea what he was doing. there should have been nothing frightening about talking to him.
unfortunately, none of those things had involved asking him why he had kept a photograph of himself kissing you in his wallet for several months.
you lifted your hand again, but the door opened before you could knock.
beau stood on the other side.
the surprise on his face lasted only a second before it softened into the familiar expression he always seemed to have when he saw you unexpectedly. it was small, barely more than a shift around his eyes and the beginning of a smile, but you had noticed it a long time ago.
you tried not to think about that now.
his gaze moved from your face to the hand you still had raised awkwardly between you, “were you planning to knock?”
you lowered it, “i was getting there.”
the corner of his mouth moved, amusement beginning to show in his face, “sure.”
you gave him a look as you walked past.
the exchange was so normal that some of the tension in your shoulders loosened. this was beau. the same beau who annoyed you deliberately because he liked watching you try not to laugh, who knew exactly how you took your coffee and still occasionally pretended to forget, who had become so deeply woven into the ordinary parts of your life that imagining those parts without him had started to feel impossible.
that was part of the problem.
you heard the door close behind you, “you good?”
you turned and saw beau watching you from across the room, the amusement had faded from his expression. he had always been frustratingly good at noticing changes in your mood, even the ones you thought you were hiding well.
“yeah.”
his eyebrows lifted slightly causing you to sigh, “mostly.”
that answer seemed to satisfy him more than the first one had. he walked toward his bed, picking up the television remote he’d probably thrown on there a second ago, and lowering the volume of whatever game had been playing in the background.
you sat down on the edge. the familiarity of it made your stomach twist. there had been so many evenings exactly like this one. you and beau sitting on opposite ends of his bed before inevitably drifting closer as the night went on, your legs ending up across his lap or his shoulder pressed against yours. you had never questioned any of it before the party.
afterward, you had questioned everything.
beau sat beside you, though not as close as he usually did. the small amount of space he left between you felt deliberate, and you found yourself wondering whether it always had been. whether he had been just as aware of every inch between you for the past few months as you had.
he waited for you to speak. you had rehearsed several different ways of beginning the conversation during the walk over. none of them seemed usable anymore. eventually, you looked at him, “i had lunch with dean.”
beau’s expression changed. it was subtle, but immediate. his shoulders dropped slightly as he looked up at the ceiling, and his eyes closed for a brief moment, “right.”
there was something resigned in his voice that almost made you smile, “he told me he saw you yesterday.”
“he did.”
“he also told me why.”
beau opened his eyes and looked toward you. there was no real surprise in his expression, only the mild irritation of someone whose expectations of his best friend had been confirmed in exactly the way he had hoped they wouldn’t be, “how much did he tell you?”
“enough to make me come here.”
that quieted him. for a moment, neither of you spoke. beau looked away first, his attention moving toward the television even though you doubted he was actually watching it.
you studied the side of his face. he looked uncomfortable.
the realization was strangely reassuring. beau was rarely uncomfortable around you. even during the strange weeks immediately after the party, he had managed to hide most of his uncertainty beneath an exaggerated version of his usual behavior.
but you knew him better now. you could see the tension in the way his jaw shifted slightly and the way his fingers tapped once against his knee before becoming still, “he told me about the pictures,” you said.
beau nodded slowly, “figured.”
you waited for him to say something else, but he didn’t. you drew one leg beneath you and turned more fully toward him, “you still have them?”
his eyes returned to yours, “yeah.”
the answer came easily, without embarrassment or explanation. somehow, that made your chest tighten more than a longer answer would have, “can i see them?”
beau was quiet for a moment. you watched something uncertain move through his expression before he reached into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out his wallet.
your attention dropped to it.
the sight of the worn leather shouldn’t have meant anything. it was just a wallet, something you had probably seen a hundred times before without ever paying attention. now you couldn’t stop looking at it.
beau opened it and reached into one of the inner compartments. his movements were careful, practiced enough that you wondered how many times he had taken the strip out before.
the thought made your heartbeat change.
he unfolded the photographs once and handed them to you. your fingers brushed his as you took them, but neither of you acknowledged it.
the first picture made you smile before you could stop yourself. you remembered the moment immediately, remembered beau complaining that he hadn’t been ready and you accusing him of ruining the picture.
there was something uncomfortable about seeing it now, with everything dean had said still circling your thoughts. beau’s expression wasn’t dramatic. he wasn’t gazing at you like someone in a movie, and there was nothing exaggerated about the photograph.
you moved to the second picture. beau’s expression was painfully serious, while you were turned toward him laughing. the third showed you halfway through saying something, irritation and amusement fighting across your face while beau looked far too pleased with himself.
then you reached the last one.
you had thought about it so many times that seeing it again felt strangely disorienting. the angle was slightly awkward. the flash had caught one side of beau’s face more brightly than the other, and your hand was visible where it had curled into the front of his shirt.
you couldn’t stop looking at it.
the silence beside you became increasingly noticeable. you glanced toward beau to find him already watching you, but his gaze moved away almost immediately when your eyes met.
that small movement gave you enough courage to speak, “why did you keep these?”
beau leaned back, resting on his elbows, “i liked them.”
you looked down at the strip again. it was a reasonable answer even though you had the feeling it was also incomplete, “all of them?”
his mouth moved slightly, “the second one’s not great.”
a quiet laugh escaped you before you could stop it. some of the tension in the room loosened, “you look like you hate being there.”
“you were making fun of me.”
“because you were taking it too seriously.”
“i was trying to get one decent picture.”
“you failed.”
“clearly.”
you smiled down at the strip, but the amusement faded as your attention returned to the final photograph. beau noticed.
you knew because the room seemed to become quiet again without either of you deliberately changing anything. your thumb moved carefully along the edge of the photograph, “dean said they were folded inside your wallet.”
beau was quiet. you looked at him, “have they been there since the party?”
his eyes held yours for a moment before he nodded, “pretty much.”
the answer settled somewhere beneath your ribs, “why?”
this time, beau didn’t answer immediately. you could feel him watching you, but you kept your attention on the photographs. asking the question while looking directly at him felt impossible.
several seconds passed.
then beau shifted beside you, leaning forward and resting his forearms against his knees, “i don’t know.”
disappointment came quickly, but before it could settle, he continued, “or i do. i just don’t know how to explain it without making this more complicated.”
his gaze remained on his hands. there was something almost unsettling about seeing beau this uncertain. you were used to him filling silence easily, used to the confidence with which he moved through almost every part of his life.
this was different and you thought about what dean had said at lunch.
he’s scared of messing this up.
your grip on the photo strip loosened slightly, “try.”
beau let out a quiet breath and for a while, he said nothing. eventually, he sat back again, although his body remained turned slightly away from you, “i thought we were going to talk about it.”
you swallowed, “the kiss?”
when he nodded you spoke softly, “so did i.”
beau looked at you then, surprise flickering briefly across his face, “you did?”
“for the first few days, yeah.”
“why didn’t you say anything?”
the question wasn’t accusatory. if anything, he sounded genuinely confused. you stared at him, “why didn’t you?”
he looked away again, “fair.”
you almost smiled, but the conversation felt too fragile, “i thought you regretted it.”
beau’s head turned back toward you. the reaction was immediate enough that you knew you had surprised him, “why?”
you shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable beneath his attention, “because you never mentioned it.”
“neither did you.”
“i know.”
“so i thought the same thing.”
you stared at him and beau stared back, the silence stretching. for months, you had imagined dozens of explanations for why he had never mentioned the kiss. some had been reasonable. others had been created late at night when your ability to think rationally was considerably worse.
somehow, it had never occurred to you that beau might have been sitting somewhere having the exact same thoughts. “that’s stupid,” you said eventually.
beau let out a quiet laugh, rubbing one hand over his face, “yeah.”
you felt a laugh building in your own chest. it escaped before you could stop it. months of awkwardness. months of analyzing every interaction. months of lying awake occasionally wondering whether you had imagined the entire shift between you. all because neither of you had been willing to ask a simple question.
beau shook his head, but he was smiling now too, “we could’ve saved ourselves a lot of trouble.”
“you could’ve.”
his eyebrows lifted, “me?”
“you kissed me.”
“you kissed me back.”
you tried to glare at him. it didn’t work particularly well when you were still fighting a smile. beau’s expression softened as he looked at you. the change was gradual, his amusement fading into something quieter.
neither of you looked away.
“i didn’t regret it,” beau said. his voice was quieter now. the words shouldn’t have affected you as much as they did. you had already guessed the answer from the pictures in your hand and from everything dean had told you at lunch.
hearing it from beau was different.
you looked down because holding his gaze suddenly felt too difficult, “then why keep the pictures instead of talking to me?”
beau was silent again. when you finally looked at him, he seemed to be deciding whether he wanted to answer. then his eyes moved toward the photograph in your hand, “because i didn’t know if it was ever going to happen again.” he looked away, rubbing his palm once against his knee, “keeping the picture was easier than asking.”
there was no self-pity in his voice, no attempt to make the admission sound more important than it was.
you had spent so much time thinking of beau as the braver one between you. he seemed fearless in almost everything he did, moving through the world with an ease you sometimes envied, but he had been scared too.
you looked down at the photographs, “i thought about it.”
beau’s attention returned to you.
“the kiss,” you clarified. “afterward.”
something in his expression shifted, “how much?”
you gave him a look causing the faintest trace of amusement to appear in his eyes, “just asking.”
“more than i wanted to.”
at your words his smile faded. you could see him processing the answer, and there was something almost vulnerable about it, “me too.”
you looked at each other for a long time. the space between you suddenly felt more noticeable than it had when you first sat down. beau’s hand rested on the bed, only a few inches from your knee. you had been closer to him hundreds of times, but the distance felt charged now.
you folded the photo strip carefully along its existing crease, “dean thinks we’re idiots.”
“we probably are.”
you smiled, the familiar exchange easing some of your nerves, though not enough to make you forget why you were there. you looked back at him, “what happens now?”
beau’s expression became serious again, “i don’t know.”
you appreciated the honesty. he didn’t turn the question into a joke or pretend to have an easy answer. he simply looked at you, uncertainty visible in a way that felt strangely intimate.
“what do you want to happen?” he asked.
your heartbeat picked up. you could have avoided the question, and to be honest, a few hours ago, you probably would have. instead, you placed the photo strip carefully on the bed behind you, “i don’t want to keep pretending nothing happened.”
beau’s eyes stayed on yours, “neither do i.”
you became suddenly aware of how close you had moved during the conversation. you weren’t sure which of you had done it, but the space beau had deliberately left between you earlier was almost gone.
his knee was touching yours, but neither of you moved.
you looked at his mouth before you could stop yourself. when your eyes returned to his, you knew he had noticed. his expression changed slightly. not smugly or teasingly. he just became very still, “can i kiss you?”
the question was so simple that something inside your chest tightened.
you nodded.
he didn’t move immediately. for one brief second, he seemed to make sure you meant it. his eyes searched your face, and when you didn’t look away, his hand lifted slowly toward you.
his fingers settled against the side of your neck.
the touch brought the memory of the photo booth rushing back. months ago, there had been a countdown. there had been alcohol and loud music and the excuse of a party surrounding you. there had been a camera flash and the possibility of pretending afterward that the whole thing had been an accident.
there was none of that now. just the quiet bedroom and beau sitting close enough that you could feel the warmth of him.
his thumb moved lightly against your skin before he leaned in and kissed you.
the first thing you noticed was how familiar it felt. months had passed since the photo booth, but your body seemed to remember him immediately. the angle of his mouth against yours, the warmth of his hand, the quiet breath he released when you moved closer.
your fingers found the front of his shirt; the exact same place as before. you knew beau had noticed because you felt the smallest smile against your mouth, making you smile too and breaking the kiss briefly as a quiet laugh escaped between you.
neither of you moved far. beau’s forehead rested lightly against yours, his hand still warm against your neck.
you opened your eyes to find he was already looking at you. the similarity to the first photograph wasn’t lost on you, “hi,” you murmured.
beau’s mouth curved, “hi.”
you stayed there for another moment, close enough that his breath still warmed your face.
something inside you felt strangely calm. the nervousness hadn’t disappeared completely, but it no longer felt like something you needed to run from.
there had been no dramatic confession. no perfect speech waiting for either of you. just two people sitting on a bed, finally admitting that a kiss had mattered more than either of them had been willing to say.
your eyes drifted toward the photo strip next to you, “so what do we do with those now?”
beau followed your gaze, “i was planning to keep them.”
you looked back at him, “still?”
“yeah.”
something warm spread through your chest. you tried not to show it, but judging by beau’s expression, you failed. his thumb brushed once beneath your ear.
you smiled softly, “you could’ve just asked me for another picture.”
“didn’t want another picture.”
you raised an eyebrow. beau looked toward the strip again, then back at you, “i wanted that one.”
the answer was quiet enough that it took you a second to respond. when you did, you leaned forward and kissed him again.
this time, there was no hesitation from either of you.
beau’s hand moved from your neck to your waist as you shifted closer, and the last remaining distance between you disappeared.
the photographs stayed on the bed. they were still imperfect. the first three were badly timed, and the fourth had captured a kiss neither of you had understood at the time.
but maybe that was why beau had kept them. they belonged to a moment when neither of you had known what would happen next.
now, sitting together in his bedroom with his hand warm against your waist and months of uncertainty finally behind you, the answer felt a little closer. you knew that when beau kissed you again, you didn’t have to wonder whether he would regret it in the morning.
Warnings: Mentions of a mute disability, ASL dialog will be in italics, bullying, physical fighting
Words: 8.5k
Summary: You are a freshman at Briar with an overprotective brother, leaving you protected by his friends. Dean discovers there’s more to life than talking about girls, sex, and partying. There’s a hidden beauty in living in the moment.
Ever since you were young, Garrett has shown no hesitation in making sure that you were protected. Having a disabled sister was hard on Garrett, watching people make fun of you or say you aren’t intelligent enough because you were born mute. This is what led everyone in the family to learn ASL and get you into speech therapy. But when your and Garrett’s mom passed away, Phil sent both of you off to boarding school, making it even harder for you to adapt. You were placed into a special boarding school for deaf and mute kids so you could practice ASL and continue speech therapy. Throughout it all, you eventually picked up basic phrases but still struggled to carry on a full conversation and preferred ASL.
You had a deal with your dad. If Garrett made it into Briar, he would pull every string he could to get you there. Garrett also researched ahead of time and found that they had amazing student disability services, including student ASL interpreters, assignment excuses (for you, such as doing a speech for a class), and extra time on exams. Phil also felt more comfortable sending you somewhere with Garrett cause then at least one person would know ASL or look out for you. Before you came to Briar, Garrett had told his teammates about you. Only his close friends were aware that you were mute, and he taught them basic ASL signs to prepare when you visited.
Now, as an incoming freshman at Briar, you were nervous because most people don’t know ASL, so you sometimes opted for text-to-speech as well. At the beginning of the semester, Garrett made an effort for the guys to watch out for you and not be afraid to step in if other first-year students made fun of you. After your calculus class, Garrett insisted you visit his house and meet his roommates. He assured you that they knew you were mute and that they knew some ASL. All you knew was that these were the guys Garrett played hockey with and that they were good.
“Hey, guys! Come meet my sister!”
You see a guy with curly hair behind the kitchen, cooking something that smells like a stew. You then see another guy with wavy brown hair and a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off, holding a hammer. They both wave at you.
“Hey, I’m Tucker, this is Logan.” the one with the pink apron mentioned.
“Hi, I’m Y/N.” You replied.
“Dude, I thought you said she was mute.” Logan spoke up.
“It’s called speech therapy, dumbasses. She can say basic words but not a full conversation.” Garrett shot back.
You rolled your eyes.
“My apologies, Y/N,” Logan meekly replied.
It’s okay. I get it a lot.
“I remember that’s the sign for ok, so I think I’m in the clear.” Logan cheered.
You sighed at his sentiment. You then hear the door open behind you. It's a tall blonde with a wide frame and bright blue eyes.
“Yo Graham! And baby Graham, you look just like your brother.” Dean bent down to look at you.
Gross
“What does that one mean?” Dean looked perplexed
“She said, gross dude.” Tucker chirped.
“How did you know that?!” Dean shot his head up at Tucker.
“It’s called reading, I wanted to know the important words in case she tried my cooking. Did you not look over the basic ASL language Garrett sent us?”
“Not going to lie, I glanced over it for a few seconds.”
“Seriously, dude?” Garrett looked at Dean, pissed.
“What? I thought I had more time to study.”
What’s the loud blonde dude’s name?
Logan squinted at you again, trying to think. “I think she’s asking your name dude.”
Dean looked back at you and pulled his hand back. “Dean. Dean Di Laurentis. Don’t you forget it,” and then Dean winked at you. You looked disgusted.
“Damn harsh crowd, I’ve never been rejected so subtly before. And what’s your name baby Graham?”
“Y/N.” You quietly replied.
“So she speaks. Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Dean smiled before heading towards the kitchen. While they all sat, you turned to Garrett, already annoyed by this whole interaction.
You told me they knew ASL, but they barely know anything, especially that blonde one. You signed.
“They’re trying their best, ok? They didn’t have 18 years with it. They had, at most, probably had two weeks.” Garrett whispered low so they couldn’t hear.
Should I just do the text-to-speech thing? It’s probably easier for them to understand.
“No, Y/N, just do what makes you feel comfortable, worst case I’ll be here to translate.” Garrett rubbed your shoulder in reassurance.
Good, cause honestly, whatever the curly-haired one was making smelled good.
“Tucker’s a great cook, you can always come over for a free dinner if the dining hall food isn’t up to par.”
Last week, they had undercooked chicken, and I almost gagged.
Garrett laughed as he brought you back to the group.
“She’s staying for dinner, guys!” Garrett cheered.
·༻𐫱༺·
When Dean walked over after meeting you, he was debriefing with Tucker and Logan.
“So that’s Garrett’s sister?” Logan inquired
“Yeah, dude, can’t you see the resemblance? They both got dark curly hair, and she also has his Angry Bird eyebrows.” Dean responded.
“She’s just as expressive as him for sure.” Tucker added while stirring his chicken and dumpling soup.
“How can you even tell? She can barely talk.” Dean, perplexed.
“You can tell a lot from a person by just their face, unlike you, talking your ear off to someone any chance you get.” Tucker rolled his eyes.
Dean looked over at you and Garrett talking, even though you were signing, he looked at your face, which looked a little concerned as your eyebrows furrowed. A part of Dean wished he knew what you were saying. He turned back to Tucker and Logan in the kitchen.
“How long do you think it takes to learn ASL?” Dean spoke out of the blue.
“My guess is probably one or two semesters, they have classes on campus for it.” Logan responded before heading upstairs to fix something in the bathroom.
“Do you think it’s too late to register?” Dean frantically pulled out his phone to see if it fit in his schedule.
“I’m sure you can email someone, I don’t think people are fighting over a spot in that class.” Tucker started tasting his broth before adding salt and other spices.
Garrett then walked over with Y/N and cheered, “She’s staying for dinner!”
“I hope she likes chicken and dumplings.”
“What is that?” Garrret asked.
“Its like a creamy chicken soup with bits of dough in it, its my mom’s recipe.”
Sounds delicious.
Tucker looked excited, “I know she just said delicious, and trust it will be!”
Garrett smiled, seeing how much effort he had put into communicating with you, unlike Dean, who still looked confused.
“Yo G!” Logan had come back downstairs. “Dean was interested in taking some ASL classes. Do you know of any?”
“Oh? Already trying to make up embarrassing me in front of my sister?” Garrett patted Dean’s shoulder.
“I just thought it’d be cool since I’m taking less credits this semester.”
“Well, congrats Dean, you just won yourself a ticket to be my sister’s personal body guard. She’s taking an ASL course, you can join her class.”
Garrett, are you out of your mind? He’s going to bother me all semester. I’ve only met him for a few minutes, and he’s already on my nerves.
Garrett signed back, so Dean or the other guys wouldn't hear his response. I don’t want you wandering campus alone, plus Dean is intimidating enough that no one will bother you.
What if the person bothering me is going to be around me almost every day? You signed at Garrett and rolled your eyes.
Just stick it out for two weeks. If he’s really bothering you, I’ll tell him to fuck off, and I’ll drive you to school.
You sighed, agreeing to Garrett's pleas and putting on a fake smile, excited that Dean would be joining your ASL class.
Tucker looked up at both of you before serving dinner. “You guys good?”
“Yeah, she’s totally excited to show Dean the wonders of ASL,” Garrett smiled.
You fake-smiled with two thumbs up, looking at Dean. Everyone eventually transitioned to the dining room table to enjoy the chicken and dumplings Tucker made. Despite never having it before, you found it delicious. When Tucker asked how it was, you said it was good, and then Tucker started to dance with excitement at your compliment.
You had wished you could just enjoy your food and your brother's company, but unfortunately, there was a certain blonde who wouldn’t stop bothering you.
“So, Y/N, what’s your major?”
Graphic Design
“What’s your favorite color?”
Purple
“What’s your favorite food?”
Mac and Cheese
“What’s your favorite animal?”
Whale shark
“What do you do in your free time?”
Draw or paint.
Dean looked up at Garrett in anticipation. “I got none of that. What did she say G?”
“She said she's a graphic design major, purple, mac and cheese, whale shark, and draw or paint. If you’re going to ask her all these things, you'd better pay attention in your ASL class.”
You looked down at your soup, hoping the blonde would give up on trying to talk to you, but he kept trying to get you to speak. You got up abruptly to refill a bowl of soup, and, like a puppy dog, Dean followed.
“Allow me,” Dean grabbed the ladle. You rolled your eyes. Dean poured you a bowl and noticed it was mostly made of broth. There was barely any chicken, vegetables, or dough in your bowl. Your eyebrows furrowed. Dean noticed your annoyed expression and realized there was nothing in your bowl. He grabbed it out of your hands, dumped the soup, and dug deeper into the pot to get you more solids.
“Thank you.” You quietly replied before scurrying off back to the table. Garrett asked if everything was ok and you nodded, continuing to eat. Dean came back shortly with another bowl, busy eating it this time, figuring you enjoyed some silence. You had finished the last drops of water in your glass before Garrett and Dean awkwardly got up at the same time to grab the pitcher from the fridge to refill it. You can hear them whispering and bickering by the fridge.
“Dude, why are you also grabbing the pitcher?”
“I wanted to refill Y/N’s water.”
“Why are you being so nice all of a sudden to my baby sister? I swear to god if you even try to pull one of your stupid flirty moves, I will personally slam you across the table. I bet it won’t even work on her”
“Watch me.”
Dean came back with the pitcher and accidentally spilled some water on your shirt while trying to refill your cup. You groaned before noticing Dean take off his shirt and wipe the table down with it. Dean looked over, hoping to see you blush at his figure, but was only met with a disgusted look and you turning to say something to Garrett. Dean didn’t even get to the part where he offered you one of his shirts to use in his room before you stormed upstairs towards Garrett's room.
“Nice one Dean. I bet she’s going to toss up her dinner after seeing that one.” Garrett laughed. Now Dean was the embarrassed one. Upstairs in Garrett's room, you grabbed one of his Briar U Hawks shirts and, without thinking, started changing with the door open.
·༻𐫱༺·
Dean went upstairs to toss his shirt in the laundry and get a new one when he froze, noticing you in just a bra, mid-change. Without a word, he saw you rush and slam the door in his face. You were on the verge of feeling overwhelmed, sitting on the floor behind the slammed door. Why wouldn’t stupid Dean leave you alone? Garrett, hearing the slam, nervously rushed upstairs before knocking on the door.
“Y/N? Are you alright?” Garrett sounded worried, so you slowly opened the door, letting Garrett into his room before closing it again.
“What’s going on? Are you okay? I heard the door slam.”
Dean is just too much right now. The questions. Spilling water on me. He also saw me in my bra.
“He did what?!” You grabbed Garrett’s arm before he could think about storming to kill Dean.
It was an accident. It’s mostly my fault for not closing your door while I was changing. I’m sorry.
“Y/N, there is nothing to be sorry about. I know my friends can be a lot but trust me they have good hearts.”
Is it just hard, you know? To keep up with all that energy.
“I know you’re trying your best. I’ll tell Dean to tone it down, especially since it’s going to be harder to draw a conversation out of you.”
Thank you.
Garrett pulled you in for a hug. It was one of the best things about Garrett. He was always understanding, not just about your disability, but also that you tended to be more introverted than he was. Garrett didn’t realize how extraverted all his friends were, and Dean was the king of it. He regretted suggesting that you put Dean in your ASL courses and probably should’ve tried to convince Logan or Tucker instead. Garrett then decided to take you home since it was getting dark out. You said your goodbyes to Logan and Tucker, and you assumed Dean stayed in his room after your interaction. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. Dean was still nowhere to be found before Garrett knocked on his door.
“Yo Dean! My sister left, can I talk to you?”
Dean, now freshly showered in clean clothes, slowly opened his door.
“For the record, G, it was a complete accident.”
“I know, she told me. But don’t get too comfortable now, cause that’s the last time you’re ever seeing that again. Am I clear?” Garrett
“Crystal.”
“Also, I gotta ask you something.”
“Shoot.”
“Look, man, I know you love talking and socializing, but do you mind toning it down a bit around my sister?” Dean looked up, confused
“What do you mean?”
“She’s more of the introverted, artsy type, and we’re all outgoing jocks, you can probably guess how those two things don’t mix well.”
“Well how do you tone it down? I’ve never seen you more gentle with someone than her.”
“The first thing I do is listen. I let her do the talking so I can figure out how much she wants to socialize. Sometimes she ices me out, and I leave her alone.”
“But how do people just operate like that? I feel like I can’t go a few minutes without needing to speak to someone.”
“Believe it or not, Dean, people’s brains have different levels of social battery. I think yours never runs out. Just try to not pry or force conversation out of her, you have all semester to talk to her.”
Garrett patted him on the back before going to bed. That was the one problem with Dean. He wanted to talk to you all semester, get to know everything about you. He was fascinated by you. Besides ignoring every attempt at flirting, he couldn’t believe you weren’t attracted to him. Every girl on campus wanted him, so why didn’t you?
·༻𐫱༺·
You returned to your dorm, and thankfully, the disability services gave you a single with your own bathroom. You set your backpack down from class before hopping into a quick shower. To take your mind off things, you decided to draw a little. You keep a small sketchbook of all your favorite foods you’ve eaten. Whether it was restaurants, home-cooked meals, or fun things you’d bake, you added them to it. You took out your phone and sketched the photo of Tucker’s chicken and dumplings. Despite trying to reminisce about how good the dinner was, you kept thinking about Dean. His stupid blue eyes were on you when you were disappointed with your soup. Without even saying anything, he knew exactly what you wanted. You thought Garrett could only do that. How could a random guy I just met know what was wrong even though I didn’t say anything? You figured it was just a coincidence and continued sketching.
You realized it was getting late and also remembered that your ASL class was tomorrow with the loud blonde. You sighed, finishing up your sketch and finishing your nighttime routine before setting your alarm and going to bed. Tomorrow’s definitely going to be a disaster.
You walked into your ASL class expecting Dean to skip or back out. But surprisingly, he was there early, reading an ASL textbook. Unfortunately, he noticed you, waved, and called your name, excited to see you. You had been avoiding the stares from some of your classmates before you sat down next to him. You pulled out your laptop to work on some designs for another class. Shortly after, Dean peeked over your shoulder and couldn’t help but talk to you.
“Woah! That’s so cool what class is that for?”
You opted to use a text box in the corner to type your responses. “It’s for 2D Design, I have to align some shapes.”
“It looks fun”
Then your professor walked in. They spoke while signing. Even though Dean missed the first week, they were going over the alphabet and the history of ASL. Dean surprisingly took out his own laptop, writing notes and pulling up visuals of hand signs. You, still focused on your design, weren’t paying attention. You already knew ASL, but the course was mandatory for students who utilize it daily or student interpreters.
“Hey, aren’t you supposed to be paying attention?”
“I already know ASL, if you didn’t know.”
“Some of this stuff is interesting you know, like how it can have different variations.”
“It is a language you know, not everyone has a thick New York accent.”
“Hey! I’m from Connecticut. Not everyone can be from Boston.” Dean fired back, placing heavy emphasis on saying "Boston" in an exaggerated Bostonian accent. You rolled your eyes as you finished up on your designs, which you planned to print later. You still had about 45 minutes of class left and opted to pull out your food sketchbook. You turned to the chicken-and-dumpling drawing to finish coloring it in and add some shading. Dean naturally couldn’t keep his mouth shut.
“Woah, is that Tucker’s dinner from last night?”
You nodded.
“How do you get the soup to look like that cream color?”
You sighed, and then Dean caught himself for thinking what Garrett said. He realized he was probably talking too much and let you continue drawing in peace. Eventually, class ended, and you had finished the final picture. Dean, not wanting to bother you, started packing his bag and heading out. You tugged at his shirt, and he looked down at you. You showed him the final picture, and he looked at you in awe.
“Y/N, this looks awesome! Do you mind if I take a photo of it to send to Tucker?” You nodded as he quickly grabbed his phone to snap a photo. He smiled at you before you both walked out of the classroom. The moment you stepped out, a group of girls walked over to Dean to talk to him. They didn’t even notice you, and one girl shoved past you, causing you to trip and drop your sketchbook. Some pages were falling out and getting trampled. You had tried to call out to Dean, but you couldn’t really scream or even say the word “Dean” yet. You then opted to wave your hands in the air to where Dean saw your eyeline. Knowing Dean only knew the alphabet, you spelled it out simply.
DEAN HELP
Dean squinted, trying to read the words you were spelling out, before he realized you were signing “help”. He excused all the girls out of the way to find you on the ground, trying to pick up your trampled sketches.
“Everyone back up! You’re stepping on her things!” Dean shouted. Before all the girls cleared out to let Dean help you, they made comments about who this nobody is or why Dean is helping you. You ignored it and focused on making sure your sketches are ok. You realized the page you just finished had gotten crinkled, and there was mud and dirt all over it. You looked at it in disappointment and felt like crying. Dean saw your disappointed face and turned to face you.
“Hey, hey, it’s ok, I took a photo of it, I can text it to you!” Dean handed you his phone. You typed in your number, and he made your contact name “Baby Graham”. He texted it to you, and you thanked him, changing his contact name to “Loud Blonde.” He apologized to the group of girls, saying it won't happen again. Maybe Dean wasn’t the most annoying for now. He escorted you outside the building, where Garrett was waiting. Dean had to head to another class, and he said his goodbyes.
·༻𐫱༺·
“So, how was he?”
He was ok, still talked a little too much, but he left me alone when I was drawing.
“That’s good, I told you he could tone it down.”
Can I ask you something, Garrett?
“Of course.”
Is Dean popular with girls?
Garrett reached behind his neck. “Unfortunately, the whole hockey team is flooded by girls. But Dean gets around, if you get what I mean. Why did something happen?”
Some girls just trampled us after class, and some stepped on some art I just finished.
“You better believe I will be having another talk with him.”
It's ok, Garrett. He helped me and told them to go away. He said it won’t happen again.
“So, it wasn’t the end of the world having him around?”
I’d say he was tolerable. I still don’t hate him.
“I’ll take it as a win. If he continues to bother you, you let me know ok?”
You nodded as you headed to Garrett’s car. Garrett dropped you off at your dorm before heading back to his house. You worked on some homework for your typography class. A text from Dean pulled you out of your zone for a second.
Loud Blonde: Hey, I just wanted to apologize again for earlier. The boys want to frame your drawing in the house lol.
Baby Graham: It’s ok, I still have plenty of sketches in my book.
You thought about how difficult it is not knowing how to say Dean’s name, and about how he’s going to be around you all semester. You probably should at least know how to say it in case something happens again. You call Garrett to ask for help and whip out a notebook to take phonetic notes.
“What’s up, sis?”
You texted him, “Can you teach me how to say Dean?”
“Oh, sure. You’d take the de- from door. And you remember what you’d say when I’d take away your Barbies?”
“Mean.”
“Yeah, so the end -ean part and you put those two together.”
“Doorean.”
“Oh, just the D part, -duh”
“Duh-ean”
“Better, but it’s one syllable. I texted how it's pronounced phonetically to you.”
“Deen?”
“Yup, you got it. Just keep practicing it. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“Nope.”
“Alright, goodnight sis, don’t stay up too late!”
·༻𐫱༺·
You kept practicing by saying it to yourself and looking up videos on how people pronounce it. After a few tries, you got it mostly down. You finished up the rest of your work before heading to bed. You woke up, packed your bags, and headed to the campus cafe before your classes. You got a quick coffee before putting your headphones in, listening to music, and walking to your class. As you're looking at your phone, you hear someone calling your name over your music. You paused it and turned to see Garrett’s curly-haired friend.
“Hey! Y/N!”
“Oh, hi.”
“My name's Tucker, in case you forgot. Are you also heading to a pre-calculus class?”
You nodded.
“Nice, I’m also in that class. Sorry if you’re confused, but I’m also a Freshman here at Briar. I just got an off-campus living exemption for being on the hockey team. Do you want to head to class together?”
You agreed as you both quietly strolled to class. You also gave Tucker your number so you could easily communicate with him. He wasn’t as loud as Dean and enjoyed being in the moment, enjoying the weather. It was nice. You both sat together as you brought out your tablet for notes, while Tucker was busy on his laptop watching some hockey highlights. You texted him, nosy about what he was doing.
Y/N Graham: Why are you watching Harvard’s hockey highlights?
Tucker: We have a game this weekend, Gar is drilling all the freshman on studying how they play. He really wants us to win.
Y/N Graham: Sounds like my brother alright.
Tucker: There’s a lot of extra pressure since they’re our rivals. The whole team is kind of on edge.
Y/N Graham: If my brother gives you guys a hard time, you let me know. I’ll knock some sense into him.
Tucker laughed as you both went back to each other’s work. You took notes and practice problems, while Tucker wrote down formations and potential strategies. You compared this experience to Dean. It was calm, no forced conversation, just both of you in your own worlds. Even though you appreciated how much quieter Tucker was, a small part of you wished someone would text or tap your shoulder every 10 minutes. Time had passed so quickly that the lecture was over, and both of you stepped out to see Garrett, Hannah, Logan, and Dean waiting for Tucker.
“There he is. Did you see the new videos I sent you?” Garrett motioned to Tucker.
“Yeah, I also tried to come up with some ideas to try on the ice.”
Garrett then turned to you. “I hope he didn’t distract you in class.”
Nope. Unlike him, I actually took notes on our pre-calculus lecture.
Garrett turned back to Tucker. “So, what do you know about the unit circle?"
Tucker looked dumbfounded. Ashamed about being caught for not paying attention in class, Tucker kindly asked if he could have your notes. You smiled, motioning that you’d text it to him. You then saw Hannah pop up behind Garrett. She signed
Hello, my name is Hannah. I’m Garrett’s girlfriend.
I know, he really likes you.
Hannah smiled at your response. You appreciated that at least his girlfriend is trying better than Dean did. Speak of the devil, the annoying blonde couldn't help but chirp up at you. He looked excited to show you something.
Hello, Y/N.
Hello, Dean.
How was class?
Good.
“Did you see that? Was that good?” Dean looked down at you in anticipation. You nodded, and Dean excitedly cheered.
“He practiced that conversation a hundred times with Garrett. Your name alone took thirty minutes.” Logan jumped in, putting his arm around Dean.
You were impressed. Maybe the blonde wasn’t as dumb as you thought.
“Yo, are we all heading back to the house? Y/N, you’re always invited.” Tucker motioned.
Garrett quickly looked, counting that not everyone could fit in his car.
“Logan, Dean, did either of you bring your car?”
Dean pulled his keys from his pocket, jingling them. “Who’s riding with me?”
Logan and Tucker were fighting, playing rock, paper, scissors to see who’d get to ride in Dean’s car. Unfortunately, Tucker lost. You all started to walk towards the parking lot when you opened the car door to a strong smell of stinky hockey gear and saw one of the seats down to fit Garrett’s hockey sticks.
“Oh shoot, I forgot I had my gear in here.” Garrett put his hand on his forehead.
Logan was about to offer you his seat when you stopped him, insisting he could go. Garrett translated that you mentioned that Logan fought for that seat fair and square and you’d go with Dean. Before you went with them, Garrett pulled Dean aside.
“If anything happens to my baby sister, you are dead, Di Laurentis.”
Dean assured Garrett nothing would happen before walking off to Dean’s car. It was a silver BMW sports car. You could tell it was expensive. Tucker, being the gentleman, let you sit in the passenger seat while he sat in the back. Thankfully, his car just smelled like musk and whatever cologne Dean wears. He had leather seats and fancy buttons all over the car.
“Better than Garrett’s car right?” Dean smirked.
“No.”
“C’mon, his smelly Jeep is not better than mine.” Dean pouted.
You huffed and looked away from him.
“I’ll prove it to you.”
Dean turned his car on, and it let out a roar. That didn’t really impress you, but his phone automatically connected and started to play “Party Monster” by The Weeknd. You turned your head to stare at it.
“Oh? You like The Weeknd? He’s one of my favorite artists.”
You nodded when you saw that Dean’s backup camera was extra special, with overhead, rear, and side views. You noticed the lights in his car bounced to the beats of the song, and there was basically a huge tablet as his control panel. During the quick 10-minute drive, you took the time to watch Dean as a driver. He was smooth, driving with one hand, and was very fluid. You had never seen him so focused. He drove surprisingly safely. You were sure he would speed or try to race Garrett home. But it was anticlimactic to say the least. You all made it to the house before getting out of his car, thanking him for driving. Tucker opened the house door for you and let you in first.
·༻𐫱༺·
You walked in to see Hannah sprawled out with her legs on Garrett as he had now transitioned to putting the hockey highlights on their TV. Tucker and Dean groaned at the sight of it.
“G, seriously, we’ve been at this all day let’s take a break.” Logan pinched the bridge of his nose.
“If we want to beat this guys, we have to study their new freshman, too.” Garrett showed a 20+ video playlist of highlights from all the players. You all looked in horror. You tapped Garrett on the shoulder.
Give them a break, you guys will be fine. Don’t get all stressed because Dad’s coming.
Dean noticed parts of what you said. Specifically, you mentioned that Garrett’s dad will be coming. It made him understand why Garrett was so intense about this game.
“Fine, everyone do their homework. But after dinner we’re watching this!”
The group sighed in relief before they all split off. Before Garrett went into his room with Hannah, you had asked him if he had any scissors at the house because you needed them for a project.
“Yo, do any of you guys have scissors?”
“I have some kitchen scissors if that works?” Tucker asked. You shook your head, not wanting food or to ruin his blades with your materials.
“I have a pair in my room, you can come with me.” Dean noted. You reluctantly followed him to his room. Unlike Garrett, he was a little messier. The bed wasn’t made, a basket full of laundry was on the floor, and his desk was covered in books. Even though it was messy, it smelled nice like cedarwood and pepper. You noticed an “ASL For Beginners” Book on there and smiled. Dean rummaged through his desk, found it, and handed it to you. You thanked him before heading downstairs. Dean, being curious, followed you down and watched your every step. Seeing you pull out the designs you worked on the other day, along with some other construction paper. He asked you about each step in the process, but you reluctantly replied in basic ASL or via text.
It was strange that everything you told Dean fascinated him. It was like you were from another world and he was just born yesterday. You never thought you’d be sitting at the kitchen counter teaching a 6-foot-2 blonde how negative space works. He’d look at you with those innocent blue eyes, eager to find out what you’d say next. You noticed he would hold back more than the first time you met him, offering to help or bringing down his own work to leave you alone to do your project. He’d occasionally chime in to ask if you wanted a glass of water, snacks, or something to complement your progress. Unlike Tucker, it was nice to have someone who constantly cheered you on and checked in on you. Even though you were listening to your music, Dean would always find some way to get your attention. At one point, he found himself cutting out shapes for you. He’d ask you if it was right before handing it to you, looking in anticipation each time.
·༻𐫱༺·
Garrett walked down with Hannah, commenting on the sight.
“Interesting, I’ve never seen Dean be so gentle with…construction paper?” Hannah turned to Garrett for a reaction. Garrett had a confused and angry look.
“What is he doing?”
“Aw c’mon Gar, they look cute.”
“Don’t you dare, if Dean makes a move-”
“Relax, he’s just helping her. I’m sure it's harmless. I mean you know Dean, he’s definitely busy with a bunch of puck bunnies. Plus, if she was annoyed I’m sure she’d text you to rescue her.”
Garrett and Hannah joined Tucker and Logan on the couch, who were fighting over a video game. It was strange to see Dean get along with you, let alone with a few words. Usually, when a girl came over, Dean would be all over her, or you could hear loud laughter from upstairs. It was eerily quiet to see both of you quietly working without much noise. Logan turned to notice Garrett had come back downstairs.
“Hey G? When are we heading to Malone’s? The team’s asking for an informal meeting.”
“We’ll go in a few, depends on if Dean’s done playing arts and crafts.”
Dean’s head perked up. “Hey! I’m learning the importance of color theory!”
You smiled at his comment and turned your head to look at Garrett, worried.
What’s wrong, Garrett?
Nothing. Is Dean bothering you?
No, he’s helping me. I’ll be done in 10 minutes.
“Do you want to join us at Malone’s? You can meet the rest of the team.” Dean interjected.
You were scared Dean understood your and Garrett’s conversation and nodded.
“Great! I can’t wait to watch you draw a Malone’s burger.”
·༻𐫱༺·
You and the group piled into the same groups, and you all pulled up to Malone’s. The group walked in as a giant roar of cheers came from a group of men that you assumed was the hockey team. Dean floated over and looked like he was his usual loud self. You, wanting to avoid dealing with a bunch of hockey jocks, drifted over to the bar and sat on a stool. You pulled out your sketchbook, intrigued by the food and atmosphere.
“Hey! You’re Garrett’s sister right?” A girl with brown wavy hair asked you.
You nodded, “Yeah, Y/N.”
“It’s nice to meet you Y/N! I’m Allie, Hannah’s roommate, can I get you anything?”
You pointed at a glass of water. Allie nodded as she poured you one. You then noticed a flood of girls come in. They squealed, pointed at the hockey team, and immediately went over to flirt with them. You saw various girls fawn all over Dean. Garrett wasn’t kidding. Girls love the hockey boys. You watched as Dean smiled, wrapping his arms around them. For some reason, you felt a twang against your heart. Watching Dean flirt and banter so easily. You wish you could match his energy as those girls did. From far away, it looked like they were a well-oiled machine, never losing steam every chance they opened their stupid mouths. Shit. Why did you care? He’s your brother’s best friend. He probably would want someone who could talk back anyway.
You had always found it hard to date, which was why you never did. You believed no one could ever be understanding enough to learn ASL for you or be patient when you’d type out a response. The only person who would do that is. You thought Dean would be a refreshing change of heart, but he seemed to prefer the company of those girls anyway. As long as they were around, you were invisible, just like the other day after class.
“Y/N? Are you alright?” Allie perked behind you. You swiveled in your bar stool to face her. You tipped your head towards the crowd.
“Ah, the puck bunnies? They’re a bunch of girls who are obsessed with hockey and hockey players. Don’t worry about Garrett though, he’s very loyal to Hannah.”
If only that’s what you were worried about. Whatever, at least Dean won’t be bothering you tonight. You sipped on your water as you sketched out the interior of Malone’s. A few minutes later, you felt a small tap on your shoulder. You anticipated Dean, but were surprised to see Logan.
“Hey, how are you holding up? G sent me over to check on you.”
You gave him a thumbs up.
“You want something? I promise I won’t tell G.”
“No thank you.” You quickly replied before focusing on your drawing.
“That looks sick, G always mentioned you were a talented artist. I’ll see you around.”
Allie served Logan a beer before nodding to you and heading back to the crowd. You then watched Logan report to Garrett as he smiled and texted you.
Garrett: If you ever want to leave, just text me, and we’ll go.
You gave him a smile before focusing back on your sketch, starting to outline it in pen.
·༻𐫱༺·
You then heard a larger crowd enter. You assumed there were more students before you heard whispers and rustling. It was a group of guys who looked similar in build to the hockey team. You figured they were on the football or lacrosse team. You felt their presence come up behind you.
“Who’s this pretty girl?” A guy started.
Another yanked your sketchbook out of your hands and dangled it in the air. “Look, she’s a little Picasso with all these drawings. Why don’t you focus on me instead?”
You were completely flustered. You weren’t sure whether you should punch one of them or scream loud enough to break their eardrums.
“Hey, you’re Garrett Graham’s sister, right? The one who can’t talk? I’ve always wanted to date a girl who can’t talk back.” Another guy leaned, laughing very close to your face. You had had enough and threw your glass of water at his face.
“Asshole.” You slapped him in the face.
The whole room then focused its attention on the scene you just caused.
“Why, you little bitch, I’ll teach you to shut up for good.” One started to charge at you before you felt a large set of arms pull you behind him. You, thinking it was Garrett, instinctively hugged the back of him, bracing for what would happen.
“You bastards need to leave her alone. Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” Dean threatened. Wait a minute. Dean? Shit. You were holding onto Dean for dear life. Dean could sense your arms shaking.
“She slapped me and threw the water at me first! We were just messing with her.”
“You think it’s funny to mess with someone who can’t easily speak up for herself? Imagine if someone was beating you down and you couldn’t scream for help, then what?”
“C’mon Di Laurentis, she’s just a quiet, weird, art nerd, is she really worth your time?” That comment made your eyes burn. Sure, you were more of the artsy type, but the dumb lacrosse meathead was right. Why is Dean wasting his time on you?
“She is. She is a million times kinder, gentler, and better yet, quieter than your annoying loud mouth.” You peeled yourself off Dean before tugging on his shirt to have him look down at you. He flashed you a bright smile before turning back to the other loudmouth.
“So either get the fuck out of Malone’s or I’ll make you.” Dean got closer to the guy’s face. He huffed and gestured for the rest of the team to leave, cursing Dean as he went. Dean turned back to you and crouched down to your level.
“Are you ok? Did he touch you or anything?”
“No.”
“Good.” Dean brought you in for a brief hug.
A girl floated by to gush over Dean. She put a hand on his shoulder and brushed his bicep and explained how manly and sexy it was to see him go to bat to defend someone. You meekly turned your head away, jumping back to reality. Dean probably only sees you as your brother’s sister. Swooping in to protect you because he promised Garrett he would. Not because he had any feelings for you. Why in the world would Dean Di Laurentiis even go out with someone like you? You’re complete opposites.
·༻𐫱༺·
Garrett quickly got up to check on you. You assured him you were okay, and he insisted on taking you home. Hannah insisted she’d just get a ride from Logan or Dean, so you and Garrett left to drop her off at her dorm. Shortly after you got back, you decompressed what just happened. Slightly overwhelmed, you began to cry, upset at yourself for putting yourself in that dangerous situation. You were also angry at Dean for coming in to help you when you wished it were Garrett. It would help your head stop spiraling as you replay what Dean said about you. You heard a knock on your door. It was probably the RA coming to do room checks, but you opened the door to see Dean.
“Hey, you left your sketchbook at Malone’s, I thought you’d want it back.”
“Thanks, Duh-ean”
“Duh-ean, I like it,” Dean laughed to himself.
You wanted to slap yourself for saying that in front of him.
“It’s ok, don’t be so hard on yourself about it.” Dean noticed your puffy eyes and red nose.
“Have you been crying?” Dean asked.
You were quiet.
“Do you mind if I come in? You could use a friend if you want to talk about it.” You debated the idea before looking up at his eyes. They had genuine concern. Not wanting him to report back to Garrett and have Garrett pester you all night, you let him in.
You both sat on your floor against the wall next to your shoe rack.
“So, what’s going on?”
I’m overwhelmed
“I know.” Dean put his arm around you and pulled you into his chest.
“I’m sorry I jumped in like that, I know you can handle yourself. Nice move with the water though.”
“Thanks.” You giggled.
“I was worried about you. Trust me they won’t be bothering you anymore.”
You smiled.
“I went through your sketches. You really are talented.” Dean turned to a page, and it was a sketch of a purple orchid.
"This one is my favorite." Dean noted.
“Mom.”
“Mom? Is this your mother’s favorite flower?”
“Yeah. Orchids.”
“It’s beautiful.”
You both had a moment looking at it. Dean could notice every small stroke you made and the little details in each petal. After seeing your sketch, Dean was at a loss for words for the first time. You hadn’t seen this sketch in a while. It was one of the things you drew when you missed your mom. A tear lightly rolled down your cheek. Dean noticed, cupped your cheek, and wiped it away with his thumb. You looked beautiful, your skin glowing from the galaxy projector you turned on at night. Dean lightly pulled away and apologized.
“Sorry, I know you’ve had a rough night. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Dean removed his arm from you. You two just sat in silence. Dean wanted to say something so badly to break the silence, but held back, not trying to ruin the moment. You were so different than the girls Dean would usually go for. They'd always want to talk or gush about him, it was refreshing to just sit in silence and enjoy each other's presence. You slowly reached out to hold Dean’s hand.
“Thanks, Dean.” You spoke.
Dean turned to you. “Hey, you got it right this time, good job, Y/N.” Dean reached to pat your head. “And don’t mention it. You Graham’s can easily hold your own.” Dean continued to stroke your hair.
A few minutes had passed, and Dean was about to say something before he heard light snoring against his shoulder. You had passed out from dozing off at your projector, with Dean's warmth next to you. Dean smiled as he gently lifted you off of him and carried you bridal style towards your bed. You were half asleep as he placed you down. He brushed hair out of your face before Dean tucked you in. He had turned to leave when you grabbed his arm. You gestured to him to come closer to you. He bent down to meet you at eye level. You kissed him on the forehead.
“Sweet. Dean. Thank you.”
You couldn’t see it, but Dean felt a light blush rush to his ears. If he had a tail, it would be wagging, patting against the floor.
Dean smiled, “Goodnight, Y/N.”
Dean left quietly, closing the door behind you, this was the first time Dean didn’t want to leave a girl’s room. But you’re Garrett’s sister. What’s he thinking?
Dean got back to the house to find Garrett waiting for him, anticipating his sister.
“How is she? Is she alright?”
“She’s fine Gar, she’s strong-willed, just like her big brother.” Dean patted his side as they both went up to their rooms.
Dean didn’t even notice his phone had blown up from a bunch of puck bunnies, the team, and the roommates texting him. When he was with you, he was in another world, ignoring all the noise from the outside. Dean ignored the text from Puck Bunnies and was torn about whether to admit he had feelings for you. For one, Garrett would murder him, and for two, he didn’t want to hurt you. He hated seeing you sad. The night you met, he felt it. He didn’t know that one simple look could give his heart a small poke. Seeing you with those puffy eyes made him only want to beat up the entire lacrosse team. As Dean lay on his bed staring at the ceiling, he pondered what in the world he should do.
·༻𐫱༺·
By the end of the week, it was finally the day of the hockey game. It was a weekend, so you got to sleep in a bit for once. Your mind kept drifting to that night with Dean. Even so, your dreams were flooded with him, always ending with you kissing him, causing you to wake up as if it were a nightmare. But it wasn’t. You were more worried about the idea of Garrett finding out. Fuck, you like Dean Di Laurentis. The game went just as planned. Briar nearly won, 3-2 in overtime. Garrett and Logan scored goals, and you saw Dean body nearly half of Harvard’s bench. As you were walking towards the locker room to congratulate them, right outside the door, you heard some familiar voices.
“Well, aren’t we lucky boys? It's the little water tossing bitch from Malone’s”
“Stop.” You warned.
“Or what? You’re going to throw water at me again? Oh wait, I don't see any.” The cocky lacrosse player laughed.
You backed up towards the wall until you felt a large cup of ice-cold water fall on your head. You screeched out at how cold it was, and now you were drenched in water.
“Wow, for a girl who’s mute, you surely can scream.”
Garrett immediately recognized your scream and ran out, fresh out of a shower. He almost broke the door off with how hard he slammed it open. Naturally, his teammates, including Dean, ran out to see you, crying and drenched in water.
“You motherfuckers.” Garrett noted before punching one of the guys on the lacrosse team. All the other teammates jumped in to punch some other guys before the staff and coaches broke them up. Garrett and Dean got pretty beaten up. Hannah pulled Garrett off and walked him towards the medical area. You helped Dean up and noticed him wincing against his chest and arms. Dean thanked you as he looked up at you.
“You’re wet, we should get you to the medical team, they can warm you up.”
“Dean.”
“What?”
“Chest. Arm. Pain?”
“I’m f-fine, I promise.”
“Liar.”
“Fine, I’ll go if you go.”
You agreed, holding onto him as he hobbled towards one of the medical rooms they typically use for PT. They gave you a towel and blankets as they propped Dean up on the examiner’s table. The athletic trainer motioned for Dean to take off his shirt, and he obliged, catching you off guard as you looked away, lightly blushing. You could see the various black-and-blue bruises on Dean’s body out of the corner of your eye. You knew what he did was taxing on his body, but seeing it only made you feel pain. Dean hissed as the trainer stretched him out and asked if various places hurt.
“Good work, Di Laurentis, you didn’t fracture anything. Just ice your face tonight. Your girlfriend can help you hold it up for you.”
You waved your arms, trying to deny it.
Dean laughed and thanked him as the trainer left the two of you alone. Dean tried to get up and winced before you walked up to help him. You were still a little cold, so you clung to Dean’s warmth.
“Warm.”
“Gee thanks, for a second there I thought you were trying to help me.”
You hit him on the arm, causing him to drop his ice pack. You picked it up and handed it back to him. A little hurt, he pouted.
“Wow, my ‘girlfriend’ is already trying to kill me.”
You wanted to punch him again, but he’s lucky he’s beaten up and needs your help. Garrett and Hannah catch up with both of you walking in the hallway. Garrett runs up to you.
“Y/N! My sweet baby sister, are you alright, they didn’t hit you did they?”
“No, only water.”
Garrett gave out a relieved sigh, mentioning that he and Hannah are heading out soon. Dean offered to drive you home, and Garrett didn’t argue. He trusted Dean. Plus, it looked like he needed someone to help him to his car. You helped Dean into the locker room, helping him pack his hockey bag as he lugged it over his shoulder. You were still on his other side, helping him walk. Even though he was limping, he reached to open the passenger side door for you. He slowly but surely got into the driver’s side, still wincing at his pain.
Are you sure you’re ok to drive?
“Yes, I don’t want my ‘girlfriend’ to worry.” You were shocked at how much ASL Dean could comprehend in a week.
Why do you keep saying that?
“I like it because I think it suits you.”
You went quiet, staring at him.
“U-Unless you don’t like it, I’ll stop saying it. You know what? Just forget about that whole thing together. It was a really funny joke? Haha?”
You kept staring at the bumbling idiot.
“You don’t like it. Or do you like it? Just give me a sign Y/N!” Dean put his face into the wheel, causing the car to let out a small beep.
“I like you, Dean.”
Dean pulled his head up and pulled you in for a hug.
“Are you sure? Did I say it too soon? I wasn’t sure how you felt.” Dean held the sides of your shoulders. You leaned into him for a gentle kiss.
“I don’t hate you.”
“But…you like me right?”
“Yes, Dean.”
“What about Garrett?”
How about we just keep this our secret, for now? You winked.
“Now we need our own secret language to flirt around Garrett, is there a Pig Latin version of ASL?”
You laughed as you both drove off to the house, then arrived and helped Dean up the stairs. You gave him one more kiss before going inside.
“Boyfriend.” You spoke.
“Girlfriend.” Dean replied, smiling brighter than he had ever before. He’d been waiting for you to say those words and can’t wait to hear them again.
A/N: This fic was so fun to write! I hope you guys enjoyed! Sorry that this one took a little longer, I just kept adding and adding more to it! Next fic will also be about Dean so stay tuned!
Edit: Due to popular demand, I will be adding a part 2 so lookout for it!!
all credit goes entirely to the writers, i did not write any of these. if you enjoyed a fic, show the author some love with by a comment, reblog, or both ! please read all author warnings before reading & proceed at your own discretion
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Hogwarts students aren't exactly known for minding their own business. Thankfully, you and Theo speak a language they don't.
theo’s not above a little suffering if it means you’ll kiss it better. bruises fade, but your lips on his? worth every second of pain
⟡ 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐏𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐎𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 🦢 | @malfoysanctuary
Theo always acts like it’s an inconvenience. The way his sweaters disappear into the abyss of your wardrobe, but when you walk into a crowded room wearing something that still carries his scent, his patience stretches thin, because everyone can see what he already knows. You’re his, and you always will be
⟡ 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍 🦢 | @midnight-menac3
Theodore Nott leaves subtle traces of himself in your path until the quiet tension between you becomes impossible to ignore in the shadows of Hogwarts
⟡ 𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐓𝐋𝐄𝐃 🦢 | @nottendo (sinsandlemonade)
⟡ 𝐋𝐀 𝐃𝐎𝐋𝐂𝐄 𝐕𝐈𝐓𝐀 🦢 | @/nottendo (moscatosin)
⟡ 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍 🦢🕯️
⟡ 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐘 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐋𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐄𝐑 🦢 | @nottsangel
your academic rival Theo smells you in his Amortentia
⟡ 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐎 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐇𝐎𝐖 𝐓𝐎 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 🦢 | @nyxienight
⟡ 𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 🦢 | @obsessedwithceleste
Ft. Enzo being bad at potions, the Ravenclaw common room door, and more than one accidental love confession
⟡ 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐄 𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒 🦢🕯️ | @prythiansprincess
a night out with the boys goes awry when draco concocts a nightmare combination of tequila and potions, causing a disastrous turn of events in which theo nott finally spills his deepest, darkest secret
after a minor spat, theodore finds what he thinks is your animagus form sulking in the courtyard and spends an entire hour apologizing to it — only to discover he’s been emotionally unloading on derek avery’s cat. at least theo’s humiliation proves one thing: he really would do anything to earn your forgiveness (even buy the fancy salmon treats).
⟡ 𝐌𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐍, 𝐇𝐄𝐋𝐏 𝐌𝐄 (𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔) 🦢
you’re supposed to be studying, but theo’s glasses keep sliding down his nose and now you’re hopelessly in love and very, very distracted
⟡ 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅, 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐍𝐆𝐑𝐀𝐒𝐒 🦢
you didn’t plan on being jealous—until daphne got too comfortable with theodore
⟡ 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 🦢🏛️
theodore shows up bruised and bloodied from yet another fight, and you patch him up with a scolding, a kiss, and a heart that won’t stop falling.
⟡ 𝐓𝐎𝐎𝐊 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐋𝐎𝐍𝐆 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 🦢 | @theodorenmyth
Theodore Nott is determined to ask you to the Yule Ball—but subtle hints, awkward near-confessions, and endless sabotage from his chaotic Slytherin friends turn it into a full-blown disaster. You, curled up in his stolen sweater and completely oblivious, might just be the one thing holding him together… or pushing him over the edge
⟡ 𝐑𝐎𝐌𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄 𝐁𝐘 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐎𝐍 🦢 | @theosweetie
⟡ 𝐊𝐀𝐑𝐌𝐀 🦢 | @wordsarelife
karma is the way you wear his jersey, making sure his team will lose the game
⟡ 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐖𝐀𝐋 🦢 | @writingsbychlo
theo decides to quit smoking, but doesn’t realize that his decision would affect his girlfriend, too
⟡ 𝐍𝐄𝐖 𝐘𝐄𝐀𝐑'𝐒 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓𝐃𝐎𝐖𝐍 🦢 | @xitcantlast
Theo swears he doesn't care about the countdown, the party, or any of the noise. Until he realizes he cares very much about one thing: kissing you when the clock strikes midnight.
◟ content ! ୧ babbling to your husband when he's trying to sleep
𝒪ver the year you've shared a bed with him , you have learned every habit that helps Jacaerys sleep.
The slow circles against the nape of his neck. The absentminded twirling of the short curls hidden beneath his hair. The gentle weight of your hand resting there until the tension finally leaves his shoulders.
And tonight is no different. His breathing deepens , the lines of responsibility easing from his face as sleep gradually claims him.
Beyond the narrow windows , the sea rolls endlessly against Dragonstone's black cliffs. Every wave breaks with the same patient rhythm , the sound carrying through ancient stone until it becomes part of the castle itself. Salt lingers in the air despite the shuttered windows , mingling with melted wax and smoke from the dying candles.
A great foundation to get lulled to sleep.
But no , unfortunately for your husband , you are still awake.
"Jace." A noise that is half agreement and half sleep follows the call of his name , and so you continue , "i think i would greatly miss the sea."
The sheets shuffle beside you as Jacaerys rolls onto his back , smacking his lips as if to will the lingering drowsiness away. To properly engage in a conversation (even if he wants nothing less than find rest) , as his wife deserve nothing less. Yet , he keeps his eyes close. And your hand doesn't slip from his neck as he does , lingering in a way that is familiar , and warm.
"You say that every time we're away from Dragonstone ," he finally notes. He doesn’t understand where your longing words for the sea are coming from , and he doesn’t pry. Perhaps it is merely sleepy delusion. Because you are at Dragonstone , you are at the sea , as it is right outside these walls.
There is nothing to be missed here.
You are home , you're with him.
So instead , he melts back into the pillows , comforted by your gentle touch and surrendering to finally let the dragging day come to an end , so that one will start anew with more duty , more war … , but also more you.
Yet every crash against the cliffs tugged strangely at your chest , as though the sea was calling from somewhere much farther away than Dragonstone's shore.
"I know." Silence settles again.
This time , it lasts almost a full minute. Enough to make his breath even out , to let him believe that you finally found sleep as well. He curls around you like a Dragon , nose brushing against the side of your face to keep close , and warm…
Then — "Jace ?"
Oh , how he adores you. Even when you steal his rare moments of rest just to converse with him a bit longer. "Hm ?"
"Have you ever been scared of the sea ?"
Ah , again with the sea. This time your question is enough to have him blink open his eyes , glazed with sleep and searching yours with a bit of confusion.
"...Not really ," he answers lightly , and this time his hand shifts to cradle the back of your neck too , mindlessly twirling the short hairs like you do him. He hopes it soothes you to finally let conversation fall away , and to let sleep win.
"Not even in storms ?"
This one he considers a bit longer. Then , he shrugs , huffing a sleepy laugh , barely more than an exhale.
"If I ever end up in the sea, it'll be because I've done something spectacularly stupid."
You consider his answer for a moment , and yet it doesn't comfort you at all.
Because it's such a Jace answer. Your Jace , firstborn son of Rhaenyra , fierce , kind , and spectacularly stupid when it comes to protecting what's his. You know him well enough to understand that it's a lingering fear of loosing someone close to him. Like Lucerys. And that he'd rather it was him in that storm than his little brother.
"I would jump in after you," you say , fierce gaze meeting his , "I would bring you home."
"No, you won't." 'Won't' , not 'wouldn't'.
"I absolutely will."
A soft patient sigh as he cradles your jaw , thumb brushing your cheekbone with so much devotion you almost yield. Almost.
"If I'm in the water , my love , the sensible thing is to stay on the ship ," he hums , readjusting himself yet again , trying to gently direct you deeper into soft sheets. His eyes close again when you don't fight him , and you're both just tangled limbs and lingering warmth , "t' stay alive ."
You wrinkle your nose.
He knows you do , even when he can't see. Because he knows you.
"I'd still come after you ," you mutter , much softer this time , and he hopes that it's a sign you're slowly surrendering to his warmth, "i wouldn't just leave you , Jace."
"I know ," he hums , and you feel his hand curl the locks at the back of your neck again , gently breathing you in as he also becomes more silent , "i know you would."
Then , "but we're not at the sea , my love. We're home , and we're safe..."
Another wave struck the cliffs below. Far enough away to sound gentle. Close enough to shake the silence.
And this time you don't fight him , and his attempt to get you to sleep. You press your forehead against his arm , and he rests his chin on top of your head with a satisfied sigh.
It's warm , and it's safe , and suddenly you're much sleepier than moments before.
A few seconds pass.
"...Jace ?"
He doesn't answer this time. He's finally asleep.
You smile into the darkness , listening to the sea outside , and letting it finally lull you to sleep , surrounded by the warmth of your husband. In which neither of you imagine there would come a day when its waves would carry away more than lost boots ...
it's no secret that where garrett graham is, you're likely close behind. and everyone knows where you are, garrett graham is too. that’s the outcome of growing up best friends.
throw in the messy deal between garrett and hannah, it has you wondering if your so called ‘best friend’ even realises he's left you behind.
⤷ aka off campus social/text au! - garrett graham x fem!reader
series masterlist
The hockey house is different for the following days. It's not ever really quiet; it can't be with four guys and their attached chaos. It's all softer around the edges now, as if everyone moved in tandem without agreeing.
Garrett is... treading lightly, to put it one way. He knows everything right now is delicate, and he's doing what he can to bring it back together the way a captain saves their team. You have every right to be mad at him, to make digs and tell him to fuck off and say all the curses in the book. But you haven't.
No one says your name too loudly. They don't ask more questions than needed, and nobody expects anything from you beyond existing. It's enough to make your chest ache.
You've barely left Garrett's room since everything happened, not because anyone limited you to a space, but just because it felt safe. His oversized bed, the scent lingering in the comforter, the distant cologne, and the sweaty hockey equipment. It all felt much easier than facing the rest of the world.
You can still picture every cruel word from the texts. Every joke about how pathetic you probably looked trailing after someone who clearly wasn't interested. It's that same ugly part of you that has been thinking the same things that keeps rearing its head.
A soft knock broke you from the spiral. You don't say anything, but the door eases open anyway.
Garrett shuffles in cautiously, like he's afraid breathing too loud may set something off. He takes in the sight of you curled up in his bedding, pillow crunched the way you like it to be.
"Hey."
"Hey." Your voice is raspy from lack of use. You're blinking up at him sleepily.
"Hungry?"
The tiniest shake of your head tells him you're saying no when you mean otherwise.
Garrett wants to sigh because part of him is frustrated, but then he reminds himself that you're unpacking a lot of emotion that he's never really been allowed to touch.
"Babe."
The nickname almost makes you flinch, but you blink up at him with a little more clarity.
"C'mon. The guys want to see you. Tucker can make you some soup?"
The corner of your mouth twitches, and Garrett knows he's got you. He's gentle as he helps ease you from the covers. The Briar U hoodie covers your sleep shorts, and you don't let go of his hand.
He's waiting for the change, for the slip that sends you into an angry spiral, one that he definitely deserves.
Your arrival down the stairs should be normal, and maybe everyone is pretending it is, even when things feel different.
Dean is already sitting at the island with his laptop open, muttering under his breath about one of his classes. Logan's occupied over Tucker's shoulder, stealing bites just to annoy him.
Nobody comments when you settle into the seat next to Dean and lay your head against his shoulder. He takes a brief second to kiss your hair before refocusing on his work without a word.
Tucker places a grilled cheese and tomato soup in front of you shortly before he scolds Logan and threatens his removal from the kitchen. Your heart aches at the sight of it all.
Garrett slides a bowl of fruit your way. The commentary from an NHL game quietly fills the room, and you soak up the comfort of their presence. The boys add their own opinions every now and then, and you listen because they make everything feel okay in a way only they can.
--
Things come to a head a few days later. The tiptoeing only works for so long before the ugliness shows up again, after all.
You're sitting across from Garrett at a coffee shop, and it's sunny enough out that you can hide behind your sunglasses for the time being. You'd begged to come here, to get a break from being inside so much, but it had taken some convincing before Garrett caved.
He's quiet, with his eyes scanning every single person who comes into view like he's waiting for an opportunity to fight. It's impossible to miss the way he keeps glancing at you, too.
"You keep looking at me like I'm going to disappear."
You're picking at your bagel, watching Garrett with a bemused smile.
His jaw ticks a bit, but he doesn't react otherwise. "I'm just making sure you're okay."
"You've asked me that five times since we walked out of the house."
"...And I'll probably do it again."
You sigh quietly, dropping your head against your hand so you can continue to look at him. "I appreciate it, Gare--"
"But?"
"But I don't know if you keep asking because you care or because you feel guilty."
The words land between his ribs like a tough jab from an opponent. Garrett doesn't answer for a second, because he knows you're right. He's overcompensating, hovering, because he 100% feels guilty.
"So which one is it?"
"It's both."
You nod and look away from him to the nearby street. Cars pass by, and a few wandering students hold conversations as they walk. The weight on your chest is heavy, so you have to keep talking before you lose the chance.
"I like Hannah."
"I know."
You shake your head and face him again. "No, I actually do. You looked happy with her, even if it was fake, and I wanted that for you. I kept telling myself that once everything settled down, we'd go back to normal. We've had relationships of our own, and it's never been a problem."
The ice in your cup is melting, and you narrow your gaze on it. It feels like an awkward representation of your friendship right now, watching its strength blend into something less familiar.
"But this time, I didn't know where I fit anymore," You admit, twisting the straw between your fingers. "I started waiting for you to ask me to stay, and you never did. When the messages started coming through, I already believed them in my own way."
He almost recoils in his seat. "You mean that?"
You shrug softly. "I didn't want to acknowledge it. But our argument in the parking lot became a little too close for comfort, and I had my answer.”
He nods with understanding because he's been trying to grapple with his own demons on the whole thing and why the hell he would even do that.
"I've hated myself for saying it," He speaks quietly after a minute. "I've replayed it every night. I was..."
He pauses, because it feels like he's making excuses when there really aren't any. Garrett isn't someone who says something he doesn't mean; he knows that.
He's also never been a very vulnerable person. Years of building walls and hiding any bit of weakness will do that to a person. He's usually loose around you, not completely, but enough that he lets you see that side that nobody else does.
You normally take comfort in it.
"I know you didn't mean it. I do. I know you were frustrated, and I know you weren't trying to hurt me, but you did, Garrett."
You shift in your seat. It's awkward, not because you're both speaking about it, but because it's always tough to be honest about your feelings.
"I'm so sorry." Garrett's looking at you with so much sincerity it shouldn't be physically possible, and it makes you want to melt into a puddle.
"Baby, I'm so so sorry. I know it hurt, and I know it's been hurting for a long time. Everything with Hannah, with those messages. I'm sorry I caused it. I should've seen it."
"You're never hovering, ever. You're so important to me, and-and to the boys. I mean, shit, in the two hours I didn't have you, everything felt off."
You blink quickly, your breath shaky as you settle back into your chair. He's pressing too close to the topic neither of you has been brave enough to touch.
"I don't like being mad at you."
He laughs a bit and reaches across the table to hold your nervous hand. You let him take it, missing the feeling of his fingers in yours.
"You've been my favorite part of every room I've ever walked into, Bug. I’ll never let you feel any different, ever again."
Garrett knows he's got work to do. He knows that he's got a lot to make up for, and he's about to start earning you back, one step at a time.
goodnight from cabo | 1k cabo celebration, found family au ⋆⭒˚.⋆
⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration masterlist!
⋆⭒˚.⋆ cabo 1k celebration info!
summary: in which allie and y/n call dean and garrett before bed.
ꪆৎ
your body feels pleasantly heavy with exhaustion, the kind that should have you asleep within minutes. instead, neither of you make any real attempt to. you're both still riding the adrenaline of the day, too wired to let sleep win just yet.
the room has gone almost completely still now, save for the steady hum of the air conditioning and the distant rush of the ocean beyond the balcony doors.
allie turns her head slightly, studying you in the quiet before giving you a look, subtle, yet far too perceptive. she watches you for a second, fingers absentmindedly tracing patterns over the duvet gathered at her waist.
“call them?”
her voice is gentle, though there's a quiet understanding beneath it that doesn't quite match the casualness of the question.
a smile tugs faintly at your mouth before you can stop it. “yeah.”
you don’t need clarification, already knowing exactly who she means. with a soft, amused breath, allie reaches for her phone, tapping dean’s contact.
the call rings, the tone sounding once, twice, three times. dean answers on the fourth ring, his face filling the screen.
he’s sprawled across the couch at the hockey house like he has absolutely no intention of moving anytime soon, one arm stretched lazily along the backrest, expression somewhere between tired and amused.
his hair is messy, pushed back in a way that suggests he’s been running a hand through it repeatedly. the room around him is dim, lit only by the low glow of a lamp somewhere off-screen.
despite that, the second he sees both of you, something in his expression sharpens.
“well.” his mouth curves slightly. “look who finally remembered us.”
allie rolls her eyes instantly. “oh, relax.”
dean’s gaze flicks between both of you, his teasing expression softening just slightly.
dean’s mouth twitches in response, amusement clearly returning to his features.
“how’s cabo?”
you smile faintly. “good.”
his brows lift. “that’s it?”
a quiet laugh leaves you. “it’s really good.”
allie snorts beside you. “she’s exhausted.”
dean studies both of you for a second before humming in agreement. “yeah.” his mouth twitches. “you both look pretty tired.”
allie gives him a flat look. “we’ve been busy.”
dean glances over his shoulder, like he can already hear garrett somewhere in the house. “hold on.”
he leans sideways, disappearing briefly out of frame. "g!"
his voice echoes through the house. for a second, all you hear is muffled conversation somewhere down the hall, footsteps, a door opening.
then-
garrett steps into frame.
he’s clearly just showered.
his hair is still damp, darker than usual, slightly messy like he had run a hand through it once before leaving it alone. grey sweats sit low on his hips while a towel hangs loosely over one shoulder.
and-
no shirt.
oh for god's sake.
your eyes widen before you can stop yourself. “oh my god.” the words leave before your brain has time to catch up.
allie immediately turns to look at you, before looking back to the screen, then to you once more. her grin grows, clearly amused at the situation before her.
dean catches it instantly, eyes narrowing with interest before his mouth slowly curves.
“oh?”
heat rises up your neck almost immediately. you point towards the screen, trying incredibly hard to sound unaffected.
“put a shirt on.”
garrett pauses, looks at you, before glancing down at his bare chest as though he’s only just realised. when he looks back up, amusement flickers across his features. small, subtle, yet still there.
“what?”
his voice is low, calm, far too calm. it was clear he was about to make your life incredibly difficult.
you narrow your eyes in warning. “garrett.”
allie is trying, and failing, not to laugh. dean has gone completely still, clearly enjoying this far too much.
garrett adjusts the towel over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
“what’re you getting all flustered over there for?”
your face warms instantly at his words. “i’m not flustered.”
allie makes a delighted noise. “that sounded defensive, y/n.”
dean lets out a short laugh. “very defensive.”
you glare at all three of them.
garrett remains annoyingly composed, gaze steady on yours, warm and amused like he knows exactly the effect he’s having on you.
“pretty sure you are.”
you fold your arms. “you’re insufferable.”
a slow smile pulls at garrett’s mouth. “it’s a real shame you’re in cabo.”
your eyes narrow. “garrett.”
he feigns innocence. “mhm.”
his voice drops slightly lower, rougher, laced with something far too unfair for a call your best friends are actively witnessing.
“bet you’re regretting that girls trip right about now, y/n.”
heat floods your face so fast it almost makes your ears ring. allie chokes beside you, dean outright laughs. you stare at garrett in complete disbelief. somehow, he has the audacity to look completely innocent.
“you’re awful.”
his smile widens just enough to be dangerous. dean leans back into the couch, looking entirely too pleased.
“garrett graham, everyone.”
allie presses a hand over her mouth to prevent herself from laughing further while you bury your face in your hands, completely embarrassed. “i seriously hate all of you.”
garrett’s expression softens immediately, like he’s gotten exactly the reaction he wanted. finally, he reaches off-screen, grabbing a shirt, pulling it over his head.
allie sighs dramatically. “well.” she says. “that was fun.” dean snorts, before continuing to laugh.
garrett ignores both of them entirely, his attention settling back on you. the teasing disappears as quickly as it arrived.
“how was today?”
settling further into the pillows, you answer. “good.”
“nice just being by the pool relaxing?”
you smile, nodding your head, “definitely."
dean cuts in. “that’s a very relaxed day.”
you glance at him. “well, considering you've banned me from anything ocean related after the coral incident-”
"correct."
dean doesn’t even let you finish your sentence.
you shake your head out of disbelief, before letting out a small incredulous laugh. "i literally just scraped my leg."
“on coral.”
“it was barely-”
“you were bleeding.”
you stare at him, he stares right back, unrelenting.
garrett’s mouth twitches, but he remains quiet, knowing better than to intervene.
“you scared everybody, y/n.” dean's words take a little of the fight out of you.
your expression softens, only slightly. “i said i was okay.”
dean studies you for a second, like he's checking that statement against the memory he has of the photo sent to the groupchat.
you in urgent care, blood running down your leg.
eventually he sighs. “only after grace texted the groupchat saying that you were receiving medical attention.”
you let out a small laugh in response before deciding very deliberately to change the subject.
"speaking of grace... she fell asleep in the sun for like forty minutes today.”
allie snorts. “sabrina had to physically drag her inside.”
dean shakes his head. “that sounds about right.”
“was she burnt?”
you grin. “bright red.”
dean huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. “oh grace.” amusement graces his features for the first time in a while. “logan’s going to lose it.”
you laugh immediately. “oh, he absolutely will.”
garrett lets out a quiet laugh, while allie snorts. “she's done for.”
you grin. “completely.”
dean leans back, sinking further into the couch, already sounding entertained by the inevitable disagreement to come between your two friends.
“all those sunscreen lectures.”
allie groans. “don’t forget the dramatic speech before we left.”
that earns a laugh from dean, “jesus christ.”
you glance at garrett, noting the small smirk that was now splayed out across his lips before speaking once more. “he literally stood in the kitchen holding sunscreen like he was giving some sort of a presentation.”
garrett chuckles quietly to himself, shaking his head in disbelief at the memory. “i remember.”
allie laughs, mimicking logan's words. "grace, i’m serious. reapply every two hours.’”
you lose it completely, folding over in half, while dean's mouth lifts slightly, "and she still ignored every word."
allie nods. “naturally. he’s going to be unbearable when he finds out.”
you wince. “yeah.”
garrett smiles, softer now. his gaze had remained on you the entire time, like even with everyone else talking, this call was still just yours.
“you having fun?”
it's obvious the question is directed at you.
your shoulders loosen a little. “yeah.”
a comfortable silence settles between you four. absentmindedly you pick at the edge of the blanket draped across your lap before looking up to meet your boyfriends gaze.
“miss you, though.”
the words slip out before you can stop them, quiet, honest.
garrett stills. it's only for half a second, but you see it. something in his expression changes completely, the teasing giving way to warmth, like your words settled somewhere deep in his chest.
“i miss you too, y/n.”
dean's lips press together, like he's trying very hard not to smile. his gaze drifts briefly between you and allie before settling on the bed the two of you are sharing.
“so...how's sharing a bed with allie?”
you blink, immediately suspicious. beside you, allie lets out an amused huff. garrett glances between the three of you, the corner of his mouth already lifting.
“be honest.”
you narrow your eyes. “seriously?”
dean finally gives in to the grin threatening at the corners of his mouth, “has she tried to cuddle you yet?”
“tried?” allie says. “dean, please. she practically cuddles me.”
your head whips towards her. “i do not.”
“you absolutely do,” allie says without missing a beat. “i woke up this morning and you were practically on my side of the bed.”
“i was not.”
“your arm was over me.”
“it was not.”
“it absolutely was.”
dean laughs outright, “i knew it.”
garrett huffs a quiet laugh. “she's right.”
you point at the screen. “don't you start.”
“baby,” he says, smiling. “you migrate.”
dean looks delighted. “migrate?”
garrett nods, “every night.”
“i do not.”
“you fall asleep exactly where you're meant to.” he pauses, like he's recalling it. “then somewhere around three in the morning, you slowly work your way across the bed.”
allie points triumphantly at the screen. “see!”
“i woke up this morning because someone was slowly stealing my pillow,” she says.
you gasp, before smacking her gently on the arm. “allie hayes that did not happen!”
“it literally did.”
garrett laughs softly. “welcome to my life.”
the conversation drifts for a while longer after that. easy, comfortable, familiar. eventually, the call ends. the screen goes dark and silence settles back into the room instantly, warm and heavy in the aftermath.
allie lowers her phone onto the blanket, before turning to look at you. a grin spreads wide across her features.
you narrow your eyes immediately. “don’t.”
allie’s grin widens. “oh, i absolutely am.”
you groan, already dragging a pillow over your face.
allie laughs. “y/n.”
you make a muffled sound.
“did you seriously say ‘oh my god’ the second garrett walked on screen?”
you pull the pillow tighter. “stop.”
allie is fully delighted now. “no, because i need to talk about this.”
you peek out just enough to glare at her. “there’s nothing to talk about.”
allie stares, before bursting into laughter. “nothing to talk about?” she repeats. “you nearly short-circuited.”
“i did not.”
“you absolutely did.”
she shifts onto her side to face you properly, eyes bright with amusement. “your very own boyfriend walks on screen shirtless and suddenly you forget how to act.”
heat creeps back into your face. “allie.”
she presses her lips together, trying to compose herself.
“and then-”
she puts on a dramatic voice. “put a shirt on.”
you throw the pillow at her, much to your dismay however, she catches it, laughing harder.
“you’re the worst.”
“no” she says, still grinning. “garrett is.”
you flop back onto your pillow with a groan. “he’s awful. that was so intentional."
allie hums. “you’re smiling.”
you freeze. she’s right, your lips betray you completely.
allie’s expression softens, still amused, but softer now, warmer. “you miss him.”
it isn’t a question. you stare up at the ceiling, after a moment, you exhale.
“yeah.”
the word comes out completely honest. allie watches you for a second.
“he misses you too.”
you glance sideways, she smiles gently.
“it’s obvious.”
your chest tightens in that strange, warm way.
because yeah, you know.
you know it in the way his voice changed the second everyone stopped teasing. in the way he still asked how your day had been, despite already knowing most of it from your messages, because hearing you tell him was different. in the way his eyes stayed on you for almost the entire call, like there were thousands of miles between you and somehow none at all.
your expression softens. “i know.”
allie smiles, then, because she’s still allie, her grin reappears, fast, dangerous.
“still.”
you groan immediately.
“allie.”
she ignores you completely. “that line?”
she lifts her brows, looking far too pleased with herself. “bet you’re regretting that girls trip right about now.”
heat floods your face all over again. “oh my god. please stop."
allie gasps dramatically, eyes widening with fake innocence. “you so wanted him then.”
your jaw drops. “allie-”
she’s already laughing. embarrassment hits instantly and you grab another pillow, throwing it at her.
“i did not!”
allie catches it with a laugh, hugging it to her chest.
“okay, okay.”
her grin remains firmly in place. “it’s okay if you did.”
you glare at her. she softens, though amusement still lingers in her eyes. “i'm just saying, sexual frustration is real."
you make a strangled noise, groaning. “allie!”
she dissolves into laughter, raising her hands in mock defence. “i’m serious.”
you groan, dragging both hands over your face. “i simply just miss him, that’s all.”
allie watches you for a second, and a small, gentle smile graces her features. “i know.”
a beat. then her mouth twitches.
“but also-”
you point at her in warning. “don’t.”
she snorts. “shirtless garrett graham is difficult to ignore. especially when he's your boyfriend, and especially when he's 100000 miles away."
you shake your head. “you’re impossible.”
allie smiles. “i’m right.”
you hate that she is.
sleep should come easily after a full day in the sun, but your mind keeps replaying the call. garrett’s voice, his smile, the way he looked at you like the distance barely existed.
god, you really did miss him.
back at the hockey house, things are significantly less peaceful.
dean is still smirking, logan is openly entertained, tucker looks exhausted, garrett is glaring at all three of them.
“what?” he says flatly.
logan nearly chokes laughing. “nothing.”
dean leans back against the couch, pleased with himself. “you’re unbelievable.”
garrett narrows his eyes. “says the guy asking about bed sharing.”
dean shrugs. “i asked an important question.”
logan grins. “no, g asked the important question.”
garrett already knows where this is going, his expression flattens, logan points at him. “shame you’re in cabo.”
tucker covers his face, dean loses whatever composure he had left and logan continues, clearly delighted. “bet you’re regretting that girls trip right about now.”
garrett throws a cushion at him, he barely dodges it.
“i hate all of you.”
dean smirks, garrett flips him off.
the room falls into easy laughter after that, comfortable, familiar.
later, much later, after everyone disappears upstairs and the house turns quiet, garrett lies in bed, phone in hand.
his thumb hovers for barely a second before typing.
baby 🤍
are you asleep?
three dots appear almost immediately, his chest warms.
you
no
another message.
you
i can’t sleep
his mouth lifts.
baby 🤍
thinking about me?
your reply takes a little longer.
then-
you
unfortunately
he laughs quietly to himself, phone light illuminating his dark room.
another message appears.
you
are you?
baby 🤍
always, baby
the reply comes fast.
you
miss you
he stares at that for a moment, something warm and aching settling deep in his chest, before he types.
baby 🤍
few more days
baby 🤍
then you’re home
three dots.
pause.
then-
you
good
you
because i really want to kiss you right now
garrett closes his eyes briefly, before exhaling, smiling to himself.
Summary: one random night. No names. No consequences. Except three weeks later you’re standing outside a locker room and the guy who had you pinned against a door is introduced as your fiercely protective older brother’s best friend. The same brother who makes his teammates promise to treat you “like a sister.” The same brother who will absolutely commit murder if he finds out. So obviously the only logical solution is to keep sneaking around behind his back. What could possibly go wrong?
Warnings: 18+ content
Read part two here
The bass in the Boston bar is loud enough to rattle the ice cubes in Logan’s glass, but it’s not enough to drown out Dean’s incessant complaining.
“I’m just saying,” Dean mutters, leaning against the sticky mahogany of the bar and dragging a hand through his hair. “It’s the first weekend of the season. The energy is prime. The girls are out. And Garrett is sitting in his room icing a sprain that barely qualifies as a bruise.”
Logan smirks, taking a slow sip of his whiskey. “Leave him alone. The guy’s got a bruised ego more than a bruised ankle. Besides, it’s a classic case of NFP.”
Tucker, who has been quietly peeling the label off his beer bottle, looks up with a heavy sigh. “I swear to God, Logan. If you make me ask what that means, I’m leaving.”
“No Fun Permitted,” Logan deadpans, flashing that easy, charming grin that usually gets him out of trouble. “Garrett’s resting up. The captain’s gotta lead by example. Or whatever.”
“More like missing out by example,” Dean grumbles.
Logan lets his friends bicker, his gaze sweeping over the crowded dance floor. The flashing neon lights paint the sweating bodies in shades of electric blue and violent pink. He loves this city, loves the start of the hockey season. Out on the ice, he’s one of Briar University’s top players, a forward with hands so fast the scouts practically drool over him. They did drool over him. Up until the draft.
A familiar, heavy weight settles in Logan’s chest, dulling the buzz of the whiskey. He skipped the draft. Walked away from the NHL, from the millions, from the dream. The guys know he pulled his name, but they don’t really know the depths of the why. It’s easier to play the funny, sarcastic, reliable guy than it is to explain the deal he made with his older brother. His brother put his own life in a holding pattern to run Logan & Sons, the family mechanic shop, while Logan gets to play college hockey for four years. The shop was supposed to be run by their father, but their father is currently busy being a fall-down drunk. When graduation hits, the party is over. Logan goes back home, takes over the shop, takes care of the old man, and his brother goes free.
“Earth to Logan,” Tucker says, waving a hand in front of Logan’s face. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The ’I’m plotting a murder or thinking up a terrible acronym’ look,” Tucker points out.
“JCT,” Logan counters smoothly. “Just Chilling, Tucker. Relax. I’m going to go get another drink. Try not to marry anyone before I get back.”
Logan pushes off the bar, leaving his teammates to their own devices, and weaves his way through the crush of bodies. That’s when he sees you.
***
Across the room, the heat of the dance floor is exactly what you need. You throw your head back and laugh as your Northeastern teammate, a fiery winger named Cammi, spins you around.
“See?” Cammi yells over the pounding remix of a 2000s R&B track. “I told you coming out was better than sitting in your dorm organizing your hockey tape!”
“I don’t organize my tape!” You shout back, laughing as you sway your hips to the rhythm.
“Liar!”
You let the music wash over you, closing your eyes for a brief second. You’re a freshman. You made the Northeastern women’s hockey team as their starting center. You’re in Boston. You are finally, truly, free.
Whenever things get too loud, too chaotic, your mind always drifts back to the quiet, suffocating terror of your childhood home in New York. Your father, a star defenseman for the Rangers, was a god to the public and a monster behind closed doors. The memories of his explosive rage, the sound of things breaking, the way he treated your mother — it’s a dark stain on your mind. Garrett, your older brother, had been your shield. He took the hits, both literal and metaphorical, hiding you in his room, turning up the TV, doing whatever it took to keep you safe.
And then the lung cancer took your mother, and the house had grown even colder. But you survived. Garrett survived. You both got out. Garrett is across town right now, the captain at Briar, nursing a sprained ankle. You had texted him earlier to check in, and he’d ordered you to go out and celebrate the start of your own season.
So here you are.
You’re wearing a sleek, dark red slip dress that clings to your curves in all the right ways, paired with comfortable black combat boots because you refuse to ruin your feet in heels. Your hair falls in messy waves around your shoulders. You feel good. You feel electric.
Someone bumps into you, sending a splash of someone’s drink onto your boots, but you barely register it. You just keep moving, letting the heavy bass guide your hips, losing yourself in the anonymity of the crowd.
***
Logan freezes halfway to the bar.
He’s seen a lot of beautiful girls in his time at Briar, but the sight of you in that dark red dress stops him dead in his tracks. It’s not just the way the fabric slides against your skin, or the way you move with a natural, effortless athleticism. It’s the sheer joy radiating from you. You look like you don’t have a single care in the world, like you own the space you’re occupying.
He watches you laugh at something your friend says, the bright, genuine sound of it somehow cutting through the heavy thrum of the club’s speakers.
“Well, damn,” Logan mutters to himself.
He doesn’t think. He just moves. Logan has always been a player who acts on instinct — on the ice, and off it. He navigates the sweaty crowd until he’s right at the edge of your circle. He waits for the exact right moment, right as the DJ transitions into a slower, heavier beat.
You step back, and Logan steps in.
***
You feel the solid wall of a chest against your back before you even realize someone has approached. The sudden heat radiating from the stranger sends a shiver down your spine. A pair of large, strong hands settle lightly on your hips.
Normally, you’d shove a guy away. But there’s something about the confident, gentle pressure of his hands that makes you pause.
You glance over your shoulder.
He’s tall. Much taller than you. Broad shoulders, a mop of messy, dark hair, and a pair of sharp, amused eyes that lock onto yours. He has a ridiculously handsome face, a sharp jawline dotted with a faint hint of stubble, and a smirk that screams trouble.
“You’re in my way,” you say, shouting slightly over the music, though your tone is teasing.
“Actually,” Logan says, leaning down so his mouth is hovering near your ear, his voice a low, raspy rumble that makes your stomach flip, “I think you backed into me. Standard MVA.”
“MVA?” You ask, turning around fully so you are facing him. You have to tilt your head back to meet his gaze.
“Motor Vehicle Accident,” he replies smoothly, his hands sliding from your hips to rest casually at his sides, giving you space, which you internally appreciate. “But in this case, a Dance Floor Collision. DFC.”
You arch an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Do you always speak in acronyms, or are you just trying to be annoying?”
“A little bit of Column A, a little bit of Column B,” Logan says, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. The scent of him — woodsmoke, musky cologne, and something distinctly masculine — wraps around you. “I’m mostly just trying to keep your attention.”
“It’s a bold strategy.”
“I’m a bold guy.” He smirks, and there’s a genuine sweetness in his eyes that contrasts with the cocky tilt of his mouth. “You’re celebrating something. I can tell. Your vibe is extremely ... victorious.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up from your chest. “You can read vibes now?”
“It’s a gift,” he nods solemnly. “So? What are we celebrating? A promotion? A birthday? Successful bank heist?”
“Start of the season,” you reply, the words slipping out before you can filter them.
“Ah.” Logan’s eyes light up with recognition. “An athlete. Should have known. You’ve got that ... balance.”
“Balance?”
“Yeah. And the combat boots. Very intimidating. I like it.” He leans in again. “I’m celebrating the exact same thing.”
“You play?” You ask, looking at the breadth of his shoulders. Obviously, he plays.
“I dabble,” Logan says, his eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second before meeting your gaze again. The shift in his attention is subtle, but it sends a rush of heat straight to your core. “What’s your sport?”
“Puck,” you say.
Logan’s smile widens. “A hockey girl. My favorite kind.”
He doesn’t ask what team. You don’t ask him either. It’s better this way. No names, no schools, no complications. Just the heavy, pulsing beat of the music and the electric tension pulling the two of you together.
“You talk a lot,” you murmur, stepping into his space. You don’t know what’s come over you tonight. Maybe it’s the freedom. Maybe it’s the whiskey you had before leaving the dorms. Or maybe it’s just him.
“I’ve been told I have a big mouth,” Logan whispers, his hands finding their way back to your waist. His thumbs brush against the bare skin at the low dip of your back, and you gasp softly.
“Prove it,” you challenge.
Logan doesn’t hesitate. He closes the distance, his mouth crashing down onto yours.
The kiss is explosive. It’s not hesitant or sweet; it’s hungry, demanding, and incredibly hot. Your hands immediately go to his hair, pulling him down, deepening the kiss. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates against your lips, and pulls you flush against his body. You can feel every hard line of him against the soft fabric of your dress.
The club is too loud, too crowded, but right now, there is only the frantic slide of his tongue against yours, the taste of whiskey and mint, the desperate grip of his hands on your hips.
“Too crowded,” Logan mutters against your mouth, his breathing jagged. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and dilated. “Let’s go.”
You don’t need to be told twice.
He grabs your hand, his fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you through the throng of dancing bodies. You follow blindly, your heart hammering against your ribs. The destination doesn’t matter, only the urgency.
Logan navigates the club with practiced ease, finally spotting a secluded hallway near the back that leads to the bathrooms. It’s dimly lit, the pulsing lights of the dance floor reduced to a soft, flickering glow. He pulls you down the hall, pushing open the heavy wooden door of what looks like an employee or VIP bathroom that someone forgot to lock.
He pulls you inside and kicks the door shut behind him, the lock clicking into place with a sharp clack.
The silence of the tiled room is deafening compared to the club outside. The only sound is the heavy, ragged breathing echoing between the two of you.
“You are absolutely gorgeous,” Logan breathes out, backing you up against the cool tiles of the wall.
“Less talking,” you demand, grabbing the lapels of his jacket and pulling him back down to you.
He laughs softly against your lips — a rough, breathless sound — before devouring your mouth again. His hands are everywhere, frantic and exploring. He maps the curve of your waist, the slope of your back, his large palms hot against your skin. You let out a soft moan as his lips leave your mouth to trail fiery kisses down your jawline and onto your neck.
“So impatient,” Logan teases, though his own voice is tight with desire. He bites down gently on a sensitive spot just below your ear, making your knees buckle slightly.
“You’re the one who dragged me in here,” you manage to say, your fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. You push the fabric aside, pressing your palms flat against his warm, hard chest. His heart is racing just as fast as yours.
“Correction,” Logan groans, as your hands slide over his abs. “We dragged each other. Mutually Assured Destruction. MAD.”
“Shut up with the acronyms,” you whisper fiercely, pulling his face back up to yours.
He kisses you again, deeper this time, his hands sliding down to grip the back of your thighs. With a swift, effortless motion that reminds you how incredibly strong he is, he lifts you off the ground. You wrap your legs around his waist instinctively, your combat boots scraping against his jeans. Logan presses you against the door, holding you up with ease, his body a solid weight keeping you pinned.
The angle is perfect. The friction is maddening.
You reach down, your fingers tangling in his belt loops, tugging him even closer. The raw, desperate energy between you two is overwhelming. It’s completely out of character for you. You don’t do this. You don’t hook up with random guys in club bathrooms. But the way he looks at you, the way he touches you like he’s starving for it, strips away every inhibition you have.
“Tell me if I need to stop,” Logan says, his voice thick, his forehead resting against yours. Even in the haze of lust, that core of reliability, of fundamental goodness, shines through. He’s asking for consent. He’s making sure you’re okay.
“Don’t you dare stop,” you breathe, your hands sliding up into his hair, pulling gently.
Logan’s eyes flash with a dark, primal heat. He shifts his grip, one hand supporting your thighs while the other slides up to trace the edge of your red dress. He pushes the thin fabric up, his rough fingers grazing the sensitive skin of your upper thigh. You gasp into his mouth as his touch becomes more deliberate, tracing higher, sending bolts of pure electricity straight to your core.
He kisses you harder, swallowing your moans, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate, wet rhythm that mirrors the heavy thrusting of his hips against yours. The heavy denim of his jeans grinds against you, and it’s simultaneously the best and most frustrating feeling in the world.
“You’re driving me crazy,” Logan mutters, his lips moving frantically over your neck, his teeth scraping lightly against your collarbone.
“Then do something about it,” you dare him, your voice shaking with need.
Logan chuckles, a low, dangerous sound. His fingers expertly work the clasp of your undergarments, and when his skin finally meets yours, you let out a loud, uninhibited cry that is completely swallowed by his mouth.
He moves inside you, and the sensation is so intense, so overwhelmingly perfect, that you see stars behind your closed eyelids. Logan groans loudly, his grip on your thighs tightening as he sets a frantic, punishing pace. He’s strong, so incredibly strong, pinning you against the heavy wood of the door, completely controlling the rhythm.
Every thrust sends a shockwave through you. The heat in the small bathroom is stifling, the air thick with the smell of sex and sweat and his intoxicating cologne.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice ragged.
You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, his jaw clenched tight with the effort of holding back. The sheer intensity of his stare makes your breath hitch.
“You feel unbelievable,” he rasps out, his hips snapping forward with a force that makes the door rattle in its frame.
“Faster,” you plead, your nails digging into his shoulders.
Logan obliges, his pace doubling. You cling to him, entirely lost in the storm of sensation. The world outside the bathroom ceases to exist. There is no abusive past, no dead mother, no heavy burden of the mechanic shop or the alcoholic father. There is only here. There is only now. There is only the sliding heat of his body, the rough texture of the wall at your back, and the mind-shattering pleasure building in your chest.
“I’m close,” you sob out, tossing your head back.
“Let go for me,” Logan whispers against your neck, his thrusts becoming jagged and desperate. “Come on. Let go.”
His words, the deep, encouraging rumble of his voice, are the final push you need. The climax hits you like a freight train, a cascading wave of blinding heat that tears a loud moan from your throat. Your body shudders violently against his, your muscles clenching tightly around him.
Logan grunts, burying his face in the crook of your neck. He gives one final, deep thrust, his entire body going rigid as he finds his own release. He holds you tightly against him, his chest heaving, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your own.
For a long time, neither of you moves. The only sound in the bathroom is the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing. Logan’s face is still buried in your neck, his lips pressing soft, absentminded kisses against your damp skin as his heart rate slowly begins to settle.
Eventually, the reality of the situation begins to seep back in. The muffled thud of the bass from the club outside reminds you both where you are.
Logan slowly lowers you down, his hands lingering on your hips until your boots hit the floor. Your knees are trembling so violently that you have to lean against the door for support.
He steps back, looking slightly dazed, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he buttons his shirt. He looks at you, his eyes sweeping over your flushed face, your swollen lips, and the messy tangle of your hair.
“Wow,” Logan breathes, a genuine, awe-struck smile breaking across his face. “That was ...”
“Yeah,” you manage to say, smoothing down the front of your red dress, feeling a sudden, intense flush of shyness. “It was.”
You avoid his gaze, quickly fixing your clothes and running a hand through your hair. The magic of the bubble is bursting. The anonymity is starting to feel heavy.
“Hey,” Logan says softly, stepping closer and lifting a hand to gently tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear. The sweetness of the gesture makes your heart ache. “I never even got your name.”
You look up at him. You see the genuine interest in his eyes. He’s not just a frat boy looking for a quick lay. There is a depth to him, a heavy, quiet kind of reliability that you can sense even now. But you can’t. You’re Garrett’s little sister. You have a reputation to build, a life to start, and getting tangled up with a Briar hockey player — a guy who looks like trouble wrapped in charm — is a terrible idea.
“It’s better this way,” you say quietly, stepping around him toward the door.
Logan frowns, his hand dropping to his side. “Wait. Seriously? No name? No number?”
“No acronyms,” you reply, offering him a small, almost sad smile.
Before he can argue, you unlock the door and slip out into the dimly lit hallway. You don’t look back. You merge back into the sweaty, pulsing crowd of the dance floor, letting the music swallow you whole.
Back in the bathroom, Logan stands alone, staring at the closed door. He runs a hand through his hair, a soft chuckle escaping his lips.
“Well,” he murmurs to the empty room. “FML.”
***
The Matthews Arena is freezing, smelling sharply of Zamboni exhaust, stale popcorn, and that distinct, metallic tang of fresh ice. For Logan, it’s a scent that instantly feels like home, even if he’s sitting in enemy territory. Northeastern University’s rink is packed for the women’s game against Harvard, the crowd a sea of red and black.
Logan shivers, pulling the collar of his Briar University hockey jacket a little higher. He bumps his knee against the plastic seat in front of him, leaning over to look at his best friend.
“I still can’t believe you dragged us out of bed before noon on a Sunday,” Logan complains, his voice raspy from sleep. “It’s practically a human rights violation.”
Garrett doesn’t even look away from the ice. He’s practically vibrating with nervous energy, a half-eaten pretzel abandoned in his lap. “Shut up, Logan. You slept until eleven. And it’s my sister’s first home game against a rival. I wasn’t going to miss it, and I wasn’t letting you idiots miss it either.”
“We’re honored, truly,” Dean drawls from Logan’s right, suppressing a yawn. “But couldn’t we have been honored from the comfort of our couch? With, like, breakfast sandwiches?”
“Focus,” Garrett commands, pointing a finger toward the ice. “Puck drop is in two minutes. And I swear to God, if any of you embarrass me, I’m making you run stairs until you puke at practice tomorrow.”
Tucker, sitting on the other side of Dean, chuckles softly. “Relax, G. We’re on our best behavior. We just want to see if the Graham hockey genes actually transferred over, or if you stole all the talent in the womb.”
“Oh, she’s got the talent,” Garrett says, and for a second, the cocky, commanding captain of the Briar team melts away, replaced by a fiercely proud older brother. “Just watch number twenty-one.”
Logan leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees. He hasn’t met Garrett’s little sister yet. He knows they’re incredibly close, knows a little bit about the dark, heavy history they share with their father — a topic Garrett rarely touches, but when he does, it’s with a protective ferocity that Logan respects. The timing just never worked out for them to meet. When you were visiting Briar, Logan was usually back home dealing with his dad or at the shop. And since you started at Northeastern a few weeks ago, their schedules have been a nightmare of overlapping practices and away games.
The buzzer blares, echoing through the arena, and the starting lines skate out to the center circle.
Logan’s eyes immediately scan the red jerseys for the number twenty-one. He spots you lining up for the face-off. Even under the bulky pads and the caged helmet, there’s a distinct posture to you. A coiled, aggressive energy that reminds him so much of Garrett it’s almost funny.
The referee drops the puck.
You win the draw instantly, a sharp, precise flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back to your defenseman. And then, you explode into motion.
“Whoa,” Dean says, sitting up a little straighter. “Okay. She’s fast.”
“Told you,” Garrett says smugly.
Logan watches in genuine awe as the game unfolds. You aren’t just fast; you’re brilliant on the ice. Your hockey IQ is off the charts. You anticipate plays before they happen, finding open ice where there shouldn’t be any. Halfway through the first period, you receive a pass in the neutral zone, weave through two Harvard defenders with a blindingly quick deke, and fire a wrist shot that pings off the crossbar and into the net.
The crowd erupts. Garrett jumps to his feet, screaming his head off, slamming his hands against the glass.
“That’s my sister!” Garrett roars, looking back at the guys with a wild grin. “Did you see those hands? Did you see that?”
“NFD,” Logan mutters, his eyes wide as he watches you celebrate with your team, slamming your gloves against your teammates’.
“Don’t do it, Tucker,” Dean warns.
“I have to,” Tucker sighs. “What does NFD mean, Logan?”
“No Freaking Doubt,” Logan says, a grin spreading across his face. “She’s lethal. G, I think she might actually be better than you.”
“Don’t push it,” Garrett warns, sitting back down, though he’s practically glowing with pride. “But yeah. She’s incredible. Has been since she was five. I basically taught her everything she knows.”
“Somehow, I doubt that,” Logan laughs.
For the rest of the game, Logan can’t take his eyes off the ice. It’s a distraction he desperately needs. For the past three weeks, his mind has been a broken record, constantly skipping back to the girl in the red dress from the club. It’s driving him insane. He’s the guy who lives in the moment, the guy who never gets hung up on a one-night stand. But that night in the bathroom wasn’t just a hookup. It felt like a collision. He’s spent the last twenty-one days scanning crowds, looking for that wild hair, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. He doesn’t even know her name. He’s half-convinced he hallucinated the entire thing.
But watching you play, the sheer aggression and skill you bring to the ice, it centers him. It’s a damn good game of hockey.
By the time the final buzzer sounds, Northeastern has secured a 4-2 victory, with you notching a goal and two assists. You’re the clear MVP of the match.
“Alright,” Garrett says, standing up and stretching. “Let’s head down to the tunnels. I texted her to meet us outside the locker room.”
The boys shuffle out of the stands, joining the flow of parents and friends heading down to the lower levels of the arena. The air down here is thicker, smelling strongly of sweat and sports tape. They find a spot against a cinderblock wall just outside the double doors of the Northeastern locker room.
“So, what’s the protocol here?” Dean asks, leaning against the wall and crossing his arms. “Do we bow? Do we offer her a tribute for absolutely carrying her team today?”
“Just be normal,” Garrett snaps, suddenly looking a little anxious. “And keep your gross, flirtatious comments to yourselves. She’s my baby sister. Look at her, tell her she played well, and do not hit on her. I mean it. Especially you, Dean.”
“Hey! I am a perfect gentleman,” Dean protests.
Logan chuckles, leaning his head back against the cold wall. “Relax, Garrett. We know the bro code. Best friend’s sister is strictly off-limits. Untouchable. It’s, like, the fundamental law of the universe.”
“Exactly,” Garrett says, pointing a firm finger at Logan. “I trust you, Logan. You’re the only one of these idiots who actually respects boundaries.”
“I am a pillar of morality,” Logan agrees solemnly, placing a hand over his heart.
Tucker snorts. “You’re a pillar of something, alright.”
They wait for another fifteen minutes as players slowly trickle out, greeting their families. The heavy double doors swing open again, and Logan hears Garrett suck in a sharp breath.
***
You push through the locker room doors, a heavy duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Your hair is still damp from the showers, falling in messy, natural waves around your face. You’re wearing a pair of comfortable gray sweatpants and a massive, oversized Northeastern Hockey hoodie that swallows you whole. Your muscles are aching, your legs feel like lead, but there is a triumphant, soaring feeling in your chest.
You beat Harvard. You proved you belong here.
You scan the crowd of lingering families in the hallway, your eyes searching for a familiar face. And then you see him. Standing tall in his Briar letterman jacket, looking exactly the same as he always does.
“Garrett!” You call out, a massive, exhausted smile breaking across your face.
You drop your duffel bag instantly, not caring where it lands, and practically launch yourself at him. Garrett catches you easily, wrapping his large arms around you and lifting you entirely off your feet, burying his face in your damp hair.
“God, you were amazing,” Garrett murmurs fiercely into your shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “I am so damn proud of you. That goal in the first period? Filthy. Absolutely filthy.”
“I learned from the best,” you whisper back, squeezing him tight.
In this moment, the rest of the world fades away. It’s just the two of you. The two kids who used to hide in a locked bedroom in New York, the two survivors who made it out to the other side. Every time you step onto the ice, you play for yourself, but you also play for him. Because he made sure you survived long enough to lace up your skates.
“Okay, okay,” Garrett laughs, finally setting you down, though he keeps one arm securely draped over your shoulders. He looks down at you, his eyes shining. “Let me look at you. You look terrible. Exhausted.”
“Thanks,” you scoff, punching him lightly in the ribs. “I feel terrible. But winning takes the edge off.”
“I brought the guys,” Garrett says, his tone shifting into his captain voice. He turns slightly, gesturing to the three tall, intimidating hockey players standing a few feet away. “They’ve been dying to meet the mythical little sister. Guys, this is her.”
You turn, a polite, friendly smile already plastered on your face. You’re ready to meet the famous Briar boys you’ve heard so much about.
“Hey, it’s nice to-”
The words die in your throat.
Your eyes sweep past a blonde guy with a cocky grin, past a tall, quiet-looking guy with curly hair, and land squarely on the third guy.
The tall guy with the messy, dark brown hair. The sharp jawline. The broad shoulders. The guy who, three weeks ago, pinned you against a heavy wooden door in a club bathroom and made you see stars.
The blood instantly drains from your face. The world tilts on its axis.
***
Logan freezes.
Every single muscle in his body locks up. He stops breathing. He stops blinking. The cinderblock wall behind him is the only thing keeping him from collapsing onto the floor.
He stares at you. At the damp hair, the gray sweatpants, the oversized hoodie. But it’s the eyes. It’s the sharp, expressive eyes that he spent an hour staring into in a dark, sweaty hallway. It’s the curve of your mouth that he had bruised with his own.
*No. No, no, no.*
The realization hits him with the force of a freight train colliding with a brick wall. The girl in the red dress. The girl who tasted like whiskey and mint. The girl whose moans he still hears when he tries to fall asleep.
It’s you.
It’s Garrett’s little sister.
Panic, cold and sharp, floods Logan’s veins. His heart begins to hammer violently against his ribs, a frantic, terrified rhythm. He is a dead man. He is literally going to die today, right here in the Matthews Arena. Garrett is going to murder him. Garrett is going to strip him of his hockey gear, drag him out onto the ice, and beat him to death with his own stick.
“Earth to Logan,” Dean says, elbowing Logan sharply in the ribs. “Introduce yourself, weirdo.”
Logan swallows hard. His mouth is completely dry. He tries to form words, but his brain is short-circuiting. Code Red. CR. Catastrophic Failure. CF. I Am Going To Die. IAGTD.
He looks at you, really looks at you, and sees the exact same horror mirrored in your eyes. You look like you’ve just seen a ghost. Your lips are slightly parted, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the shock registers.
“Hey,” Logan manages to croak out, his voice sounding entirely unlike his own. It’s an octave higher, strangled and tight. “I’m Logan.”
***
“Logan,” you repeat, the name slipping out of your mouth like a curse word.
John Logan. Garrett’s best friend. The guy your brother trusts more than anyone else in the world.
You slept with him.
You can feel the hysterical urge to laugh bubbling up in your throat, but you ruthlessly suppress it. Your mind races, trying to stitch together the pieces of that night. No names, no schools, no complications. What a spectacularly stupid rule that turned out to be. If you had just asked his name, if he had just mentioned he played for Briar ...
“Yeah, this is Logan,” Garrett says, oblivious to the nuclear bomb currently detonating in the space between you two. He claps Logan on the shoulder, and you watch Logan flinch as if he’s been burned. “And this is Dean, and Tucker. Guys, my little sister.”
“Incredible game out there,” Tucker says smoothly, stepping forward to offer a fist bump, which you return mechanically. “Your vision on the ice is insane.”
“Uh, thanks,” you manage to say, tearing your eyes away from Logan to look at Tucker. “I appreciate it.”
“Seriously,” Dean chimes in, flashing a bright, flirtatious smile that instantly makes Garrett narrow his eyes. “You didn’t tell us she was a superstar, G. Or that she was this pretty.”
“Dean,” Garrett barks, his voice low and dangerous. “I will end you.”
“Just stating facts!” Dean raises his hands in surrender.
You try to focus on the banter, try to act normal, but it’s impossible. You can feel Logan’s stare burning a hole into the side of your head. The tension radiating from him is palpable. He looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an eighteen-wheeler.
“So,” Garrett says, turning back to you, completely blind to the silent panic attack Logan is having three feet away. “We were thinking of grabbing food to celebrate. There’s a diner a few blocks from here. You up for it, or are you too dead?”
“I ...” You desperately want to say no. You want to grab your bag, run back into the locker room, lock the door, and never come out. But you look at Garrett, at the sheer happiness on his face. He’s so excited to have you here, to introduce you to his world. You can’t ruin this for him.
“I’m starving,” you lie, forcing a bright smile. “Food sounds great.”
“I am?” Logan stammers, his eyes snapping to Garrett.
“Yeah, you drove us here in your truck,” Garrett points out, looking at Logan like he’s grown a second head. “Are you okay, man? You look like you’re going to throw up.”
“I’m fine,” Logan says quickly, too quickly. “Just hungry. Blood sugar is low. LBS.”
“Stop with the acronyms,” Garrett sighs, rolling his eyes. He turns to you. “He does this thing where he makes up acronyms. It’s annoying, but you learn to tune it out.”
“I know,” you say softly.
The words slip out before you can stop them.
The hallway goes completely silent.
Dean and Tucker pause. Garrett frowns, looking between you and Logan. Logan looks like he’s about to sprint down the hallway and jump into moving traffic.
“You know?” Garrett asks slowly, his eyebrows furrowing in confusion. “How do you know?”
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“I mean,” you backpedal frantically, your heart hammering against your ribs, “I assume it’s annoying. You know? Guys who do that ... it’s usually annoying.”
Garrett stares at you for a second longer before his face clears, and he laughs. “Yeah. See? Even she thinks you’re annoying, Logan.”
Logan manages a weak, strained chuckle. “Yeah. Hilarious.”
The walk to Logan’s truck is the longest walk of your entire life. Garrett walks beside you, excitedly breaking down the plays from the game, asking you about your linemates, while the three boys trail behind.
You can feel Logan’s eyes on your back the entire time. It’s a heavy, burning weight.
When you reach the parking lot, Logan clicks his keys, and a massive, beat-up black Chevy Silverado chirps.
“I call shotgun!” Dean yells, lunging for the front door.
“No way,” Garrett says, grabbing Dean by the back of his jacket and yanking him backward. “Sister gets shotgun. You animals get in the back.”
“Garrett, it’s fine,” you protest immediately, holding your hands up. “I can sit in the back.”
The idea of sitting in the passenger seat, mere inches away from Logan, in the enclosed space of his truck, sounds like absolute torture.
“Nonsense,” Garrett insists, opening the passenger side door for you. “You’re the VIP today. Get in.”
You shoot a desperate, fleeting glance at Logan over the hood of the truck. His face is pale, his jaw clenched tight. He looks completely out of his depth, which is terrifying, because Logan is supposed to be the guy who has it all together. The cool, calm, collected one.
You climb into the truck. The smell of the interior hits you instantly. It’s the exact same smell that clung to his skin that night in the bathroom. Woodsmoke and that same masculine cologne. It makes your head spin.
Logan climbs into the driver’s seat. He shuts the door, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
Garrett, Dean, and Tucker pile into the back seat, instantly filling the cab with noise and chaos as they argue over legroom.
“Alright, Logan,” Garrett says from the backseat, leaning forward to clap Logan on the shoulder. “To the diner. Let’s get some food in this champion.”
Logan starts the engine. The low rumble of the truck vibrates through the seat, sending a phantom shiver up your spine. He puts the car in drive, finally turning to look at you for the first time since the locker room.
His eyes are dark, filled with a chaotic mixture of panic, disbelief, and something else — something dangerously similar to the raw hunger you saw in the club.
“Buckle up,” Logan says, his voice a low, raspy whisper that is meant only for you.
You swallow hard, grabbing the seatbelt and pulling it across your chest. The click of the buckle sounds as loud as a gunshot in the tense silence of the front seat.
“Ready,” you whisper back.
Logan tears his gaze away, staring straight ahead at the road as he pulls out of the parking lot.
It’s going to be a very, very long lunch.
***
The bell above the door of Della’s Diner chimes a cheerful, tinny note that sounds entirely too happy for the funeral march currently playing in Logan’s head.
The diner is a quintessential college town staple — smelling of old frying oil, burnt coffee, and maple syrup, with neon beer signs buzzing faintly in the grease-stained windows. It’s usually Logan’s favorite place to recover after a rough practice, but right now, it feels like an interrogation room.
“Booth in the back,” Garrett declares, pointing to a circular corner booth upholstered in cracked red vinyl.
It’s a tight squeeze. Too tight.
Garrett slides in first, pulling you in right beside him. Dean drops into the opposite side, dragging Tucker with him. That leaves one spot left. Right in the middle. Directly across from you.
Logan stands in the aisle for a fraction of a second too long, staring at the empty space on the vinyl seat like it’s a trap door.
“Sit down, man, you’re blocking the aisle,” Tucker says, giving Logan a shove.
Logan practically falls into the booth. His knees immediately bump against something soft under the table.
You jerk your legs back so fast you nearly spill the glass of water the waitress just set down. “Sorry,” you murmur, your cheeks flushing a brilliant shade of crimson.
“My bad,” Logan chokes out. He pulls his long legs back, pressing his knees firmly together. He feels like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with a pair of chopsticks.
The waitress, a gum-chewing woman in her fifties named Stacy, pulls a notepad from her apron. “What can I get you boys? And the lovely lady?”
“Three orders of the lumberjack special,” Garrett says without looking at the menu. “Extra bacon for me. Tucker will have the chicken wrap, because he’s boring.”
“It’s called macronutrients, Garrett,” Tucker sighs.
“And for the lady?” Stacy asks, giving you a warm smile.
“I’ll just take a side of fries, please,” you say, peeling off your oversized Northeastern hockey hoodie to reveal the gray tank top underneath. “And a strawberry milkshake. Extra thick.”
Logan swallows. Hard.
“Coming right up, hon,” Stacy says, clicking her pen and sauntering away.
“Just fries?” Garrett frowns, shifting in the booth to look at you. “You played a hell of a game, you need protein. You want some of my eggs?”
“I’m too amped up to eat a heavy meal, G,” you say, leaning back against the vinyl. “You know how I get after a game. Adrenaline crash hasn’t hit yet.”
“Suit yourself,” Garrett shrugs. “But you’re eating at least half my bacon.”
Logan stares blankly at the laminated menu in front of him, seeing absolutely nothing. He is in hell. A very specific, vinyl-upholstered circle of hell.
You are sitting directly across from him. The diner lighting is catching the faint sheen of sweat still lingering on your collarbones. He can see the subtle shift of your athletic shoulders under the thin fabric of your tank top, and all he can think about is the way those shoulders felt under his hands when he pinned you against that bathroom door.
Stop it. Logan squeezes his eyes shut for a microsecond. Wayne Gretzky. 2,857 career points. 894 goals. 1,963 assists.
“So,” Dean starts, leaning his elbows on the table and giving you his best, most dazzling smile. The one that usually makes puck bunnies melt into puddles. “Northeastern, huh? Why didn’t you come to Briar with Garrett?”
You look at Dean, your expression perfectly composed. “Northeastern offered me a full ride and a starting position at center. Briar wanted me to sit on the bench for a year to develop. It wasn’t a hard choice.”
“Ouch,” Dean laughs, clutching his chest. “Brains, beauty, and she’s ruthless. You sure you’re related to Garrett?”
“Dean, I swear to God,” Garrett warns, his voice dropping an octave. “I will stab you with this fork.”
“Just making conversation!” Dean defends himself, picking up a sugar packet and tossing it at Garrett. “It’s nice to actually meet her. You’ve kept her locked in a tower for years.”
“I haven’t kept her in a tower,” Garrett grumbles. “She was back home. I was here.”
Logan keeps his eyes glued to the table, tracing the wood-grain pattern with his thumbnail. He needs to say something. If he stays silent, it’s going to look suspicious. He is the loud one. The funny one. The guy who never shuts up.
“So,” Logan forces his vocal cords to work, glancing up to meet your eyes. “Center. You like running the offense?”
Your breath hitches slightly when his eyes lock onto yours, but you recover instantly. You are incredibly good at this game.
“I do,” you nod, wrapping your hands around your glass of water. “I like controlling the pace. Setting up the plays. Better than waiting around for someone else to pass me the puck.”
Oh, Jesus. Logan’s brain completely short-circuits. She likes controlling the pace. Mario Lemieux. 1,723 points. 690 goals. 1,033 assists. Won the Stanley Cup in ‘91 and ‘92.
“She’s a control freak on the ice,” Garrett laughs, bumping his shoulder against yours. “Always has been. Even when we were playing street hockey as kids, she bossed me around.”
“Someone had to,” you shoot back, a genuine, easy smile breaking across your face. It’s the exact same smile Logan saw in the club right before he kissed you.
Stacy returns, balancing a massive tray of food. She deposits plates of eggs, pancakes, and greasy bacon onto the table. Finally, she places a tall, condensation-beaded glass filled with pink milkshake directly in front of you. It comes with a thick red straw and a mountain of whipped cream.
“Enjoy, sweetheart,” Stacy says, winking before she walks away.
“Thanks,” you say, grabbing the glass.
Logan watches in slow motion as your lips wrap around the thick red straw.
You take a long, deep pull of the milkshake. Your cheeks hollow out slightly from the effort, the thick ice cream requiring serious suction. You swallow, your throat working, and pull the straw away, your lips slick and shining with the pale pink liquid. A tiny drop of milkshake lingers on the corner of your mouth.
You dart your tongue out and lick it away.
Logan’s hands grip the edges of the table so hard his knuckles turn stark white. Bobby Orr. Number 4. Eight consecutive Norris Trophies. 270 career goals. It’s not working. The stats aren’t working.
He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to adjust his jeans without anyone noticing the distinct, painful problem developing below the table. He is having a physical reaction to his best friend’s sister drinking a strawberry milkshake. He is a monster. A depraved, irredeemable monster.
He just wants to finish the season. He wants to play his final year of college hockey, graduate, and go back to his dad’s mechanic shop. That’s the deal. He just needs to survive these next few months before Garrett inevitably finds out and murders him with his bare hands.
“You okay, Logan?” Tucker asks, pausing halfway through a bite of his chicken wrap. He looks at Logan with narrow, analytical eyes. “You’re sweating.”
“I’m fine,” Logan rasps, reaching for his ice water and downing half the glass in one go. “It’s hot in here. HC. Heat Casualties.”
You let out a soft, sudden sound — a cross between a cough and a laugh — and choke on your milkshake.
Garrett immediately drops his fork and thumps you on the back. “Whoa, easy. Breathe. You good?”
“I’m fine,” you wheeze, covering your mouth with a napkin. Your eyes, bright and watery, dart across the table to glare at Logan. “Just went down the wrong pipe.”
“It’s Logan’s stupid acronyms,” Garrett sighs, handing you another napkin. “I told you, he’s insufferable.”
“They’re not stupid, they’re efficient,” Logan says defensively, though his voice is still a little tight. “Saves time.”
“Saves time for what? More terrible jokes?” Dean quips around a mouthful of pancake.
“Exactly,” Logan snaps back, finally finding his rhythm. The banter is safe. The banter is familiar. “At least I have jokes. Your entire personality is just hair gel and daddy issues, Dean.”
“Hey!” Dean protests, running a self-conscious hand through his perfectly styled hair. “I love my father, thank you very much.”
You laugh, and the sound does funny things to Logan’s chest. It’s warm and real, totally different from the dark, heavy lust that defined your first encounter. He realizes, with a sinking feeling of dread, that he likes you. Not just the physical memory of you, but you. The way you hold your own against his idiot friends. The way you look at Garrett with pure adoration.
I am so dead, Logan thinks, watching you steal a piece of bacon off Garrett’s plate. I am absolutely, definitively dead.
The rest of the meal passes in a blur of hockey talk, arguments over NHL standings, and Tucker quietly destroying everyone’s logic with statistics. You fit into the group seamlessly. You speak their language.
Under the table, it’s a different story.
The booth is small, and Logan has long legs. Twice, your knee brushes against his. The first time, he flinches so violently he nearly knocks over his coffee mug. The second time, he freezes, holding his breath as the soft denim of your sweatpants drags slowly across the heavy denim of his jeans.
He looks up. You are casually talking to Dean about Northeastern’s defensive lineup, sipping your milkshake, acting completely unaffected. But Logan sees the slight tremor in your hand holding the glass. He sees the high color in your cheeks.
You are feeling it too. The electricity. The undeniable pull.
It’s making the situation infinitely worse. If you hated him, if you were disgusted by him, he could back off. He could bury it. But knowing that the memory of that bathroom is playing on a loop in your head just like it is in his? It’s a ticking time bomb.
“Alright,” Garrett says, tossing his napkin onto his empty plate and reaching for his wallet. “I got this.”
“You don’t have to pay for me, G,” you protest, reaching for your own bag.
“Put it away,” Garrett orders, throwing a twenty-dollar bill onto the table. “Big brother privilege. Besides, you’re a broke freshman. Save your money.”
You roll your eyes but let your bag drop back onto the seat. “Fine. Thank you.”
“Okay, before we get out of here,” Garrett says, his tone suddenly shifting from casual to commanding. He looks at Dean, Tucker, and finally, Logan. “Phones out. All of you.”
Logan stares at him. “What?”
“Phones out,” Garrett repeats, pulling his own cell phone from his pocket. “You too, Y/N.”
You look just as confused as Logan, pulling your phone out of your hoodie pocket.
“Exchange numbers,” Garrett instructs, gesturing between you and the boys.
Logan’s blood runs cold. He stares at Garrett, convinced this is some sort of elaborate trap. “Why?”
“Because,” Garrett says, leaning forward, resting his forearms on the table. He looks at the three of them with deadly serious eyes. “You three are my brothers. You’re the only people I trust completely. My sister is living in this city now. She’s at Northeastern, dealing with a new team, new classes, new everything.”
Garrett pauses, looking at you, his expression softening slightly. “I’m not always going to be available. We have away games. I have practice. Sometimes my phone dies. If she ever needs anything — a ride, help moving a couch, someone to bail her out of a bad situation — and she can’t reach me, I want her to be able to reach you.”
You stare at your brother, your throat working. “Garrett, I’m fine. I don’t need a babysitting squad.”
“It’s not a babysitting squad,” Garrett says firmly. “It’s an insurance policy. Mom is gone. Dad is ...” Garrett’s jaw clenches, the muscles ticking violently. “Dad is dead to us. It’s just you and me. And these guys. This is our family now.”
The diner goes totally quiet. Dean drops the joking facade, his face sobering instantly. Tucker nods slowly.
Even Logan feels a sharp, painful ache in his chest. He knows better than anyone what it’s like to deal with a toxic father. He knows what Garrett has sacrificed to protect you. Garrett is handing over the most precious thing in his life to his best friends, trusting them to protect her.
“He’s right,” Tucker says quietly, unlocking his phone. “Read us your number, Y/N.”
You look overwhelmed, blinking rapidly as if fighting back tears, but you softly read out your ten-digit number.
Dean types it in, saving the contact. “Got it. And hey, for the record? I’m honored, G. We got her back.”
“Always,” Tucker agrees.
Garrett looks at Logan. “Logan?”
Logan’s hands are shaking as he unlocks his phone. He types your number into the keypad. The screen glows brightly, mocking him. He hits Save Contact.
Y/N Graham.
“Got it,” Logan forces the words past the massive lump in his throat. He looks up, meeting Garrett’s eyes.
“I need you to promise me,” Garrett says, his voice thick with emotion, looking specifically at Logan. “You treat her like a sister. All of you. She is off-limits to everyone on our team, everyone you know. You look out for her like she’s your own blood. Understood?”
“Understood,” Dean says solemnly.
“Got it, Garrett,” Tucker nods.
Garrett doesn’t look away from Logan. He knows Logan is the wild card. The guy who hooks up and moves on. The guy who never commits.
“Logan?” Garrett prompts.
Logan looks at his best friend. The guy who covered for him when his dad showed up drunk to a home game. The guy who let Logan sleep on his floor for a week when things got too bad at home. Garrett trusts him implicitly.
“I promise,” Logan says, the lie tasting like ash on his tongue. “Like a sister. I swear, G.”
“Good,” Garrett exhales, clapping Logan on the shoulder. The tension breaks, the heavy atmosphere dissipating back into the background noise of the diner. “Alright. Let’s get out of here. I need to ice my ankle again before practice tomorrow.”
They all slide out of the booth. You grab your hoodie, pulling it over your head to hide your face for a second.
As they file out of the diner into the crisp autumn air, Garrett walks ahead, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. You lean into him, laughing at something he says.
Logan hangs back, trailing behind with Dean and Tucker.
He stops on the sidewalk, looking up at the gray, overcast Boston sky. The clouds are thick, heavy with the promise of rain.
He promised Garrett he would treat you like a sister.
He thinks about the heavy wooden door of the club bathroom. He thinks about the way your nails dug into his shoulders. He thinks about the sounds you made when he pushed inside you, the desperate, uninhibited way you wrapped your legs around his waist and begged him not to stop.
Logan closes his eyes, tilting his head back toward the sky. He lets out a long, ragged exhale that turns into a white cloud in the cold air.
I have done things to her, Logan thinks, a feeling of absolute doom settling deep in his bones, that absolutely no one should ever do to their little sister.
He opens his eyes, staring at your retreating back as you walk to the truck with Garrett.
Fuck his life.
***
The dashboard of your beat-up Toyota Corolla flickers violently, a dying strobe light of warning symbols, before the entire console goes pitch black. The engine gives one final, pathetic shudder and dies, leaving you coasting in terrifying silence down a dark, empty stretch of road just outside the Boston city limits.
You wrench the steering wheel hard to the right, using the last of your momentum to pull onto the gravel shoulder before slamming the car into park.
For a moment, the only sound is the frantic beating of your own heart and the rhythmic, aggressive drumming of the freezing November rain against your windshield.
“Perfect,” you whisper to the empty car. “Just perfect.”
You slam your hands against the steering wheel, letting out a frustrated groan. It’s nearly midnight on a Tuesday. You were just driving back from a late-night study session at the library, your brain completely fried from staring at anatomy textbooks. Now, you are stranded in the freezing cold.
You grab your phone from the cup holder. Your fingers are already starting to go numb. You pull up your favorites list and immediately hit Garrett’s name.
The line rings once. Twice. Three times.
“Hey, this is Garrett. Leave a message, unless you’re Dean, in which case, stop calling me.”
“Damn it, Garrett,” you mutter, hanging up. You try again. Straight to voicemail. He must have finally fallen asleep after complaining all afternoon about the massive bruising on his ribs from practice.
You lean back against the headrest, staring blankly at the dark screen of your phone. You need a jump. Or a tow. Or a miracle.
Your thumb hovers over the contacts list. Garrett’s mandate from the diner echoes in your head. If she ever needs anything ... I want her to be able to reach you.
You never thought you’d actually have to use the emergency hockey-player hotline.
You scroll down. Dean? Absolutely not. He would show up with a stupid grin, probably hit on you while holding the jumper cables, and make the entire ordeal ten times more exhausting. Tucker? Tucker is a solid option. He’s quiet, respectful, and probably knows how to fix a car.
But then your thumb stops on the last name.
John Logan.
A hot flush of heat floods your chest, completely counteracting the freezing temperature of the car. It’s been weeks since the diner. Weeks of aggressively avoiding him. If you go to Briar to see Garrett, you make sure Logan isn’t around. If the boys come to your games, you keep a safe, polite distance. But avoiding him hasn’t stopped you from thinking about him. Every time you close your eyes, you’re back in that club bathroom.
You stare at his name. If you call Tucker, it’s safe. If you call Logan, you are willingly inviting the chaos back into your space.
But there is a strange, twisted logic forming in your tired brain. Logan has already seen you completely unraveled. He knows what you sound like when you lose control. The barrier of intimacy is already so irrevocably shattered between the two of you that calling him almost feels ... easier. There’s no pretense to keep up.
Before you can talk yourself out of it, you press the green call button.
It rings twice.
“Hello?” His voice is rough, heavy with sleep, and the sound of it sends a sharp jolt straight to your core.
“Logan,” you say, your voice trembling slightly — mostly from the cold, but partly from the sheer adrenaline of hearing him say your name. “It’s ... it’s Y/N.”
There is a split second of silence on the line, followed by the sound of rustling sheets and a loud thud, as if he just vaulted out of bed.
“Y/N?” His voice is suddenly wide awake, sharp and entirely focused. “Are you okay? Where are you? Did something happen?”
“I’m okay,” you say quickly, not wanting to trigger a full-blown panic. “I’m not hurt or anything. I’m just ... my car died. I’m stuck on the shoulder off Route 9, a couple of miles past the exit for the campus.”
“Is anyone with you?” He demands, the protective edge in his voice so fiercely reminiscent of Garrett it makes your throat ache.
“No, I’m alone. I tried calling Garrett, but he’s not picking up, and-”
“I’m on my way,” Logan cuts you off smoothly. “Lock the doors. Keep the hazards on if the battery has enough juice for them. Do not get out of the car for anyone but me. Understood?”
“Understood,” you whisper.
“ETA is twenty minutes. Hang tight, sweetheart.”
The phone clicks dead. You stare at the screen, your heart doing a strange, fluttering gymnastics routine in your chest.
***
True to his word, exactly eighteen minutes later, the blinding headlights of a pickup truck cut through the rain, pulling up right behind your dead Civic.
You unlock the door the second Logan steps out of his truck. He’s wearing a pair of faded gray sweatpants and a dark Briar hockey hoodie, the hood pulled up against the freezing rain. He walks over to your window, his jaw clenched tight, scanning the dark road around you before he looks down at you.
“You okay?” He asks, his voice muffled by the glass.
You roll the window down an inch. “I’m freezing, but I’m fine. The engine just completely died.”
Logan nods, immediately shifting into a mode you haven’t seen before. It’s not the sarcastic jokester from the bar, and it’s not the panicked guy from the diner. This is Logan in his element. He grew up in a mechanic shop.
“Pop the hood,” he instructs, turning back to his truck.
You pull the lever under the dash. By the time you step out of the car, wrapping your thin jacket tightly around yourself, Logan is already hooking up a set of heavy-duty jumper cables to his battery.
“Get back in the car, Y/N,” Logan barks over the sound of the rain, glancing up at you. “You’re shivering. I’ve got this.”
“I want to help,” you insist, your teeth chattering.
Logan sighs, walking over to the front of your car. He effortlessly lifts the heavy hood, propping it open. He moves with practiced, confident precision, attaching the red clamp to the positive terminal of your battery, then the black clamp to a piece of unpainted metal on the engine block.
“It’s a dead battery,” Logan says, wiping his wet hands on his sweatpants. “Alternator might be shot, too, considering it died while you were driving. But this should get you enough juice to get to my place or back to your dorm.”
“Your place?” You echo, the words slipping out.
Logan pauses, the rain plastering his dark hair to his forehead. He looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable in the dim light. “Yeah. My place. Or your dorm. Whichever you want.”
He turns away, walking back to his truck. “Start it up!” He yells over his shoulder.
You slide back into the driver’s seat, turning the key. The engine sputters, whines a pathetic, high-pitched noise, and then, miraculously, roars to life. The heat instantly blasts from the vents.
You let out a massive sigh of relief, leaning your head against the steering wheel. He saved you.
You step back out of the car into the rain. Logan is already disconnecting the cables, tossing them into the bed of his truck before slamming the tailgate shut. He walks back over to you, rain dripping from his nose and chin, a small, tired smile playing on his lips.
“Good to go,” he says, his voice a low rumble over the idling engine. “SRO. Successful Rescue Operation.”
You laugh, the sound bubbling up through the cold. You are so overwhelmed with relief, so utterly grateful that you didn’t have to spend the night freezing on the side of the road, that you don’t even think about what you’re doing next.
You step directly into his space.
“Thank you, Logan,” you say, looking up at him. “Seriously. You’re a lifesaver.”
Before he can respond, you rise up on your toes, press a hand flat against his damp chest for balance, and press your lips to his.
It is meant to be a thank-you kiss. A quick, friendly peck on the corner of the mouth. But the second your lips touch his, muscle memory violently hijacks your brain.
Logan freezes. For a millisecond, his entire body goes completely rigid under your hand. And then, with a sharp, desperate intake of breath, he breaks.
His large hands come up, gripping your waist with bruising force. He pulls you flush against his body, opening his mouth over yours, entirely swallowing your gasp. The kiss is instantaneous fire. It’s exactly like the bathroom at the club — frantic, hungry, and completely consuming. You tangle your fingers into the wet hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, your mouth opening to the familiar, intoxicating slide of his tongue.
The freezing rain soaking through your clothes suddenly doesn’t matter at all. The only thing that exists is the burning heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his chest, and the desperate, crushing grip of his hands on your hips.
Logan groans into your mouth, a rough, guttural sound that vibrates straight down to your toes. He walks you backward until your spine hits the wet metal of your car door, pinning you there just like he did before.
But then, as quickly as it started, the reality of the situation crashes down on both of you.
Logan tears his mouth away, his chest heaving violently. He rests his forehead against yours, his hands still gripping your waist in a vise. You are both panting, staring into each other’s wide, terrified eyes.
“What are we doing?” Logan whispers, his voice trembling.
“I don’t know,” you breathe back, your hands still resting on his chest, feeling the frantic, galloping rhythm of his heart.
“Garrett is going to bury me under the ice rink,” Logan says, his eyes squeezing shut. “He is going to murder me. He’s going to use my bones to make a new hockey stick.”
“And I’ll be shipped off to a convent,” you add, your voice tight with panic. “I’ll be the first ever hockey-playing cloistered nun.”
Logan lets out a breathless, choked laugh, his forehead still resting against yours. “We can’t do this. You know we can’t do this.”
“I know,” you whisper. “We really can’t.”
You wait for him to step back. You wait for him to let you go.
He doesn’t move an inch.
Instead, his thumbs slowly begin to stroke the curve of your waist, right through the wet fabric of your jacket. The touch is so agonizingly slow, so heavy with intent, that a small, broken whimper escapes your lips.
“I’ve been going insane,” Logan admits, his voice dropping to a harsh rasp. He opens his eyes, staring directly into yours. The raw vulnerability in his expression makes your heart shatter. “Since the diner. Since the club. I can’t sleep. I can’t think on the ice. Every time I close my eyes, I see you drinking that damn milkshake.”
“Logan ...”
“I know I’m supposed to be the reliable guy,” he continues, his hands sliding up your sides to grip the lapels of your jacket. “I promised Garrett. I swore to him. But Y/N, I can’t stop. You are all I think about.”
The admission hangs heavy in the freezing air between you, thick and undeniably true. You feel the exact same way. The rules, the brother, the consequences — none of it feels real compared to the overwhelming, magnetic pull you have toward this man.
“My backseat is practically a living room,” Logan whispers, his eyes darting down to your lips.
“Logan ...” you say his name again, but this time, it’s not a warning. It’s a surrender.
“Tell me to get in my truck and drive away,” Logan pleads, his face inches from yours. “Tell me right now, and I will.”
You look at him. You look at the rain dripping from his lashes, at the desperate, agonizing hope in his eyes.
“I don’t want you to drive away,” you say, your voice perfectly clear over the sound of the storm.
Logan lets out a sharp exhale, his restraint finally snapping completely. He kisses you again, hard and bruising, before grabbing your hand and pulling you away from your car. He drags you toward the truck. He throws open the heavy back door, practically lifting you off your feet and tossing you onto the wide, expansive upholstered bench of the backseat.
He climbs in after you, slamming the door shut.
The sudden silence inside the truck is deafening. The windows are heavily tinted, shielding you from the outside world. The only light comes from the faint glow of the dashboard in the front.
Logan wastes absolutely no time. He crawls over the leather seats, caging you in against the soft upholstery. He straddles your hips, looking down at you with a gaze so hot it could melt glass.
“You are so fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his hands instantly reaching for the zipper of your wet jacket. He pulls it down with frantic haste, tugging the damp material off your shoulders and tossing it onto the floorboards.
“You talk too much,” you breathe, reaching up to grab the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down to you.
The kiss is explosive. It’s different from the club. At the club, it was pure, anonymous lust. This is heavier. This is loaded with weeks of pent-up desire, forbidden attraction, and the terrifying realization that there are real feelings involved.
Logan’s hands are everywhere, exploring you with a desperate reverence. He pushes your tank top up, his large, warm palms flattening against the bare, shivering skin of your stomach. You gasp into his mouth as he trails his hands higher, mapping the curve of your ribs before pushing the fabric up entirely.
“God,” Logan groans, pulling back just enough to look at you in the dim light. His eyes trace the lines of your body, filled with a deep, consuming hunger.
“Don’t stop,” you plead, your fingers tangling into his wet hair.
Logan leans down, pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the slope of your breast. The contrast of his scorching mouth against your cold skin sends a violent shiver down your spine. He traces his tongue along the edge of your bra, biting down gently on the sensitive skin, eliciting a loud, uninhibited moan from your throat.
“You like that?” Logan rumbles against your skin, his hands moving to the button of your jeans.
“Logan, please,” you beg, arching your back off the leather seat.
He works the button and zipper with practiced ease, his fingers sliding beneath the denim. The second his rough skin brushes against your center, your entire body completely locks up.
Logan watches your face intently as his fingers begin to move. He sets a slow, maddeningly precise rhythm, his thumb circling and pressing exactly where you need it. You throw your head back into the leather seat, your hands gripping his shoulders like a lifeline.
“Look at me,” Logan commands, his voice thick with lust.
You force your eyes open, meeting his dark, intense gaze.
“You are mine,” Logan whispers fiercely, the words slipping out of him like an undeniable truth. He increases the pressure, his fingers moving faster, deeper. “You hear me? You’re mine.”
You can’t even form words to agree. The pleasure is too absolute, too consuming. The heat inside the cab of the truck is suffocating, completely fogging up the windows and isolating you both in a cocoon of raw, desperate need.
You feel the climax building rapidly, a tight, coil of energy in your lower stomach.
“Logan,” you sob out, your nails digging crescents into his shoulders.
“Let it go, sweetheart,” he encourages, leaning down to capture your lips in a devastating kiss. “I’ve got you.”
You shatter completely. The orgasm rips through you with a violent intensity, pulling a loud, muffled scream from your throat directly into his mouth. Your muscles clench tightly around his fingers, your entire body trembling uncontrollably as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over you.
Logan holds you through it, his chest heaving, waiting until the violent tremors begin to subside.
When you finally open your eyes, you are gasping for air. Logan is looking down at you, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Without a word, he reaches down and grabs the hem of his own hoodie, pulling it over his head in one fluid motion. He tosses it aside, revealing his broad, heavily muscled chest.
He reaches for the waistband of his sweatpants.
“My turn,” he whispers, his eyes completely dark.
You reach up, helping him push the fabric down. The second he is free, he settles back over you, parting your knees with his thighs. He aligns himself perfectly, pausing for just a fraction of a second to look at you, to make sure you are ready.
You nod, lifting your hips to meet him.
Logan pushes inside you in one long, smooth, devastating thrust.
A sharp gasp leaves your lips, your eyes fluttering shut at the overwhelming sensation of being completely filled by him. It is infinitely better than the club. There is no door to pin you against, but the heavy, solid weight of his body pressing you deep into the leather seat is so much better.
Logan lets out a low, guttural groan, resting his forehead against yours as he takes a moment to adjust.
“Fuck,” he breathes out, his voice shaking. “You feel perfect.”
“Move,” you demand softly, your hands tracing down the hard, sweaty planes of his back to grip his hips.
He obeys. He sets a slow, agonizingly deep pace. Every thrust is deliberate, completely burying himself inside you before pulling almost entirely out. The friction is maddening. The truck rocks gently on its suspension with the force of his movements, the only sound inside the cab the wet slide of bodies and the heavy, ragged sound of your synchronized breathing.
“Wrap your legs around me,” Logan whispers harshly.
You immediately do as he asks, crossing your ankles over the small of his back, pulling him even deeper.
The change in angle is all it takes for Logan’s restraint to snap. The slow, deliberate pace vanishes, replaced by a frantic, punishing rhythm. He grips your hips so tightly it’s definitely going to leave bruises, his hips snapping forward with a force that drives you further and further into the seat.
You cling to him, entirely lost to the storm. The feeling of him inside you, the way his body covers yours perfectly, the desperate sounds he makes against your neck is intoxicating.
“Y/N,” Logan groans, his pace becoming erratic and entirely unhinged. “I’m going to-”
“Do it,” you sob out, your own second climax building with terrifying speed. “Logan, please.”
He thrusts deeply one final time, a harsh, jagged cry tearing from his throat. His entire body goes completely rigid as he finds his release, burying his face in the crook of your neck. The force of his climax pushes you directly over the edge, your body shattering around him simultaneously.
For a long time, neither of you moves.
Logan is a heavy, completely exhausted weight on top of you. His heart is hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against your chest, his skin slick with sweat despite the freezing temperatures outside. The windows of the truck are entirely opaque with condensation.
Slowly, the reality of the situation begins to creep back in. The rain is still drumming relentlessly against the roof of the truck.
Logan slowly lifts his head, looking down at you. His eyes are soft, devoid of the frantic panic that usually accompanies your interactions. He brushes a damp strand of hair out of your face, his touch remarkably gentle.
“Garrett is going to kill me,” Logan says quietly, the words lacking their usual terror.
You let out a soft, tired laugh, running your hands through his messy hair. “Yeah. He really is.”
“It’s worth it,” Logan says, leaning down to press a soft, lingering kiss to your lips. “For the record. I would let him kill me a thousand times if it meant I got to do this again.”
Your heart does a painful, stuttering flip in your chest. You look up at him, seeing the utter sincerity in his eyes. He isn’t joking. He isn’t deflecting with acronyms.
“Me too,” you whisper.
Logan smiles, a devastatingly soft expression that completely alters his face. He rolls off you gently, reaching down to grab his hoodie.
“Come on,” he says, pulling the hoodie over his head before handing you your damp jacket. “Let’s get you back to your dorm before you catch pneumonia. SVD. Safe Vehicle Drop-off.”
“You’re an idiot,” you laugh, sitting up and starting to re-dress.
“Yeah,” Logan agrees, watching you with an expression you can’t quite place. “I am.”
Summary: grief doesn’t ask permission before it moves … and neither does Dean. When the passenger seat that should’ve been yours is suddenly empty in every sense of the word, he becomes the only thing standing between you and the void, one milkshake, one held hand, one impossible morning at a time. But comfort has a way of turning into something neither of you meant to feel, and admitting it means risking the one person who’s still standing when everything else has fallen down
Warnings: you’re going to need tissues
Dean tugs at the collar of his suit. Usually, he feels like a million bucks in this thing. Today, it feels like a straightjacket.
He sits in the second row of the church, staring at the polished mahogany casket resting at the altar. The scent of hundreds of white lilies is thick and cloying in the air, mixing with the sharp smell of floor wax. It makes his stomach churn.
“Dean, honey,” his mother whispers, her hand gently covering his. “Are you holding up?”
He looks to his left. His mother’s eyes are red-rimmed, her makeup flawlessly intact but her expression completely shattered. Beside her, his father sits with a stoic, grave expression, his jaw tight. They are high-powered attorneys, people who rip apart witnesses for a living and negotiate million-dollar deals without breaking a sweat. But right now, they just look like two devastated parents grieving a boy who practically lived at their house over the summer.
“I’m fine, Mom,” Dean lies, his voice a low, raspy gravel.
“You don’t have to be fine,” his father murmurs, leaning in slightly. “Not today. Not for a long time.”
Dean swallows hard and looks away. He isn’t fine. Beau is in that box. His best friend. His blood brother. Briar University’s star quarterback, the guy with the golden arm and the shit-eating grin.
Dead.
The word still doesn’t make sense in his brain. It’s a typo. A bad joke. Dean knows a lot of things. He knows how to throw a party, how to close down a bar, and how to charm his way out of a parking ticket. He knows how to live. He doesn’t know how to do this. He doesn’t know how to look at a wooden box and accept that his best friend is never going to throw a football at his head again.
“Hey,” a low voice says from the pew behind him.
Dean turns his head. Logan, Garrett, and Tucker are sitting right behind him, all wearing dark suits, looking equally as wrecked.
“You see her yet?” Logan asks, keeping his voice strictly to a whisper.
Dean shakes his head. “No. Have you?”
“Joanna walked in a few minutes ago,” Garrett says, rubbing the back of his neck. “She said they were right behind her. Beau’s dad is in a wheelchair. Neck brace. It’s … it’s bad, man.”
Dean exhales a shaky breath, turning his attention to the front row. The family pews. Empty so far.
His chest tightens at the thought of you.
You and Beau. Beau and you. The Maxwell twins. You were glued to the hip from day one. When Dean met Beau freshman year, he met you by extension. As a cheerleader, you were always around the athletic department, but even without the pompoms, you would have been there. The three of you became inseparable.
Dean closes his eyes, a memory hitting him so hard it physically aches.
***
“Dude, she’s my twin. You can’t look at her like that,” Beau says, tossing a crumpled-up napkin across the booth at Malone’s
“Like what?” Dean deflects, catching the napkin with one hand and smirking. “I’m looking at her like she’s hoarding the last order of chili cheese fries.”
“I am hoarding them,” you say, pulling the greasy basket closer to your chest. “And if you try to take them, Di Laurentis, I’ll stab you with this plastic fork. I’m not playing around.”
“Fierce. I like it,” Dean laughs, leaning across the table.
“Stop flirting with my sister,” Beau groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Seriously, Dean. You have a new girl in your room every night. Leave this one alone.”
“I’m not flirting,” Dean argues, kicking your shin lightly under the table. “I’m just appreciating her aggressive approach to saturated fats.”
“You’re a pig,” you tell him, though you’re trying not to smile. You spear a fry and point it at him. “And for the record, Beau, I can handle Dean. He’s all talk.”
“I am definitely not all talk,” Dean says, winking at you.
“Gross,” Beau deadpans. “Both of you. Gross. Eat your fries, Y/N, before I steal them myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” you gasp.
“Try me,” Beau challenges, his eyes lighting up with that familiar, competitive fire.
***
The heavy oak doors at the back of the church open, snapping Dean back to the present. The low murmur of the packed church falls completely silent.
Dean turns.
You are walking down the center aisle.
His breath catches in his throat. You look completely empty. Your spine is rigidly straight, holding you up purely on autopilot. You are wearing a simple black dress, your face pale and completely devoid of makeup. There are dark, bruised-looking circles under your eyes. Beside you is your older sister, Joanna, gripping your arm, and behind you, your mother is pushing your father in a wheelchair.
Dean watches as you walk right past his pew. You don’t look at him. You don’t look at anyone. You are staring straight ahead at the casket, your eyes locked onto the polished wood like it’s the only thing keeping you anchored to the floor.
He wants to reach out. He wants to grab your hand, pull you into his lap, and hide you from the hundreds of pitying eyes staring at you. But he stays frozen in his seat.
You sit down in the front row. Joanna sits beside you, wrapping an arm around your shoulders. You just sit there, perfectly still.
The service begins. The pastor steps up to the podium, his voice echoing through the massive sanctuary. He talks about God, about mysterious ways, about Beau’s bright light. Dean tunes it all out. It’s all bullshit. There is no mysterious reason for a deer to sprint across a dark Wisconsin road. There is no divine plan for black ice. It’s just a stupid, senseless accident.
“And now,” the pastor says softly, stepping back. “Beau’s sister has asked to say a few words.”
Dean’s head snaps up. He watches as Joanna whispers something in your ear. You nod once, a sharp, jerky movement.
You stand up.
A ripple of uneasy tension sweeps through the church. You look fragile, like a stiff breeze could snap your bones in half. You walk up the three small steps to the altar. You don’t look at the casket as you pass it.
You step up to the wooden podium and grip the edges. Your knuckles instantly turn white.
You stand there for a long time. The silence stretches, thick and agonizing. Dean leans forward, his hands braced on his knees, every muscle in his body coiled tight.
“Hi,” you whisper into the microphone. It squeals slightly, and you flinch.
You take a shaky breath, looking out at the crowd. Your eyes sweep over the sea of dark clothing.
“I’m … I’m Beau’s sister,” you start, your voice trembling. “His twin sister.”
You stop, swallowing hard.
“Most of you know Beau as the quarterback,” you say, your voice gaining a tiny fraction of strength. “You know him as the guy who threw the game-winning pass in the championships. You know him as the guy who was always smiling, always laughing. The guy who threw the best parties.”
A few soft, sad chuckles ripple through the Briar football team sitting on the right side of the church.
“But that’s just … that’s just the stuff he let everyone see,” you continue, staring down at the wood of the podium. “Beau was … he was my other half. We shared a womb. We shared our childhood. We shared everything.”
You look up, and for the first time, your eyes meet Dean’s.
Dean feels a sharp, physical pain in his chest. Your eyes are completely shattered.
“He was the most fiercely protective person I’ve ever known,” you say, holding Dean’s gaze. “If I was sad, he wouldn’t just ask what was wrong. He would rip the world apart trying to fix it. He loved his friends. He loved his family. He loved his life.”
You look away, your gaze drifting down to the front row, resting on your dad in his wheelchair.
“We went to Wisconsin for my grandma’s birthday,” you say. The tremble is back in your voice, more pronounced this time.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He knows this part. Beau had texted him right before they left the house.
“My dad was driving,” you say softly.
Your father bows his head, his shoulders shaking in the wheelchair.
“It was snowing,” you whisper. You let go of the podium with one hand, wrapping your arms tightly around your own waist. “A deer ran out. Dad swerved. He hit black ice. The car spun and hit a tree.”
You stop. You take a breath, but it hitches, turning into a wet, jagged gasp.
“Take your time, sweetheart,” the pastor says gently from behind you.
“No,” you say, shaking your head rapidly. “No. You don’t understand.”
You grip the podium again, leaning into the microphone. Your breathing is speeding up, erratic and panicked.
“I stayed behind,” you say, your voice cracking loudly over the speakers. “My grandma … she asked me to stay a little longer. For another slice of pie. Just a stupid piece of cherry pie.”
“Y/N,” Joanna whispers loudly from the front pew, standing up.
“If I hadn’t stayed,” you say, your voice rising in volume, cracking with a sob. “I would have been in the car. I always sit in the passenger seat. Always. It’s my seat.”
Tears start spilling down your cheeks, fast and heavy.
“Beau took my seat,” you cry out, the sound echoing off the high vaulted ceilings. “He sat in the passenger seat because I wasn’t there.”
Dean is already moving. He doesn’t consciously decide to stand up. He just does.
“Y/N, honey, please,” your dad chokes out from his wheelchair, reaching a hand toward you.
“It should have been me!” You scream, your voice completely breaking. You grip the podium like it’s the only thing keeping you from floating away. “The impact was on the passenger side! It snapped his neck! It should have been my neck!”
“Oh my god,” Dean’s mom whispers behind him, covering her mouth.
“I want to trade!” You sob, looking up at the ceiling, looking at the casket, looking anywhere. “Please, God, let me trade! I’ll take his place! It’s supposed to be me! Put me in the box, please, please let him out!”
You let go of the podium to cover your face, and the moment you do, your legs give out.
You collapse.
You completely fold in on yourself, crumbling to the floor of the altar like a puppet with its strings cut.
“Y/N!” Joanna screams, rushing forward.
But Dean is faster.
He clears the row of pews, shoving past the pastor and dropping to his knees on the hard marble floor right beside you.
“I’ve got her,” Dean barks at Joanna, his voice sharp and authoritative enough to make the older sister freeze. “Give her air. Back up.”
Dean reaches out and gathers you into his arms. You are violently shaking, gasping for air in short, panicked bursts. You are having a full-blown panic attack right in the middle of the altar.
“Y/N,” Dean says, keeping his voice steady despite the absolute terror racing through his veins. He pulls you flush against his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your trembling frame. “Look at me. Hey. Look at me.”
You thrash against him weakly. “No! No, Dean, it’s my fault! It’s my fault!”
“It is not your fault,” he says fiercely, grabbing the sides of your face with both hands. His thumbs brush roughly over your tear-soaked cheeks. “Do you hear me? It was a fucking accident. It is not your fault.”
“I want him back!” You scream against Dean’s chest, burying your face into his expensive suit jacket, your hands fisting in his lapels. “Dean, please, please bring him back. Tell him to get up.”
Dean feels something hot and wet slide down his own cheek. He doesn’t care who sees him crying. He doesn’t care about the hundreds of people staring at them. Right now, there is only you. You are the only piece of Beau he has left, and he will be damned if he lets you fall apart on this floor alone.
“I know, baby,” Dean whispers, his voice cracking as he presses his lips hard against the top of your head. He pulls you tighter, rocking you slightly. “I know. I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
“I can’t breathe,” you gasp, your fingers clutching his shirt tight enough to rip the buttons. “Dean, I can’t breathe. My chest hurts. Make it stop.”
“Follow my breathing,” he commands, forcing his own erratic lungs to slow down. He exaggerates the rise and fall of his chest. “In and out. Come on, Y/N. In and out.”
“I can’t live without him,” you sob, the sound so broken it physically tears at Dean’s heart. “I don’t know how to be a person without him.”
“You don’t have to figure it out today,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He keeps his arms wrapped like a vice around you, shielding you from the eyes of the crowd. “You just have to breathe right now. That’s all you have to do. Just breathe for me.”
Joanna is hovering nearby, crying into her hands. The pastor is awkwardly standing off to the side. The entire church is dead silent, save for the agonizing sound of your sobs echoing off the walls.
“He would have hated this,” you whisper hysterically, your forehead pressed against Dean’s collarbone. “He would have hated everyone looking at us.”
Dean lets out a wet, genuine laugh, the sound rough with grief. “Yeah. He would’ve called us dramatic.”
“He would’ve thrown a football at your head,” you add, letting out a broken sob that sounds half like a laugh.
“And told me to stop holding his sister,” Dean adds softly.
You grip his jacket tighter, burying your face deeper into his chest. “Don’t let go, Dean. Please don’t let go.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Dean promises. And he means it. He means it more than he’s meant anything in his entire twenty-two years of life. Beau trusted him. Beau loved him. And Beau loved you more than the sun.
“I’m right here,” Dean whispers into your hair, completely ignoring the pastor trying to resume the service. “I’m right here, and I’m not leaving. I swear to god, I’ve got you.”
***
Briar University looks exactly the same, and Dean hates it.
He stands in the middle of the quad, his hockey duffel slung over one shoulder, staring at the brick buildings and the swarms of students rushing to class. The sun is shining. Someone is throwing a frisbee near the library. A group of freshmen are laughing too loudly by the fountain.
It makes him sick to his stomach.
How can they just keep going? How is the bell still ringing? How is the cafeteria still serving terrible eggs? Beau is gone. The loudest, brightest, most invincible guy on this campus is in the ground, and Briar is just … moving on.
Dean adjusts his grip on his bag and forces his legs to move. He has to go to his Development of Sociological Thought elective. He doesn’t want to. He hasn’t wanted to do anything but lock himself in a dark room and drink until his liver gives out, but he can’t. He has to go to class. Because you are supposed to be in that class.
He walks into the lecture hall and immediately zeroes in on the fourth row, middle section.
Empty.
Dean’s jaw clenches. He drops into the seat next to yours, ignoring the sympathetic glances from a few girls in the row ahead. He stares at your empty desk for the entire fifty-minute lecture. You haven’t been to class all week.
“Hey, Dean?”
Dean blinks, snapping out of his daze as the lecture hall empties out. He looks up. Lacey, the co-captain of the cheer squad, is standing awkwardly by his desk. She looks nervous, her manicured fingers twisting the strap of her tote bag.
“What’s up, Lacey?” Dean asks, his voice flatter than he intends.
“It’s about Y/N,” Lacey says quietly, glancing over her shoulder as if she’s sharing state secrets. “Have you talked to her? Seen her?”
“No,” Dean admits, a cold spike of anxiety hitting his chest. “I texted her a few times, but she hasn’t answered. I figured she just wanted space. The funeral was … it was a lot.”
“I know,” Lacey says sympathetically. “But she hasn’t shown up to practice all week. Coach is starting to ask questions. I tried knocking on her door yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I’m just … I’m worried about her, Dean. She shouldn’t be alone right now.”
“She’s not answering her door?” Dean asks, standing up sharply.
“No,” Lacey shakes her head. “And her roommate moved into her boyfriend’s frat house for the week to give Y/N some privacy, so nobody has actually been inside the room since she got back from Wisconsin.”
“Fuck,” Dean mutters, dragging a hand through his hair. “Okay. Thanks, Lacey. I’ll handle it.”
He doesn’t wait for her response. He grabs his bag and takes the stairs two at a time, bursting out the doors of the academic building.
The walk to your dorm takes exactly eight minutes. Dean does it in four.
His heart is hammering against his ribs in a chaotic, uneven rhythm. Space is one thing. Grief is one thing. But radio silence for days, locked in an empty room? That isn’t just taking time to adjust.
He hits the third floor of the dorm building and strides down the hall, dodging a couple of guys tossing a lacrosse ball. He stops in front of Room 314 and knocks. Three sharp raps.
“Y/N? It’s Dean. Open up.”
Silence.
He knocks again, louder this time. “Come on, I know you’re in there. Lacey said your roommate is out for the week. Open the door.”
Nothing. Not a shuffle of feet, not a rustle of blankets. Nothing.
Panic, cold and sharp, slices straight through his veins.
Oh god. He digs frantically into his pocket, his fingers fumbling with his keychain. He, Beau, and you all swapped emergency keys sophomore year. He shoves the brass key into the lock, twists it, and throws the door open.
The room is completely pitch black. The heavy blackout curtains are drawn tight, blocking out every ounce of midday sun. The air is stale, thick, and smells faintly of sweat and something metallic.
“Y/N?” Dean asks, his voice cracking.
He flips the light switch.
You are a small, unmoving lump in the center of your bed.
Dean stops breathing. For one terrifying, heart-stopping second, his brain jumps to the absolute worst conclusion. You are too still. The silence in the room is too heavy. Did you take something? Was it on purpose? Did the grief finally swallow you whole and tell you the only way out was to follow your twin?
“No, no, no,” Dean chokes out, dropping his bag. He practically tackles the bed, his knees hitting the mattress hard. “Y/N! Hey!”
He grabs your shoulder and flips you onto your back.
Your eyes are open.
A massive, shuddering wave of relief crashes over Dean, making his head spin. You are breathing. The shallow rise and fall of your chest is there.
“Jesus Christ,” Dean gasps, pressing his forehead against the mattress beside your arm. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to stop his hands from shaking. “You scared the absolute shit out of me.”
But you don’t respond.
Dean lifts his head, his relief evaporating instantly. You are staring straight up at the ceiling, but you aren’t looking at anything. Your eyes are completely vacant. Empty. Dead.
Your lips are chapped and peeling, your skin a sickly, translucent pale. There are deep, bruised hollows under your cheekbones, and your hair is tangled in a chaotic, matted mess around your face. You look like a ghost.
“Hey,” Dean whispers, his voice softening into something incredibly tender. He reaches out, gently brushing a strand of hair off your forehead. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
You don’t blink. You don’t acknowledge him.
Dean’s heart physically aches. He knows exactly what this is. He’s been dancing on the edge of this exact void since the funeral. If it wasn’t for you — if it wasn’t for the desperate need to make sure you were okay — he would be face down on a sticky frat house floor right now, so high or so drunk he wouldn’t know his own name. He would be self-destructing in spectacular fashion.
But he can’t. He has to anchor you, which means he has to anchor himself. You are the only living piece of Beau he has left in this world.
Without hesitating, Dean kicks off his sneakers. He crawls fully onto the bed and lies down beside you. He wraps his arm securely around your waist, pulling your stiff, unresponsive body flush against his side. He tucks your head beneath his chin, wrapping his leg over yours to cage you in.
“I know,” Dean whispers into the crown of your head. He rubs his hand up and down your spine, feeling every single vertebrae through the thin cotton of your t-shirt. You’ve lost weight. In just a week, you’ve withered away. “I know it hurts. I know it feels like you can’t breathe.”
You blink slowly, but you don’t speak.
“I miss him too,” Dean says, his voice thickening. A tear slips down his cheek and lands in your hair. He doesn’t bother wiping it away. “God, I miss him so much I feel like I’m dying. But you’re not dying. I’m not going to let you.”
He lies there with you for a long time. The dorm room is silent except for the harsh sound of his own breathing and the agonizingly slow rhythm of yours. He traces soothing circles on your back, letting the warmth of his body seep into yours.
“Alright,” Dean finally says, his tone shifting. He sits up, gently untangling his limbs from yours. “Party’s over. You can’t rot in this bed forever.”
You don’t protest. You don’t do anything.
Dean grabs your hands and pulls you up into a sitting position. You flop forward like a ragdoll, your head resting against his chest.
“Come on,” he murmurs, wrapping his arms around you to keep you upright. “You need to get dressed. And you need to eat before you pass out and I have to call an ambulance. I don’t think either of us wants to deal with the Briar medical center today.”
He stands up, pulling you to your feet. Your legs buckle instantly.
Dean catches you effortlessly, lifting you slightly so your feet are barely touching the ground. “Whoa, okay. Easy. I got you.”
He guides you toward your closet. You lean heavily against his side, your bare feet dragging on the carpet.
“What do we want to wear?” Dean asks, opening the wardrobe. He talks to keep the silence at bay, forcing a casual lightness into his voice that he absolutely does not feel. “Sweatpants? Yeah, sweatpants feel right. High fashion is overrated anyway.”
He pulls out a pair of grey joggers and turns to look at you. You are staring blankly at the bottom of the closet.
“Okay, here,” Dean says gently. He crouches down. “Step in.”
He physically dresses you. He guides your legs into the sweatpants, pulls them up, and ties the drawstring. It’s intimately tragic. Two weeks ago, you would have slapped his hands away and called him a pervert for even being near your clothes. Today, you just let him maneuver you like a mannequin.
He stands up and reaches into the closet for a shirt, but your hand suddenly shoots out.
Your fingers, cold and trembling, latch onto the sleeve of a piece of clothing hanging in the back corner.
Dean freezes.
It’s a grey hoodie. Briar Football printed on the front. Beau’s hoodie.
Dean feels like someone has taken a baseball bat to his ribs. The sight of the fabric, the memory of Beau wearing it just a few weeks ago at a bonfire, laughing with a beer in his hand, is suffocating.
He wants to put it back. He wants to hide it. But he looks at your face. For the first time since he walked into the room, there is a flicker of emotion in your eyes. It’s raw, bleeding desperation.
“Okay,” Dean whispers, his voice completely wrecked. He reaches past you and unhooks the hoodie from the hanger. “Okay. Raise your arms.”
You lift your arms, and he pulls the heavy fabric over your head. The hoodie is massive on you. It swallows you whole, the sleeves hanging past your fingertips. The moment it’s on, you bring your knees to your chest and bury your nose in the collar, inhaling deeply.
A tiny, broken sob escapes your lips.
Dean swallows down the giant lump in his throat. He grabs a pair of your Ugg boots and slides them onto your feet.
“Let’s go,” he says softly.
He puts his arm around your waist, supporting most of your weight, and walks you out of the dorm.
***
Malone’s is packed. It’s prime lunchtime for the Briar athletic crowd, the air thick with the smell of cheap burgers, fryer grease, and loud conversations.
The moment the bell above the door jingles, announcing their arrival, heads turn.
Dean ignores them. He keeps a tight grip on your waist, steering you through the maze of tables toward a private booth in the far back corner. He slides you onto the vinyl seat, pushing you gently toward the wall so you’re tucked away safely, before sliding in right next to you. He doesn’t sit across the table. He sits beside you, his thigh pressed warmly against yours.
“Hey, Dean,” a waitress says, popping her gum as she approaches the table. Her eyes flick to you, her expression turning immediately sympathetic. Everyone on campus knows. “What can I get you guys?”
“Two waters,” Dean says, not looking at the menu. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
“You got it,” she says softly, walking away.
Dean turns slightly in the booth to look at you. You are staring at the scuffed surface of the table, your hands tucked into the oversized sleeves of Beau’s hoodie.
“You’re going to eat,” Dean states. It’s not a question. “And you’re going to drink the entire milkshake. I’m not leaving until you do.”
You don’t respond.
A loud burst of laughter erupts from a table of frat guys a few booths down. One of them, a guy Dean vaguely recognizes from a business seminar, stands up to stretch and looks directly at your booth. He stares, his eyes lingering on your pale face and the oversized football hoodie. He nudges his buddy, pointing openly.
Dean’s blood turns to absolute ice.
“Hey,” Dean barks, his voice slicing through the diner chatter like a knife.
The frat guy blinks, looking at Dean.
Dean leans forward, his eyes narrowed into a lethal, terrifying glare. “Take a picture. It lasts longer. Or keep staring, and I’ll come over there and break your fucking nose. Your choice.”
The frat guy pales, quickly sitting down and turning his back. The surrounding tables suddenly get very quiet, everyone suddenly fascinated by their own food.
Dean exhales sharply, rolling his shoulders to bleed off the adrenaline. He turns back to you. You haven’t moved. You didn’t even flinch at his shouting.
The waitress quickly drops off the fries and the milkshake, avoiding eye contact with Dean before scurrying away.
“Alright,” Dean says softly, his voice dropping completely from the dangerous growl of a moment ago. He grabs a fry, dipping it in ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says.
You keep your lips pressed together, your eyes fixed on the table.
“Y/N, look at me,” Dean says, his tone firm but incredibly gentle.
Slowly, agonizingly, you lift your eyes. The emptiness in them is starting to crack, replaced by a deep, hollow exhaustion.
“I know everything tastes like ash right now,” Dean murmurs, holding the fry steady. “I know you don’t care if you starve. But I care. Beau cared. He would beat my ass if I let you waste away. So, open up. For me.”
You stare at him for a long, heavy second. Then, your lips part slightly.
Dean places the fry in your mouth. You chew mechanically, your jaw moving without any enthusiasm. It takes you an eternity to swallow.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, grabbing the milkshake. He pushes the straw past your lips. “Drink.”
You take a small sip.
They sit there for an hour. Dean doesn’t touch a single fry for himself. He patiently, methodically hand-feeds you piece by piece, sip by sip, ignoring the curious and pitying stares from the rest of the diner. Whenever someone’s gaze lingers a little too long, Dean shoots them a look so murderous they immediately look away.
“I’m tired,” you whisper. It’s the first time you’ve spoken since the funeral. Your voice is raspy, unused, and incredibly fragile.
Dean’s heart stutters. He sets down the milkshake, moving his arm to wrap it around your shoulders. He pulls you against his side, tucking you into the crook of his arm.
“I know,” he says gently, resting his cheek on the top of your head. “I know, baby. I’ve got you.”
“He’s gone,” you say, a tear finally escaping and tracking through the dust on your cheek. “Dean, he’s really gone.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his own throat burning. “He is.”
“What are we supposed to do?” You ask, turning your face to press into his shoulder. Your fingers grip his shirt, twisting the fabric. “How do we do this?”
“I don’t know,” Dean admits honestly, holding you tighter. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering against your skin. “I have no fucking clue. But we’re going to figure it out. Together. I promise you, Y/N. You are not doing this alone.”
And sitting there in the middle of the crowded diner, smelling like grease and grief, Dean realizes it’s the truest thing he’s ever said. You are his tether to the world now. And he will burn the entire campus down before he lets you slip away.
***
The sharp click of the lock tumbling in the door echoes through the quiet dorm room.
It’s eight in the morning, the sun brutally bright as it forces its way through the crack in your blackout curtains. You squeeze your eyes shut, pulling the heavy comforter up over your head. You don’t want to be awake. Being awake means remembering.
“Rise and shine, sweetheart,” a bright, unapologetically loud voice announces.
The comforter is suddenly ripped away, exposing you to the cold morning air. You shiver, curling into a tighter ball, pulling Beau’s oversized hoodie down over your hands.
“Go away, Dean,” you croak. Your voice sounds like sandpaper.
“Not a chance,” Dean says cheerfully.
The mattress dips as he sits down near your knees. You peek out from under your arms. He’s already fully dressed in dark wash jeans and a Briar Hockey t-shirt, his blond hair perfectly styled, looking infuriatingly awake.
“I brought a peace offering,” he says, holding up a plastic cup with a green siren logo. Condensation drips down the sides.
You blink at it. “What is that?”
“Icy, caffeinated heaven,” Dean replies, shaking the cup slightly so the ice clinks. “Venti iced brown sugar oat milk shaken espresso. Exactly the way you like it. I even bullied the barista into adding the extra cinnamon you always ask for.”
Your stomach gives a hollow twist, but the smell of the espresso wafting toward you does something to cut through the fog in your brain.
“I don’t want it,” you lie, turning your face into the pillow.
“Bullshit,” Dean counters smoothly. “Sit up, Y/N.”
“Dean, please,” you whisper, the exhaustion heavy in your bones. “I just want to sleep.”
“You slept all yesterday afternoon and all night,” Dean says, his tone shifting from playful to firm. “You’re getting up today. We have lecture in forty-five minutes.”
“I’m dropping that class,” you mutter into the pillow.
“No, you’re not.”
Before you can protest, Dean’s hands are on your arms, hauling you upright. You flop against his chest, dead weight. He chuckles softly, his chest vibrating against your cheek, and uses one arm to hold you up while he grabs the coffee with his free hand.
“Drink,” he orders, pressing the green straw to your lips.
You glare at him through half-open eyes, but you part your lips and take a sip. The hit of cold espresso, sweet brown sugar, and sharp cinnamon is incredible. It wakes up a tiny part of your brain that has been completely dormant for a week.
“There we go,” Dean praises, a satisfied smirk pulling at his mouth. He pulls the cup away. “Now, up. Go brush your teeth. Put on pants that don’t have a stain on the knee.”
“These are my depression sweatpants,” you argue weakly, looking down at the grey joggers he forced you into yesterday.
“They’re a tragedy to fashion, is what they are,” Dean deadpans. “Up. Now. Or I’ll literally carry you to the bathroom and brush your teeth for you. Do not test me, because I will do it.”
You look at him. His jaw is set, his green eyes completely serious despite the light tone. He isn’t going to let you rot. He is going to drag you back to the land of the living, kicking and screaming if he has to.
“Fine,” you sigh, pushing yourself off the bed on shaky legs. “You’re a tyrant.”
“I’m a visionary,” Dean corrects, handing you the coffee. “Ten minutes, Y/N. I’m timing you.”
***
The lecture hall is packed, the air thick with the smell of cheap body spray and stale coffee.
Dean steers you toward the middle row, his hand resting securely against the small of your back. You keep your head down, acutely aware of the glances thrown your way. You haven’t been back to class since the accident. You feel raw, like you’re walking around without a layer of skin.
You drop into your seat, pulling Beau’s hoodie tighter around yourself. Dean sits right next to you, his thigh pressing against yours. He slung his arm over the back of your chair the second he sat down, acting as a physical shield between you and the rest of the room.
“Just breathe,” Dean murmurs, leaning in close so only you can hear. “You’re doing great.”
Professor Higgins walks in a moment later, dropping a massive stack of papers onto his podium. He’s a terrifying, tenured man who takes his sociology lectures way too seriously.
“Alright, settle down,” Higgins barks, turning on the projector. “Last week, we discussed the functionalist perspective on societal norms. Who can summarize Durkheim’s concept of anomie?”
Silence descends over the room. Everyone suddenly avoids eye contact with the professor.
Higgins scans the room, his hawkish eyes darting from row to row. And then, horrifyingly, his gaze lands directly on you.
“Miss Maxwell,” Fowler says, his voice booming through the microphone. “Perhaps you can enlighten us. How does anomie relate to sudden structural changes in a person’s life?”
The air is instantly sucked out of your lungs.
Your heart hammers frantically against your ribs. Over two hundred students turn in their seats to look at you. The room feels incredibly small, the walls closing in. You open your mouth, but nothing comes out. Your brain is entirely blank. A sudden structural change. The sudden, violent severing of your other half. The irony of the question is so sharp it physically hurts.
Panic starts to rise in your throat, choking you.
Under the desk, a large, warm hand slips over yours.
Dean intertwines his fingers tightly with yours. He gives your hand a firm, grounding squeeze. His thumb strokes the back of your knuckles, a steady, rhythmic motion.
“You know this,” Dean whispers, his voice barely a breath against your ear. “You explained it to me last month when I almost failed the quiz. Normlessness. Disconnect.”
The sheer, solid weight of Dean sitting beside you, his hand anchoring you to the present, cuts through the rising panic. You swallow hard, forcing air into your lungs.
“Anomie,” you start, your voice trembling slightly before you force it to steady. “It’s … it’s a state of normlessness. Durkheim argued that when society experiences rapid change or disruption, the normal rules and social structures break down. People feel disconnected from their community and their sense of purpose, leading to psychological distress and a breakdown of social order.”
Professor Higgins stares at you for a long moment. Then, he gives a sharp, approving nod.
“Exactly, Miss Maxwell. A textbook definition,” Fowler says, turning back to the whiteboard. “Now, to apply this to modern institutional structures …”
The spotlight is off you. The students turn back around.
You let out a shaky exhale, slumping slightly in your chair.
Dean doesn’t let go of your hand. He keeps his fingers laced with yours for the entire fifty-minute lecture, his thumb lazily tracing circles on your skin. Every time you start to drift into the dark, pulling back into your grief, he gives your hand a gentle squeeze, reeling you back to him.
***
When classes finally end for the day, you walk out to Dean’s car expecting him to drive you back to your dorm.
Instead, he takes a left at the campus gates, heading off campus.
“Where are we going?” You ask, watching the familiar streets of Briar disappear.
“My place,” Dean says smoothly, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio.
“Dean, I just want to go to bed,” you protest, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the cool glass of the window.
“You’ve been in bed for a week,” Dean counters. “It’s bad for your muscles. Atrophy, Y/N. Science says so. Besides, Tucker is making his famous chicken parm for dinner, and if I don’t bring you, he’ll hold back my portion.”
“I don’t want to see people,” you whisper, the anxiety spiking again.
“They aren’t people, they’re just our idiot friends,” Dean says softly, throwing a quick glance your way. “They know what happened. Nobody’s going to ask you stupid questions or give you the pity eyes. I already threatened Logan with physical violence if he makes things weird.”
You let out a tiny, breathless huff that almost sounds like a laugh.
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the driveway of the off-campus house he shares with three of his teammates. The house is a chaotic mess of hockey gear, empty beer boxes, and mismatched furniture.
Dean unlocks the front door and ushers you inside.
“We’re here!” Dean yells, tossing his keys into a bowl by the door.
“In the kitchen!” A deep voice calls back.
Dean guides you down the hall and into the massive, open-concept kitchen. Tucker is standing at the stove, an apron tied over his t-shirt, stirring a pot of marinara sauce that smells absolutely divine. Logan and Garrett are sitting at the kitchen island, arguing over something on Logan’s phone.
They all stop when you walk in.
There’s a split second of heavy silence. You tense, waiting for the awkward condolences, the tilted heads, the sad smiles.
But then Garrett simply raises a hand. “Hey, Y/N.”
“Hey,” you manage to say, your voice quiet.
“Good, you’re here,” Tucker says, gesturing with a wooden spoon. “Tell Logan that a hotdog is legally considered a sandwich. He’s being deliberately ignorant.”
“It’s a piece of meat surrounded by bread,” Garrett argues immediately, pointing at Logan. “By definition, it’s a sandwich.”
“It’s a tube of mystery meat in a bun!” Logan protests, throwing his arms up. “A bun is not two slices of bread! If you ask for a sandwich and someone hands you a hotdog, you’d be pissed!”
“I would be thrilled, actually,” Dean chimes in, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge and handing it to you. “Hotdogs are elite.”
“You’re all idiots,” you murmur, leaning against the counter beside Dean.
Logan grins, a completely normal, easy expression. “See? Y/N agrees with me. The tie-breaker has spoken.”
The tension you didn’t even realize you were holding completely bleeds out of your shoulders. Dean was right. They aren’t treating you like a piece of fragile glass. They’re just treating you like … you.
Tucker dishes out massive plates of chicken parmesan and pasta, forcing the largest portion directly in front of you. You manage to eat half of it, which is the most you’ve eaten in over a week. Dean sits beside you the entire time, seamlessly intercepting any questions directed your way if you take too long to answer, covering for you without making it obvious.
After dinner, you all migrate to the living room. It’s dominated by a massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch that Dean definitely paid for.
“Alright, hand over the remote,” Dean demands, vaulting over the back of the couch to land next to you.
“We were watching the game,” Garrett protests from the recliner.
“We’re watching something else,” Dean says, snatching the remote from the coffee table. He navigates to a streaming service and pulls up The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.
“Dude, really?” Logan groans, falling back onto the other end of the couch. “It’s Tuesday. Can we at least watch a movie?”
“Shut up, Logan,” Dean says comfortably, hitting play. “This is high-stakes drama. You learn a lot about human psychology from these women.”
“You just like watching rich people yell at each other at dinner parties,” Tucker points out, sitting on the floor with his back against the couch.
“Exactly,” Dean says, smirking.
He shifts on the couch, sprawling out and kicking his feet onto the coffee table. He casually drapes his arm along the back of the sofa, right behind your shoulders.
The episode starts, filled with immediate, ridiculous conflict about a stolen dress and a charity gala. It’s loud, colorful, and completely mindless.
“Wait,” Logan says ten minutes in, pointing at the screen. “Why is she mad? Didn’t she invite the other lady to the party?”
“She invited her as a formality,” Dean explains, not looking away from the TV. “She didn’t actually expect her to show up. It’s a power move.”
“That’s so passive-aggressive,” Garrett mutters, shaking his head. “Just drop the gloves and fight it out.”
“You can’t body-check someone at a charity gala, G,” Tucker laughs.
You sit quietly, listening to four massive, intimidating college hockey players aggressively analyze the social dynamics of middle-aged reality stars. The sheer absurdity of it chips away at the cold, dark wall surrounding your heart.
You let out a soft, genuine laugh when Logan vehemently defends one of the housewives for throwing a glass of wine.
Dean immediately looks at you. His eyes are soft, the corners crinkling just slightly. He doesn’t say anything, but his hand drops from the back of the couch, resting his palm warmly against your shoulder.
As the evening wears on, the exhaustion of the day finally catches up with you. The adrenaline of surviving classes and the heavy, carb-loaded dinner hit your system all at once.
The mindless arguing on the screen turns into a soft hum. The warmth of Dean sitting so close to you is intoxicating. Slowly, unconsciously, you tilt sideways. Your head comes to rest heavily against Dean’s shoulder.
Dean freezes for a fraction of a second. Then, he shifts his body entirely, angling himself to give you better access. He wraps his arm securely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You bury your face into his neck, the scent of his cologne — cedarwood and something uniquely, cleanly Dean — filling your senses. It’s so safe. It’s the safest you’ve felt since the phone call that destroyed your world.
Your eyes flutter shut, and for the first time in a week, you fall asleep without crying.
***
Dean wakes up to the quiet roll of the end credits playing on the TV screen.
The living room is empty. Garrett, Logan, and Tucker must have quietly headed upstairs to their rooms at some point, leaving just the soft glow of a lamp in the corner.
He looks down.
You are fast asleep against his chest. Your face is pressed into the crook of his neck, your soft breath puffing steadily against his skin. One of your hands is fisted loosely in his t-shirt. You look incredibly peaceful, the lines of grief completely smoothed out from your forehead.
Dean stares at you for a long time. His heart aches in a way that has nothing to do with Beau, and everything to do with you.
He gently shifts, sliding his arm under your knees and his other arm around your back. He stands up smoothly, lifting you against his chest. You are criminally light.
You stir slightly, mumbling something incoherent, but you don’t wake up. Your head falls against his shoulder, your face turning into his neck.
“I’ve got you,” Dean whispers, turning off the lamp with his elbow.
He carries you up the stairs, navigating the hallway to his bedroom at the end of the hall. He kicks the door open with his foot and steps inside. His room is surprisingly neat, a contrast to the rest of the house, dominated by a massive king-sized bed.
He walks over to the bed and gently lowers you onto the mattress. You immediately curl onto your side, pulling Beau’s hoodie tightly around yourself.
Dean pulls the heavy duvet back and tucks it over your shoulders. He stands by the edge of the bed, watching you sleep. He should go to the guest room. Or he should sleep on the couch downstairs. He knows that’s what a normal, respectful friend would do.
But Dean feels nothing close to normal right now. The thought of leaving you alone in this dark room, waking up in a panic not knowing where you are, makes his skin crawl.
Quietly, Dean strips off his jeans and his t-shirt, leaving just his boxer briefs.
He walks around to the other side of the king-sized bed and slides under the covers.
He keeps a respectful distance, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling. The room is dead silent, save for the soft, rhythmic sound of your breathing. It’s a soothing, constant reminder that you are here, that you are breathing, that you are alive.
About twenty minutes later, a soft rustle comes from your side of the bed.
Dean turns his head.
You are seeking warmth. Still completely asleep, you roll across the mattress until you hit his side. You throw one leg over his, tangling your limbs together, and press your face flat against his bare chest. Your arm drapes over his stomach.
Dean’s breath hitches. He goes perfectly still, terrified of waking you.
But you just let out a soft sigh, settling deeper into him.
A heavy sense of peace washes over Dean. He slowly lifts his hand, wrapping his arm around you, resting his hand gently on your back. He pulls you just a fraction closer, letting his chin rest on top of your head.
He closes his eyes, matching the rhythm of his breathing to yours. And for the first time since he lost his best friend, Dean finally falls into a deep, dreamless sleep.
***
You wake up to the absolute pitch black of an unfamiliar room.
For a span of three seconds, your brain is blissfully, mercifully blank. You don’t know where you are. You don’t know what day it is. You are just a person waking up in a warm bed, wrapped in heavy, expensive-feeling sheets, with the steady rhythm of someone breathing beside you.
Then, the fourth second hits.
The memories do not trickle in; they crash over you like a tidal wave of ice water. The screech of tires. The polished mahogany casket. The smell of floor wax and white lilies. The suffocating, gaping hole in the center of your chest where your twin brother used to be.
Your breath hitches, a sharp, ragged sound that cuts through the silence of the room.
You open your eyes fully, staring up at the dark ceiling. You are in Dean’s room. You remember the diner. You remember Tucker’s chicken parmesan, and the ridiculous Housewives argument, and falling asleep on the couch.
And now, you are in Dean’s bed.
You turn your head slowly against the pillow. Dean is lying right beside you, on his back, his face turned slightly toward yours. In the faint sliver of moonlight slipping through the gap in the blinds, he looks completely different. The cocky, effortless charm is smoothed away by sleep. His jaw is relaxed, his blond hair completely mussed. One of his arms is draped casually across your waist, his large hand resting warm and heavy against your ribs.
The sheer intimacy of it should be jarring, but it isn’t. It just feels like a lifeline.
You swallow hard, fighting the familiar, toxic burn of tears building in the back of your throat. You don’t want to cry again. You are so tired of crying. Your eyes are swollen, your head is pounding, and every muscle in your body aches from the physical exertion of pure grief.
But the silence of the room is too loud. In the quiet, your brain starts supplying the highlight reel. Beau throwing a football perfectly spiraled directly into your hands. Beau laughing so hard beer came out of his nose at a frat party. Beau putting you in a headlock because you stole the last slice of pizza.
He’s gone. He’s really gone. The thought circles your mind, a relentless, vicious predator. You try to take a deep breath to quell the rising panic, but your chest feels too tight. It feels like someone is sitting on your lungs.
You need to anchor yourself. You need the noise to stop.
“Dean,” you whisper.
The sound is barely louder than a breath, incredibly hesitant. You shouldn’t wake him. He has done so much for you today — he fed you, he clothed you, he protected you from the stares on campus. He deserves to sleep.
You try to pull back, intending to slip out of the bed and go to the bathroom until the panic attack passes, but the moment you shift your weight, the heavy hand on your ribs tightens.
“I’m awake,” Dean says instantly.
His voice is rough and gravelly with sleep, but there is no grogginess in it. He opens his eyes, blinking rapidly for a second before his gaze locks onto yours in the dark. He shifts closer, his brow furrowing.
“What’s wrong?” He asks, his tone immediately dropping into that fierce, protective cadence. “Are you sick? Do you need water? What do you need?”
“No,” you say quickly, your voice trembling. “No, I’m … I’m okay. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
Dean lets out a short, dismissive breath. He rolls onto his side, propping his head up on his hand so he’s looking down at you. His other hand moves from your ribs to gently brush a tangled strand of hair away from your cheek.
“Don’t ever apologize for waking me up,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet room. “Never. If you need me, you wake me. Understand?”
You nod, biting your lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Dean studies your face in the shadows. He doesn’t press you. He just waits, his thumb gently tracing the line of your jaw, letting you find the words at your own pace.
“I woke up,” you finally whisper, your voice cracking completely, “and for three seconds, I forgot.”
Dean’s hand stills against your cheek.
“I forgot he was dead,” you continue, the tears finally spilling over, hot and fast down your temples and into your hairline. “I thought I was in my dorm. I thought tomorrow I was going to call him and complain about Professor Fowler. And then … and then I remembered.”
“Yeah,” Dean breathes out, the word sounding like it was scraped from the very bottom of his lungs.
“It happens every time,” you sob, bringing your hands up to press against your eyes, trying to physically hold the tears back. “Every time I fall asleep and wake up, I have to lose him all over again. I have to relive it every single morning. I don’t know how many more times I can do it, Dean. I can’t do it.”
“Hey. Look at me,” Dean says, gently but firmly pulling your hands away from your face. “Look at me, Y/N.”
You open your wet eyes.
Dean’s face is entirely stripped of the Briar hockey star persona. There is no smirk, no arrogant confidence. He just looks completely broken. His eyes are shining in the dim light, wet with his own unshed tears.
“It happens to me too,” Dean whispers, his voice thick with emotion. “I wake up, and my first thought is always to text him. Yesterday, I saw a stupid meme about Tom Brady, and I literally pulled up his contact in my phone before my brain caught up with reality. I stared at his name for twenty minutes.”
You let out a jagged, broken sound, your fingers wrapping tightly around Dean’s wrist.
“It’s not fair,” you cry, the anger finally bleeding into the grief. “It’s not fucking fair, Dean.”
“I know,” he says, his voice breaking.
“He was twenty-two!” You say, your voice rising in the quiet room. You don’t care who hears you. You don’t care if you wake up Tucker or Garrett or Logan. You just need to get the poison out of your system. “He was twenty-two years old! He was supposed to get drafted! He was supposed to play in the NFL and buy our parents a stupidly huge house and get married and have annoying, athletic little kids! He was supposed to be here!”
“He was,” Dean agrees, a tear finally tracking down his own cheek. He doesn’t bother wiping it away.
“Why him?” You sob, your chest heaving with the force of your breakdown. “Why did it have to be him? Why couldn’t it have been … I don’t know, anybody else? Why did he have to get in the passenger seat?”
“Stop,” Dean says softly, sliding his arm completely under you and pulling you flush against his chest. “Stop doing that to yourself. You can’t play the what if game. It’ll eat you alive.”
“I want to trade,” you repeat the same desperate plea you screamed at the church, burying your face into his bare chest. “I’d give anything. I’d give my own life right now if it meant he could come back.”
“Don’t say that,” Dean chokes out, his arms wrapping around you like a vice. He buries his face in your hair, his own shoulders starting to shake. “Don’t ever fucking say that, Y/N. I can’t lose you too. I can’t.”
The raw, desperate agony in his voice shatters whatever remaining defenses you have.
You break.
You fully, completely break down. The quiet, polite sobbing of the last week turns into ugly, chest-heaving wails. You fist your hands in the sheets behind Dean’s back, clinging to him like he is the only solid object in a world made of quicksand.
And Dean breaks right along with you.
The guy who always has a joke, the guy who never lets anything touch him, the guy who floats through life on charm and trust funds, finally lets the dam burst. He cries against your neck, harsh, racking sobs that shake his entire massive frame.
You hold him, and he holds you.
You mourn the boy who was supposed to be your forever partner in crime. He mourns the brother he chose.
You cry for the empty seat at graduation. You cry for the Thanksgiving dinners that will never be the same. You cry for the locker room that will be entirely too quiet, and the passenger seat that will always be empty.
You cry until your throat is completely raw and your eyes burn like fire. You cry until there are physically no more tears left in your body, leaving you hollow and incredibly light-headed.
The room is filled only with the sound of your combined, ragged breathing.
Dean slowly pulls back just enough to look at you. His eyes are bloodshot, his cheeks streaked with wetness. He sniffs deeply, wiping his face with the back of his hand before reaching out to gently wipe the tears off your cheeks with his thumbs.
“You’re right,” Dean says, his voice a raspy whisper. “It isn’t fair. It’s the most unfair, fucked up, bullshit thing that has ever happened. And it sucks. It completely, totally sucks.”
You let out a watery, exhausted laugh. “It really does.”
“I’m so angry,” Dean confesses, his jaw tightening. He traces the shell of your ear, his touch grounding. “I’m so fucking angry at the world. I’m angry at the snow. I’m angry at that stupid deer. I’m angry at people walking around campus laughing like the world didn’t just end.”
“Me too,” you whisper, closing your eyes and leaning into his touch. “I hate them all right now.”
“We can hate them together,” Dean says without missing a beat. “We’ll be terrible, bitter people. We’ll throw things at happy couples. We’ll key cars. Whatever you want.”
You laugh again, the sound weak but real. It feels bizarre to laugh. It feels like a betrayal, but at the same time, it feels like the first full breath of air you’ve taken in a week.
Dean’s face hardens, his expression turning completely serious. He shifts closer, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“Listen to me,” Dean says, his voice dropping an octave, carrying a weight that completely demands your attention. “I know I can’t fix this. I know I can’t bring him back, and I know I can’t make it stop hurting.”
You look into his eyes, inches from your own.
“But you are not doing this alone,” Dean vows, his words fiercely determined. “You hear me? You are stuck with me, Y/N. For as long as it takes. For the rest of our lives, if that’s what you need. I don’t care if it’s three in the morning and you need to scream, or if it’s middle of the day and you need someone to just sit in the dark with you. You call me. I will always answer. You will always have me.”
The sincerity in his eyes is blinding. It’s not a platitude. It’s not empty comfort. It’s a blood oath.
Your heart, bruised and battered, swells painfully in your chest.
“Okay,” you whisper, your voice trembling with a new wave of emotion.
You slide your hands up his chest, wrapping your arms around his neck, and pull yourself closer until there is absolutely no space between you. You bury your face in the crook of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.
“And you have me,” you promise, your words muffled against his skin but entirely resolute. “I know you’re hurting too, Dean. You don’t have to pretend to be strong all the time for my sake. When you need to break down, you come to me. Okay? Promise me.”
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale, his arms wrapping tightly around your waist, locking you against him.
“I promise,” he murmurs into your hair.
The heavy, suffocating weight that has been crushing you since the accident doesn’t disappear. You know it won’t. The grief is going to be there tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’s a scar you will carry forever.
But lying there, tangled in the sheets with Dean, the weight shifts. It stops feeling like a boulder crushing your chest, and starts feeling like something you can actually carry. Because you aren’t carrying it alone anymore.
“Go back to sleep, Y/N,” Dean whispers, his hand lazily stroking up and down your spine, a repetitive, soothing motion. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.”
“Don’t let go,” you murmur, your eyes heavy with emotional exhaustion.
“Never,” Dean replies instantly.
You close your eyes, listening to the steady, strong beating of his heart under your ear. The fear of waking up to the nightmare is still there, but the terror is gone.
For the first time since the world ended, you drift off to sleep feeling entirely, completely safe.
***
Grief is not a straight line.
It doesn’t slowly fade out like the ending of a sad movie. It comes in waves. Some days, you wake up and the air feels light, and you can almost convince yourself that things are normal. Other days, the ghost of your brother is so heavy you can barely pull yourself out of bed.
But as the brutal winter bleeds into a messy, slushy spring, the good days slowly start to outnumber the bad ones. And the main reason for that is the six-foot-two hockey player who absolutely refuses to let you sink.
Dean is a constant. He is the first text you read in the morning and the last voice you hear at night.
The buzzer blares through the Briar ice arena, signaling the end of the second period. The crowd erupts into a deafening roar.
You stand up, cheering along with the rest of the student section as the Briar Hawks skate off the ice. Down below, Dean pulls his helmet off. His blond hair is soaked with sweat, his face flushed with adrenaline. He glances up toward the stands, his green eyes scanning the sea of blue and white until they lock onto you.
He shoots you a quick, cocky wink before disappearing into the tunnel.
A warm flutter erupts in your stomach. It’s a new feeling, one that has been slowly building over the last few months, completely distinct from the safe, platonic comfort he offered in the beginning. You actively try to ignore it, terrified of ruining the most important relationship you have left, but Dean makes it incredibly difficult.
“He’s staring again,” Lacey says, nudging your shoulder as you both sit back down on the cold bleachers.
“He’s just making sure I didn’t leave to get nachos without him,” you deflect, pulling your jacket tighter around yourself.
Lacey raises a perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Right. Because guys totally look at their platonic friends like they want to devour them whole on center ice. Sure.”
“Shut up,” you laugh, shoving her arm playfully.
“I’m just saying,” Lacey sing-songs, leaning back. “It’s been four months. You practically live at his house. Everyone sees it, Y/N.”
You look down at your hands, tracing the seam of your jeans. “It’s complicated, Lacey. We’re just … we’re surviving together. We lost Beau.”
“I know,” Lacey’s voice softens instantly. She reaches out and squeezes your knee. “And I’m not minimizing that. But you’re allowed to live, too. You’re allowed to be happy.”
You nod slowly, your eyes drifting down to the empty ice.
Happiness feels like a complicated concept these days. It used to be so simple. It used to be standing on the sidelines of the football turf, shaking pompoms while Beau threw a perfect spiral down the field.
You haven’t touched a pompom since the funeral.
The first time you tried to go back to a cheer practice, they were holding it on the indoor turf. You took one step onto the artificial grass, saw the goalposts, and immediately threw up in a nearby trash can. The panic attack that followed lasted for two hours. The realization was sharp and undeniable: you could not cheer for a football team that didn’t have Beau Maxwell leading it. It felt wrong. It felt like a betrayal.
So, you quit.
It broke your heart a little more, losing another piece of your identity, but Dean was right there to pick up the pieces.
***
“You don’t have to do it,” Dean had said, sitting on the floor of your dorm room while you cried over your folded uniform.
“But I love it,” you hiccuped, wiping your eyes aggressively. “I love tumbling. I love the girls. I just can’t look at that field.”
“So tumble somewhere else,” Dean said simply, taking the uniform from your hands and tossing it onto the desk. “Briar has an Acrobatics and Tumbling team. They do meets in the gym. No turf. No footballs. Just you guys flipping around like ninjas. I saw a flyer by the athletic office today. Tryouts are next week.”
You had looked at him, completely stunned by the casual, practical solution. “You read flyers?”
“Only when they involve girls in spandex,” he smirked, the joke landing perfectly, pulling a wet laugh out of you.
***
He went with you to the tryouts. He sat in the top row of the bleachers, doing homework while you flipped and vaulted across the mat. When you made the team, he bought you a celebratory milkshake and forced Logan, Tucker, and Garrett to listen to him brag about how high you could jump.
The third period of the hockey game ends with a resounding Briar victory.
You wait outside the locker room twenty minutes later, leaning against the cinderblock wall. The door swings open, and a blast of hot water, damp towels, and cheap body wash rolls out.
Dean steps into the hallway, a heavy black duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He’s wearing dark jeans and a tight black t-shirt, his hair still slightly damp from the showers. The moment he sees you, the tired line of his shoulders relaxes.
“Hey,” he says, stepping into your personal space. He reaches out, casually tugging on the zipper of your jacket. “Did you see my assist in the third?”
“I did,” you smile, tilting your head up to look at him. “It was almost as impressive as the way you completely face-planted into the boards in the second.”
Dean scoffs, pressing a hand to his chest in mock offense. “That was a tactical maneuver. I was distracting the goalie.”
“Right. Very stealthy,” you laugh.
“Come on,” Dean says, sliding his hand down your arm to casually interlace his fingers with yours. It’s a natural, effortless movement. He does it all the time now. “Tucker has a celebratory brisket in the crockpot. If we don’t hurry, Logan is going to eat half of it and feed the rest to the stray cat he refuses to admit he’s adopted.”
You let him pull you down the hallway, the warmth of his hand seeping into yours.
The house is already loud when you walk in. Music is playing from a Bluetooth speaker in the kitchen, and the smell of slow-cooked meat fills the air.
“The king has arrived!” Logan shouts from the living room, holding a beer in the air.
“And he brought Y/N, so try to use polysyllabic words tonight, Logan,” Garrett quips from the kitchen counter.
“I know big words,” Logan argues, tossing a throw pillow at Garrett. “Photosynthesis. Boom.”
You laugh, dropping your bag by the door. You walk into the kitchen, immediately moving to the island where Tucker is slicing brisket. Without asking, Tucker plates a massive portion and slides it across the counter to you.
“Thanks, Tuck,” you say, grabbing a fork.
“Eat up,” Tucker says, giving you a warm smile. “You got a meet on Saturday. Need fuel.”
“Wait, the meet is Saturday?” Logan asks, jogging into the kitchen. “What time?”
“Two o’clock,” you answer through a mouthful of food.
“I’m in,” Logan says, grabbing a beer from the fridge. “I love watching you throw people in the air. It’s violent. I respect it.”
“We’re all going,” Garrett adds, stealing a piece of brisket off your plate. “We don’t have a game until next weekend.”
You look around the kitchen at the massive, intimidating hockey players who have somehow adopted you as their own over the last four months. They don’t walk on eggshells around you anymore. They treat you like a little sister, relentlessly teasing you, eating your food, and showing up unconditionally when you need them.
You catch Dean’s eye across the kitchen. He is leaning against the refrigerator, watching you with a soft, affectionate expression. He raises his beer bottle to you in a silent, private toast.
You smile back, the flutter in your stomach returning full force.
Hours later, the house finally quiets down.
Garrett went to his girlfriend’s dorm, and Tucker and Logan retired to their rooms after a highly competitive, aggressively loud game of Mario Kart that you ultimately won.
You and Dean are left alone in the living room.
The TV is playing a muted rerun of a sitcom. You are sitting on the floor, your back pressed against the front of the leather couch, your legs stretched out over the rug. Dean is sitting on the couch right behind you.
“I think Logan actually cried when you hit him with the banana peel,” Dean muses, his voice low and raspy in the quiet room.
“He deserved it,” you say, resting your head back against the cushion. “He bumped my kart into the lava on Bowser’s Castle. I hold grudges.”
Dean chuckles. You feel the vibration of it against the back of your head.
Slowly, his hands come up to rest on your shoulders. He begins to gently massage the tense muscles at the base of your neck. You let out a soft groan, your eyes fluttering shut as his thumbs press into a particularly tight knot.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, shifting closer so his knees are bracketing your waist.
“Acro practice was brutal yesterday,” you sigh, leaning entirely into his touch. “We’re working on a new pyramid. I got dropped twice.”
Dean’s hands pause. “You got dropped?”
“Onto a mat,” you clarify quickly, opening your eyes and tilting your head back to look at him upside down. “It’s fine, Dean. It’s part of the sport.”
His green eyes are dark, his brow slightly furrowed in that protective way you’ve grown to recognize instantly. “Tell your bases to stop dropping you, or I’m going to show up to practice and have a polite conversation with them.”
“Please don’t,” you laugh softly. “A polite conversation with you usually involves a terrifying glare and a subtle threat of physical harm.”
“It’s highly effective,” Dean points out, his hands resuming their slow, rhythmic massage.
The room lapses into a comfortable, thick silence. The only sound is the low hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the quiet dialogue from the muted TV.
You stare up at the ceiling, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace. You miss Beau. The ache is still there, a hollow cavity in your chest that will never fully close. But it doesn’t consume you anymore. It doesn’t stop you from breathing.
“Thank you,” you say quietly into the dimly lit room.
Dean’s hands slow down. “For what?”
“For this,” you say, gesturing vaguely around the room. “For making them go to my meet on Saturday. For checking on me. For … just not letting me drown.”
Dean goes entirely still. Then, he shifts, sliding off the couch to sit on the floor right beside you. He folds his long legs, turning his body so he’s facing you completely.
The playful, relaxed energy that was hovering between you dissipates, replaced by something suddenly heavy and incredibly charged.
“I didn’t do it as a favor, Y/N,” Dean says, his voice losing any trace of humor. He looks at you, his gaze intense and searching. “I did it because I wanted to. Because you’re important to me.”
“I know,” you whisper, suddenly acutely aware of how close he is sitting. You can feel the heat radiating off his body. You can smell the mint of his toothpaste and the faint trace of his cologne.
“Do you?” Dean asks, leaning slightly closer. His eyes drop down to your lips for a fraction of a second before snapping back up to your eyes.
Your breath catches in your throat.
The air in the room suddenly feels entirely too thin. The platonic line you have both been carefully walking on for months is suddenly nowhere to be found. It’s been erased, completely obliterated by the intense, burning look in his eyes.
“Dean,” you breathe out, his name sounding more like a question than a statement.
He reaches out, his large hand gently cupping the side of your face. His thumb traces the line of your cheekbone, his touch feather-light but sending a violent shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” Dean whispers, his voice dropping into a rough, strained register. His eyes are locked onto yours, completely vulnerable. “I’ve been trying so damn hard to just be the guy you need. The friend. The shoulder to cry on.”
“You are,” you say quickly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“But I want more,” Dean confesses, the words tumbling out like he can’t hold them back anymore. He leans in closer, his forehead almost resting against yours. “God, Y/N. I look at you, and it’s all I can think about. I want to hold your hand, and I don’t want to let go. I want to take you on terrible, cliché dates. I want to kiss you so badly I’m losing my mind.”
You stare at him, completely paralyzed.
For months, you convinced yourself that the small touches, the lingering looks, the fierce protectiveness was just trauma. It was just two broken people clinging to each other because they were the only ones who understood the pieces.
But looking at him now, feeling the frantic, desperate pounding of your own heart, you realize it’s not trauma at all. It hasn’t been for a long time.
“Then kiss me,” you whisper.
Dean exhales a sharp, shaking breath. He doesn’t hesitate.
He leans the rest of the way in, his lips brushing against yours. It’s incredibly gentle at first, a soft, hesitant question. You close your eyes and let out a tiny gasp, your hands coming up to grip the front of his henley.
The moment your fingers twist into his shirt, the hesitation vanishes.
Dean groans, a low, guttural sound, and pulls you flush against his chest. His hand slides into your hair, tilting your head back to deepen the kiss. It’s messy and desperate and completely overwhelming. The taste of him is intoxicating. Every ounce of suppressed emotion, every stolen glance over the last four months, pours into the space between you.
You kiss him back just as fiercely, wrapping your arms around his neck, anchoring yourself to him. He tastes like mint and beer and something distinctly, perfectly Dean. His other hand drops to your waist, gripping you tightly, pulling you so close you can feel the heavy thud of his heartbeat against your own chest.
It feels like waking up. It feels like stepping out of a freezing room and into the sun.
When you finally break apart, you are both gasping for air.
Dean rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closed, his chest heaving. His hand remains tangled in your hair, his thumb stroking behind your ear in a repetitive, soothing motion.
“Wow,” you whisper, completely breathless.
Dean lets out a short, rough laugh. He opens his eyes, looking down at you with an expression so open and raw it makes your chest ache.
But then, the smile fades. He pulls back just slightly, creating an inch of space between you. His jaw sets, a serious, almost anxious look crossing his features.
“Y/N, listen to me,” Dean says, his voice completely level. “I need you to know something. And I need you to actually hear me.”
You blink, confused by the sudden shift in tone. “Okay.”
Dean brings both his hands up, framing your face delicately. “I didn’t do this because I’m sad. I didn’t do this because I’m confusing grief with something else, or because you’re Beau’s sister, or because we bonded over a tragedy.”
You swallow hard, holding his intense gaze.
“I did this because I like you,” Dean states firmly, articulating every single word. “I like you. I like how fiercely you argue about reality TV. I like how you refuse to give up when things get hard. I like that you joined a completely different sport just so you wouldn’t have to quit entirely. You are the strongest, most incredible person I’ve ever met.”
Tears, completely unbidden, prick at the corners of your eyes. But this time, they aren’t tears of grief.
“I’m not trying to replace him,” Dean whispers, his thumb brushing a stray tear off your cheek. “I know neither of us ever can. But I want to be here for you. As yours. If you’ll have me.”
The absolute sincerity in his voice strips away any lingering doubts. He isn’t holding onto you to keep a piece of his best friend alive. He’s holding onto you because he wants you.
You reach up, placing your hands over his where they rest on your cheeks.
“I’m not doing this out of grief, either,” you tell him, your voice steady and incredibly sure. “You didn’t just save me, Dean. You made me want to actually live again. I look forward to waking up because I know I’m going to see you.”
A breath shuddering out of Dean’s chest, his shoulders dropping a massive weight.
“I like you,” you confess, a bright, genuine smile finally breaking across your face. “I’ve liked you for a really long time. I was just too terrified to admit it.”
Dean’s trademark, cocky smirk slowly returns, lighting up his entire face. “Well, to be fair, I am incredibly charming. It was only a matter of time.”
You roll your eyes, slapping his chest lightly. “And the arrogance ruins the moment.”
“I haven’t ruined anything,” Dean laughs, leaning in again.
He kisses you softly, lingering on your bottom lip before pulling back just enough to speak against your mouth.
“I’m going to take you on a date,” he murmurs. “A real one. I’m going to open doors and pay for an overpriced dinner and everything.”
“I look forward to it,” you whisper back.
“Good,” Dean says. He wraps his arms completely around you, pulling you into his lap. You go willingly, curling against his chest, tucking your head under his chin.
He holds you tightly, resting his cheek against the top of your head. The TV drones on in the background, the house perfectly quiet around you.
For the first time in months, you don’t think about what you lost. You don’t think about the empty passenger seat or the quiet dorm room.
You just sit there, wrapped in the arms of the boy who held you together until you were strong enough to hold yourself, and realize that out of the absolute worst tragedy of your life, you somehow found your future.
***
“Hold still, sweetheart. Your tassel is completely tangled.”
Your mother’s hands are warm, slightly trembling, as she fusses with the black mortarboard on your head. You stand in the middle of your dorm room suffocating under the heavy, unforgiving polyester of your graduation gown.
“Mom, it’s fine,” you say gently, reaching up to cover her hands with yours. “It’s just going to blow around in the wind anyway.”
Your mother stops. She looks at you, her eyes already shining with unshed tears. She offers a tight, fragile smile and smooths her hands down your shoulders. “I know. I just want it to be perfect. You look so beautiful.”
“She looks like a giant bat,” Joanna announces from the doorway, leaning against the frame with a cup of coffee in her hand. “A very smart, educated bat, but a bat nonetheless.”
“Ignore your sister,” your dad says, walking into the room. He’s been out of the neck brace for over a year now, though his movements are still careful and deliberate. He looks sharp in a navy suit, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he takes you in. “You look perfect, kiddo. I am incredibly proud of you.”
You swallow down the sudden, thick lump in your throat. “Thanks, Dad.”
The front door swings open without a knock, the hinges squeaking loudly.
“Delivery for the graduate!” A bright, booming voice calls out.
Dean strolls into the living room, completely bypassing the concept of personal boundaries, as usual. He is also wearing his graduation gown, though he wears it unzipped over a tailored charcoal suit. He holds a massive bouquet of blush pink peonies.
“Dean, honey!” Your mom gasps, immediately stepping away from you to pull him into a tight hug. “You look so handsome.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Maxwell,” Dean says smoothly, hugging her back with one arm and handing her the flowers with the other. “I clean up alright. Though the hat is doing terrible things to my hair.”
“Your hair is indestructible, Di Laurentis,” Joanna snorts, taking a sip of her coffee.
“Jealousy is an ugly color on you, Jo,” Dean shoots back with a perfectly executed smirk.
He steps past your mother and walks right up to you. The playful arrogance drops from his face the second he meets your eyes. He reaches out, his knuckles brushing lightly against your cheek.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave, meant entirely for you.
“Hey,” you whisper back.
“You doing okay?” He asks, his eyes searching yours for any sign of a crack.
Graduation day. The day you and Beau talked about since you were freshmen. The day you were supposed to take thousands of ridiculous pictures together, throwing your caps in the air and spraying cheap champagne on the lawn.
“I’m okay,” you say honestly, giving him a small, reassuring smile. “It’s heavy. But I’m okay.”
Dean leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to your forehead. “I’m right beside you today. Every step.”
***
The football stadium is packed. Thousands of parents, grandparents, and siblings fill the bleachers, fanning themselves with commencement programs under the late spring sun.
You sit in the folding chairs on the field, surrounded by a sea of black gowns. Dean is twelve rows ahead of you, seated in the D section, but he turns around every five minutes to catch your eye and flash a ridiculous, exaggerated thumbs-up.
The heat is sweltering, and the speeches drag on. The valedictorian talks about the future, the dean of students talks about perseverance, and the university president talks about the legacy of the graduating class.
You tune most of it out, your fingers twisting the fabric of your gown.
Then, the tone of the ceremony shifts. The university president steps back up to the podium, adjusting his glasses. The low murmur of the crowd immediately quiets down.
“Before we begin conferring the degrees for the graduating class,” the president says, his voice echoing through the massive stadium speakers, “Briar University would like to take a moment to honor a student who is not sitting on the field with us today.”
Your breath hitches. Your heart starts hammering a frantic, heavy rhythm against your ribs.
“Beau Maxwell was a vibrant, exceptional part of our campus community,” the president continues. “He was a leader on the field, a dedicated student in the classroom, and a beloved friend to many. Though his time with us was tragically cut short, his impact on this university remains profound.”
A heavy, solemn silence blankets the stadium.
“Today, we are honored to award Beau Maxwell a posthumous honorary degree,” the president announces. “Accepting on his behalf is his sister.”
The crowd erupts into applause.
It isn’t polite, golf-clap applause. It is thunderous. Down in the front rows, the entire Briar football team stands up, their cheers echoing across the turf.
You stand up, your legs trembling so violently you aren’t sure they will hold you.
“You’ve got this,” Lacey whispers from the seat next to you, giving your hand a tight squeeze.
You step out into the aisle. The walk to the stage feels like walking underwater. The applause roars in your ears, a beautiful, devastating sound. You keep your eyes locked on the wooden stairs leading up to the platform.
You walk up the steps, the heat of the sun beating down on your black cap. The university president meets you halfway across the stage, holding a leather-bound diploma cover.
He hands it to you with a gentle, sympathetic smile. “Congratulations, Miss Maxwell. He would be very proud.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, clutching the leather tightly against your chest.
You turn to face the crowd. You look down at the front row of the bleachers. Your dad is crying, unabashedly wiping tears from his cheeks while your mom holds onto his shoulder, openly sobbing. Joanna has her hand over her mouth.
Then, you look down at the graduates on the field.
Dean is standing up. He is the only one in his section on his feet, clapping entirely entirely too hard, staring at you with an expression of such raw, overwhelming pride it completely knocks the breath out of your lungs.
A single tear slips down your cheek. You grip Beau’s diploma, close your eyes for a fraction of a second, and send a silent, desperately aching thought up into the sky. We did it, B.
You walk down the opposite set of stairs.
You don’t even make it back to the aisle before Dean is there. He slipped out of his row, ignoring the ushers, and meets you at the bottom of the steps.
He doesn’t say a word. He just pulls you into his chest, wrapping his arms securely around your shoulders. You bury your face into his neck, letting out a single, shaky breath against his collarbone.
“I’ve got you,” Dean murmurs, kissing the top of your head. “I’m right here.”
***
The rest of the ceremony moves smoothly.
You sit back in your seat, holding Beau’s diploma in your lap, watching the Ds get called.
“Dean Di Laurentis,” the announcer booms.
Dean struts across the stage like he completely owns the space, flashing a blinding, camera-ready smile as he shakes the president’s hand. From somewhere near the back, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker let out a series of deafening, aggressive whoops.
“That’s our boy!” Logan screams at the top of his lungs.
Dean laughs, grabbing his diploma and pointing directly at the hockey section before his eyes scan the field, finding you. He winks.
Thirty minutes later, they hit the Ms.
You walk across the stage for the second time today. This time, the weight on your chest is lighter. You accept your own diploma, smiling genuinely for the photographer. As you walk down the stairs, you hear Dean’s voice cutting through the crowd.
“Yeah, baby! That’s my girl!”
You shake your head, laughing under your breath as you walk back to your seat.
***
Dinner that night is a spectacular, chaotic collision of your two worlds.
Dean’s parents booked a massive private dining room at a high-end Italian restaurant downtown. The mahogany table easily fits both your family, the Di Laurentises, and somehow, Logan, Garrett, and Tucker, who simply invited themselves and refused to take no for an answer.
“I’m just saying,” Logan argues loudly, waving a breadstick at Dean’s father, “if you’re a corporate lawyer, you basically argue for a living, right?”
Peter Di Laurentis throws his head back and laughs loudly. “That is a severe oversimplification, Logan, but yes. Essentially.”
“See? I’m practically a lawyer,” Logan declares, biting into the breadstick.
“You failed Business Ethics twice, Logan,” Garrett points out dryly, taking a sip of wine.
“Ethics are subjective,” Logan dismisses immediately.
You sit between Dean and your dad, watching the beautiful chaos unfold. Your mother is deep in conversation with Dean’s mother, discussing the horrors of trying to find good tailoring, completely bonded over their shared fussiness. Joanna is mercilessly roasting Tucker for his terrible taste in country music, and Tucker looks completely thrilled by the attention.
Dean slides his hand under the table, resting his palm warmly against your bare thigh. He traces soothing, absent circles with his thumb, completely relaxed as he leans back in his chair.
“This is nice,” you murmur, leaning closer to him.
Dean turns his head, his green eyes soft in the dim lighting of the restaurant. “Yeah? Not too overwhelming?”
“No,” you say truthfully, looking around the table. “It’s exactly what I needed. It feels … full.”
Dean’s gaze drops to your mouth for a second before he looks back into your eyes. He squeezes your thigh affectionately. “Good.”
“Dean, pass the burrata, will you?” Your dad asks from your other side.
“Absolutely, sir,” Dean says, leaning forward to hand the plate over.
“And drop the sir, kid,” your dad adds, smiling warmly. “I think we’re past that.”
Dean smiles, a genuine, uncocky expression. “You got it, Mr. Maxwell.”
Your dad chuckles, accepting the plate.
The dinner lasts for hours, filled with multiple toasts, entirely too much wine, and endless storytelling. They toast to your graduation, to Dean’s, to the future. And halfway through the night, your dad raises his glass, his hand perfectly steady.
“To Beau,” your dad says, his voice thick but strong. “He’s the brightest star in the sky tonight.”
“To Beau,” the entire table echoes, raising their glasses.
You clink your water glass against Dean’s wine glass. You don’t cry. The ache is there, a phantom limb that you will always carry, but surrounded by the people who love him, the love you feel for your brother completely overshadows the grief.
***
By eleven o’clock, the families have gone back to their respective hotels, and the hockey boys have gone out to terrorize a local bar.
You are sitting in the passenger seat of Dean’s car, completely exhausted but utterly content. The streetlights wash over the interior of the car in rhythmic, yellow flashes.
Dean pulls up to a red light and shifts the car into park. He turns to look at you.
“You look tired,” he observes softly, reaching over to run his knuckles down your cheek.
“I am,” you admit, leaning into his touch. “It was a long day. A good day, but long.”
“Do you want to go home?” He asks, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I can take you back to your dorm. Or my place.”
You think about the quiet of your dorm, or the massive emptiness of his house without the roommates there. Neither sounds right.
“Actually,” you say, a slow smile spreading across your face. “I’m kind of hungry.”
Dean raises an eyebrow. “You just ate half a pound of handmade pasta.”
“I stress-ate pasta,” you correct him. “Now I’m actually hungry. For garbage.”
Dean barks out a laugh, shaking his head as the light turns green. He shifts back into drive. “Garbage, huh? Your wish is my command.”
Ten minutes later, Dean pulls into the familiar, pothole-riddled parking lot of Malone’s.
The neon sign is buzzing loudly in the cool night air. The diner is practically empty at this hour, save for a couple of truckers in the booths by the window and a tired-looking waitress wiping down the counter.
You walk inside, the bell jingling above the door. Dean doesn’t even hesitate. He walks straight to the back corner, sliding into the exact same vinyl booth you sat in all those months ago. You slide in right next to him, pressing your hip against his.
It feels like a lifetime has passed since that day.
The waitress walks over, pulling a notepad from her apron. She does a double-take, looking at Dean in his tailored suit and you in your nice dress, a contrast to the hollowed-out versions of yourselves she saw in the winter.
“Well, don’t you two look fancy,” she says, popping her gum and smiling genuinely. “Graduation?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dean smiles back, flashing his trademark charm.
“Congratulations,” she says. “What can I get you? The usual?”
Dean looks at you, his eyes dancing with amusement. “What do you think, baby? The usual?”
“Two waters,” you say, perfectly deadpan, reciting the order from memory. “And an order of loaded fries. The big basket. And a vanilla milkshake.”
Dean bursts out laughing, throwing his head back. The waitress chuckles, writing it down quickly. “You got it. Be right back.”
As she walks away, Dean wraps his arm entirely around your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side. He presses a kiss to your temple, lingering there.
“You’re a brat,” he murmurs against your skin.
“You literally forced me to drink a milkshake against my will,” you remind him, resting your head on his shoulder. “I think I’m allowed to tease you about it.”
“I was keeping you alive,” Dean argues playfully, resting his chin on your head. “I was a hero.”
“You were very bossy.”
“And you loved it.”
You smile, tilting your face up to look at him. “I did. I really did.”
The playful banter fades, replaced by that heavy, magnetic pull that always seems to exist between the two of you. Dean’s eyes darken, dropping to your mouth.
The waitress suddenly appears, dropping the basket of fries and the milkshake onto the table before quickly retreating to give you privacy.
Dean looks at the fries, then looks back at you. A slow, wicked smirk completely takes over his face.
He reaches out, plucking a single fry from the basket. He dips it entirely too aggressively into the ketchup.
He holds it up to your mouth.
“Open,” he says, his voice a perfect, gravelly mimic of that terrible day.
You laugh, swatting at his hand. “Dean, stop. I can feed myself.”
“I don’t know,” he teases, pulling the fry back an inch. “You look pretty helpless right now. I think you need me to hand-feed you.”
“I will bite your finger,” you threaten, though you’re smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.
“Promises, promises,” Dean fires back, holding the fry steady. “Come on. For old times’ sake. Open up.”
You roll your eyes, but you lean forward and bite the fry off his fingers. You chew deliberately, maintaining direct eye contact.
“Good girl,” Dean whispers, his voice suddenly losing every ounce of humor. The teasing drops away, leaving only raw, burning affection.
Your breath hitches.
Dean drops his hand, grabbing the milkshake. But instead of offering you the straw, he sets it aside entirely. He reaches out, cupping your jaw with both hands, and pulls you flush against him.
He kisses you. It isn’t tentative or gentle. It is a deep, consuming kiss that tastes like salt and ketchup and everything you’ve ever wanted. You melt against him instantly, your hands coming up to grip the lapels of his expensive suit jacket, kissing him back with everything you have.
When you finally break apart, you are both breathing heavily, your foreheads resting against each other.
“I love you,” Dean whispers, the words slipping out into the quiet diner like they’ve been waiting there all along.
You freeze.
Your heart stops completely, then restarts at double the speed. He has never said it before. You have danced around it, you have shown it in a thousand different ways, but the actual words have remained unspoken.
Dean pulls back just enough to look you directly in the eyes. There is no hesitation in his gaze. There is no fear. There is just absolute, unflinching certainty.
“I love you,” Dean repeats, his voice incredibly steady. “I loved you when you were completely broken, I loved you when you started putting yourself back together, and I love you right now. I am entirely, completely in love with you.”
The air completely leaves your lungs.
You look at the beautiful, complicated, endlessly loyal boy sitting beside you. The boy who dragged you out of the dark. The boy who held your brother’s memory in one hand and your heart in the other.
“I love you too,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest until it feels like it might burst. “I love you so much, Dean.”
Dean’s entire face lights up. The breathtaking smile that breaks across his features is the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen. He lets out a ragged exhale, burying his face in your neck, wrapping his arms around you tightly enough to bruise.
You hold him back just as fiercely, closing your eyes and breathing him in.
You survived the absolute worst day of your life. You walked through the fire, and you didn’t burn to ash. You are still here.
And as you sit in the corner booth of Malone’s, surrounded by the smell of cheap fryer grease and holding onto the boy you love, you realize something profound.
The world didn’t stop turning when Beau died. It kept going. And finally, for the first time in a very long time, you are incredibly grateful that you get to keep going with it.
***
The smell of burning toast is what finally wakes you up.
You groan, burying your face deeper into the mountain of pillows you’ve constructed around yourself. At twenty weeks pregnant, sleep has become less of a biological necessity and more of a strategic, highly negotiated truce with your own body.
“Damn it,” a voice mutters from the kitchen, followed by the loud clatter of a pan hitting the stove. “Okay. Pivot. We’re pivoting to pancakes.”
You crack one eye open. The morning light is streaming through the massive windows of the master bedroom you share with Dean.
It’s been five years since graduation. Five years of navigating adulthood, careers, and the beautiful, messy reality of building a life together. You’re married now, but the core of it all is exactly the same. It’s just you and Dean, fiercely guarding the peace you fought so hard to find.
You push the heavy duvet off your legs and slowly maneuver yourself out of bed. Your hand instinctively rests on the undeniable, rounded swell of your stomach.
You pad barefoot down the hallway of your shared house, the hardwood floors cool against your feet. You stop in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning against the frame.
Dean is standing at the island, wearing grey sweatpants and a backwards cap, looking extremely focused as he whisks a bowl of batter. There is flour on his cheek.
“You’re making a mess, Di Laurentis,” you point out, your voice still thick with sleep.
Dean’s head snaps up. The moment he sees you, the intense concentration completely vanishes, replaced by that soft, devastatingly bright smile he reserves exclusively for you.
“Hey,” he says, abandoning the whisk. He crosses the kitchen in three long strides, wrapping his arms around your waist. He pulls you in, careful of your stomach, and kisses you deeply. “Good morning, Mrs. Di Laurentis.”
“Good morning,” you smile against his lips. “I smell casualties.”
“The toast didn’t make it,” Dean admits, completely unbothered. He drops to his knees, his face suddenly level with your stomach. He presses a gentle kiss to the center of your t-shirt. “Good morning to you, too, little menace. Please let your mother eat these pancakes without kicking her in the bladder.”
You laugh, running your fingers through the hair sticking out from the back of his cap. “The baby doesn’t take orders, Dean. Much like its father.”
“The baby is going to be perfectly behaved,” Dean argues, standing back up. “Sit. Eat. We have a big day today. The anatomy scan is at eleven.”
Your heart immediately does a familiar, anxious flutter.
The pregnancy wasn’t exactly planned, but the moment you saw the two pink lines on the plastic stick, your entire world shifted. Dean had completely short-circuited. He had stared at the test for five straight minutes, asked you if you were absolutely sure, and then picked you up and spun you around the bathroom until you both fell over laughing.
He has been a hovering, overprotective nightmare ever since. He reads every baby book. He vetoes anything that even vaguely resembles a soft cheese. He treats you like you’re made of spun glass.
“I know,” you say softly, tracing the rim of the empty coffee mug he sets in front of you. “I’m nervous.”
Dean stops pouring the batter. He sets the bowl down and walks around the island, stepping into the space between your knees. He takes both of your hands in his.
“Hey,” he murmurs, his green eyes locking onto yours. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. The doctor said everything was perfectly on track last month. Heartbeat is strong. You’re healthy.”
“I know,” you sigh, leaning your forehead against his chest. “It’s just … it makes it all very real. Today we find out if it’s a boy or a girl. It’s an actual person, Dean.”
“Yeah,” Dean says, his voice thick with a sudden rush of emotion. He wraps his arms around your shoulders, holding you tight. “It’s our person. Half you, half me. We’re going to be okay, Y/N. I promise you.”
***
The ultrasound room is dark and freezing cold.
You lie on the crinkly paper of the exam table, your shirt pulled up to expose your stomach. Dean is sitting in the plastic chair right beside you, completely ignoring the lack of space. His chair is pulled so close his knees are practically touching the table, and he hasn’t let go of your hand since you walked into the clinic.
“Alright, let’s take a look at this little one,” the ultrasound technician, a kind woman named Dana, says cheerfully.
She squirts a massive dollop of freezing blue gel onto your stomach. You flinch.
“Cold, sorry!” Dana laughs, pressing the wand against your skin.
You turn your head to look at the monitor. At first, it’s just a blurry, static-filled screen of greys and blacks. But then, Dana moves the wand, and suddenly, there it is.
A perfectly formed, tiny spine. A little head. Two small arms waving sluggishly in the amniotic fluid.
Your breath completely catches in your throat.
“Oh my god,” Dean whispers loudly, his grip on your hand tightening to the point of pain. He leans forward, his eyes absolutely glued to the screen. “Y/N. Look.”
“I see it,” you breathe out, tears instantly pricking the corners of your eyes.
“There’s the heartbeat,” Dana says, clicking a button on the keyboard.
The room is suddenly filled with the rapid, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of your baby’s heart. It’s the most beautiful, incredible sound you have ever heard in your entire life. It sounds like a galloping horse. It sounds like a miracle.
Dean lets out a wet, choked sound. You look over at him.
He is crying. He doesn’t even try to hide it. The arrogant, charming, impenetrable Dean Di Laurentis is sitting in a dark clinic, openly weeping at the sight of a grainy black-and-white monitor. He brings your knuckles up to his lips, pressing a desperate, reverent kiss against your skin.
“It’s perfect,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “You’re perfect.”
“You guys are doing great,” Dana smiles, clicking a few more buttons to take measurements. “Baby is measuring exactly at twenty weeks and three days. Everything looks incredibly healthy. Ten fingers, ten toes.”
A massive wave of relief crashes over you, washing away the anxiety that has been building all morning.
“Now,” Dana says, pausing the wand and looking between the two of you with a knowing smirk. “Did you two want to know the gender today?”
You look at Dean. He looks back at you, his eyes still shining.
“We want to know,” you say, nodding. “But … can you write it down? We want to open it at home. Just the two of us.”
“Absolutely,” Dana says. She turns the screen away slightly so you can’t see, clicking a few buttons before pulling out a small, white envelope. She writes something on a card, slips it inside, and seals it tight.
She hands the envelope to Dean.
Dean takes it like he’s being handed a live explosive. He stares at the white paper, his jaw tight.
“Thank you,” you say, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the gel off your stomach.
“Congratulations, you guys,” Dana says warmly. “I’ll see you in four weeks.”
***
The car ride back to the house is agonizingly tense.
The small white envelope is sitting completely undisturbed in the center console. It is the loudest object in the vehicle.
Dean is gripping the steering wheel with both hands, driving five miles under the speed limit, his eyes darting between the road and the envelope every thirty seconds.
“Stop staring at it,” you laugh, resting your head back against the leather seat.
“I’m not staring at it,” Dean lies immediately. “I’m focusing on the road. Because I have precious cargo in the car.”
“You’ve looked at it twelve times since we left the clinic,” you point out.
“It’s mocking me,” Dean mutters, tapping his thumbs against the steering wheel. “It knows that I have zero patience. It’s a test of my willpower.”
“Do you have a preference?” You ask softly, turning your head to look at his profile.
Dean is quiet for a long moment. He signals, turning into your neighborhood.
“No,” he says honestly. “I really don’t. If it’s a girl, I’m going to spoil her so completely that she’ll be an absolute terror to society. I’m going to buy her a pony. I don’t care where we put it. And if it’s a boy, I’m going to teach him how to throw a football before he can walk, and I’m going to teach him how to treat women like absolute royalty.”
You smile, your heart swelling painfully in your chest. “You’re going to be an incredible dad.”
“We’re going to be incredible parents,” Dean corrects you, pulling into the driveway and shifting the car into park.
He kills the engine. He turns in his seat, looking down at the center console. He takes a deep breath, reaches out, and picks up the envelope.
He hands it to you.
“Let’s go inside,” he says, his voice low and raspy.
You walk into the house together. It’s quiet, the afternoon sun spilling across the living room rug. You walk over to the massive, obscenely expensive leather sectional couch and sit down.
Dean sits right next to you, completely invading your personal space. He drapes his arm over your shoulders, pulling you firmly against his side.
You look down at the envelope in your lap.
“Okay,” you whisper. Your hands are actually shaking.
“We do it together,” Dean murmurs, resting his cheek against your hair. He reaches down, his large hand covering yours, his fingers resting over the flap of the envelope.
“On three,” you say.
“One,” Dean counts.
“Two,” you whisper.
“Three.”
Together, you slide your fingers under the seal and rip the envelope open. You pull out the small, stiff piece of cardstock.
There are only three words written on the card in Dana’s neat, cursive handwriting.
It’s a boy!
The world completely stops spinning.
You stare at the words. The letters blur together as a fresh, overwhelming wave of tears immediately fills your eyes. A boy. You are having a boy.
Beside you, Dean goes perfectly, rigidly still.
“A boy,” Dean breathes out, the sound barely more than a whisper.
“It’s a boy,” you repeat, a wet, hysterical laugh escaping your lips.
Dean suddenly moves. He takes the card out of your hand and tosses it onto the coffee table. He wraps both of his arms around you, burying his face into your neck. He holds you so incredibly tight you can feel the frantic, heavy pounding of his heart against your ribs.
“A little boy,” Dean says against your skin, his voice cracking completely. “God, Y/N. We’re having a son.”
You wrap your arms around his shoulders, holding him back just as fiercely. You are crying freely now, happy, completely unburdened tears. You survived the absolute worst thing the universe could throw at you, and now, you are sitting in your living room, holding the man you love, creating a brand new life.
When Dean finally pulls back, his face is a mess of tears and the biggest, most breathtaking smile you have ever seen.
He drops one of his hands down to rest flat against your stomach.
“We need to talk about names,” Dean says, his thumb gently stroking back and forth over your t-shirt.
You look at him.
For months, you have avoided the topic of baby names entirely. It felt like bad luck to talk about it before the anatomy scan, before you knew for sure that everything was okay. You haven’t bought a single book. You haven’t made a single list.
But looking into Dean’s eyes right now, you realize you don’t need a list.
There is no discussion. There is no debate. There is no what if.
“We don’t need to talk about names,” you say softly, placing your hand over his where it rests on your bump.
Dean searches your eyes, his breath hitching slightly. “Are you sure?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my entire life,” you promise him, your voice completely steady.
Dean swallows hard, his jaw clenching as he fights back a new wave of emotion. He looks down at your stomach, his hand trembling slightly under yours.
“Beau,” Dean whispers.
Hearing the name out loud — speaking it not in grief, not in mourning, but in absolute, pure joy — sends a shockwave of electricity straight down your spine.
“Beau,” you agree, the name feeling perfectly, incredibly right on your tongue.
Dean lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against yours.
“He would be so arrogant about this,” Dean laughs, a wet, choked sound. “He would absolutely never let us live this down.”
“He would tell everyone we named him after the greatest quarterback Briar University ever saw,” you laugh through your tears, the memory of your brother suddenly incredibly vivid, bright, and completely devoid of pain.
“He would demand to be the godfather,” Dean adds, closing his eyes. “Even though he’s a terrible influence. He would have bought the kid a tiny, obnoxious football jersey before he was even born.”
“He would have loved him so much,” you whisper, the truth of it swelling in your chest.
“He still does,” Dean says fiercely, opening his eyes to look at you. “He’s up there right now, watching us, and he is completely insufferable about it. I guarantee it.”
You let out a watery laugh, leaning forward to press your lips against Dean’s. It’s a slow, deep kiss, completely anchored in the reality of the life you have built together.
When you break apart, Dean shifts back. He moves down again, dropping to his knees on the rug right in front of the couch.
He rests his chin on your thighs, looking directly at your stomach.
“Hey, little Beau,” Dean says, his voice incredibly soft, dropping into a tone of pure, unconditional reverence. “It’s your dad.”
You cover your mouth with your hand, completely undone by the sight of him.
“You’re making your mom cry again, so we’re going to have to work on that,” Dean tells your stomach, a small, teasing smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. “But I need to tell you a few things before you get here.”
Dean reaches up, resting both of his large hands on either side of your bump.
“First of all, you are so incredibly loved,” Dean promises, his voice completely serious now. “You have no idea. You hit the absolute jackpot with your mom. She is the strongest, most amazing person in the world, and you are going to listen to everything she says.”
He pauses, taking a deep breath.
“And secondly,” Dean murmurs, his thumb tracing a slow circle over your skin. “You’ve got a big name to live up to, buddy. You are named after my best friend. The best guy I ever knew. Your uncle Beau.”
A single tear slips down Dean’s cheek, but he is smiling. It is a genuine, peaceful smile.
“He was fearless,” Dean tells your son, his voice thick with a love that has never faded, only evolved. “He loved to laugh, he loved his family more than anything, and he always, always took care of the people he cared about. And that’s what we want for you. We just want you to be happy. And brave.”
Dean leans forward and presses a long, lingering kiss to the center of your stomach.
“I’ve got you, Beau,” Dean whispers against your skin, repeating the exact same promise he made to you on the floor of the church all those years ago. “I swear to god, I’ve always got you.”
He rests his forehead against your stomach, closing his eyes.
You sit there on the couch, your hands gently resting in Dean’s hair. The afternoon sun washes over the two of you in a warm, golden glow.
The grief is still a part of you. It always will be. It is woven into the very fabric of your history, a scar that proves you loved someone entirely too much to let them go without a fight.
But as you look down at the man kneeling before you, and feel the tiny, miraculous flutter of your son moving inside of you, you realize that the story didn’t end with the crash. It didn’t end in the dark dorm room, or at the altar of the church.
It continued.
It grew into late-night dinner runs, and stolen kisses in the kitchen, and a love so fierce and protective it physically takes your breath away. It grew into the life you are living right now.
You survived the end of the world, and you found something completely beautiful in the ashes.
“I love you,” you whisper down to Dean, your heart completely, entirely full.
Dean turns his head, resting his cheek against your stomach, and looks up at you with eyes full of a bright, unbreakable future.
summary : your mother, rhaenyra targaryen, during her marriage to laenor velaryon had reconnected with her former lover, daemon targaryen—developing an affair in which resulted into pregnancy. carrying you and your older twin brother, aerion. rumors and gossip spread through the realm like wildfire, claiming aerion to be more legitimate and more fit to be king than your eldest brother, jacaerys. as both sons fight for their rightful place as heir to the throne, they fight for your hand in marriage
pairings : aerion targaryen x twin!sister!reader, jacaerys velaryon x younger!sister!reader
warnings : incest (reader is targaryen), tension, sexual content, age gap (reader is 2 years younger than jace), misogyny, self-harm, aerion is a warning itself, violence, reader is lowk a little shit towards everyone, angst, teen pregnancy, birth, vermithor and silverwing are claimed !
summary : your mother, rhaenyra targaryen, during her marriage to laenor velaryon had reconnected with her former lover, daemon targaryen—developing an affair in which resulted into pregnancy. carrying you and your older twin brother, aerion. rumors and gossip spread through the realm like wildfire, claiming aerion to be more legitimate and more fit to be king than your eldest brother, jacaerys. as both sons fight for their rightful place as heir to the throne, they fight for your hand in marriage
pairings : aerion targaryen x twin!sister!reader, jacaerys velaryon x younger!sister!reader
warnings : incest (reader is targaryen), tension, sexual content, age gap (reader is 2 years younger than jace), misogyny, self-harm, aerion is a warning itself, violence, reader is lowk a little shit towards everyone, angst, teen pregnancy, birth, vermithor and silverwing are claimed !
A sharp gasp left your lips as you immediately sat up, awakening from your nightly torment once again.
The gods seem to like punishing you this way.
Forcing you to relive the monstrous turn of events on that night of Laena Velaryon’s funeral, every night in dreamland.
They know it's your fault.
If only you hadn't mocked your uncle so harshly for being dragonless that day.
You huffed to yourself, losing your train of thought before roughly shoving the covers off of you.
"Meow."
Meraxes, your white long haired cat stared at you through the darkness of your room, alerted that you had awakened.
Looking at the small kitty next to you, you stopped your huffing to acknowledge her, scratching at her head with such gentleness as she began to purr.
"Sorry for worrying you, my love. You won't be upset at me if I find comfort somewhere else tonight?" You cooed, smiling gently.
She looked at you with a blank expression, like always. Yet, you swear she always understands you.
Meraxes purred once more before rolling on her back comfortably, seemingly content now, slowly pulling away and humming as you did so.
You then reached beside your bed to grab your shawl, wrapping it around yourself and made your way out of your chambers.
As if your body had a mind of its own, taking you to your older brother's room, routinely. You seem to find yourself going to him for comfort after every nightmare.
Which was of course, across the large castle.
Your hands slowly pushed at the heavy wooden doors, wincing at how loud the noise was. You walked across the room, trying to not make a sound as you moved to fix your hair and take off your shawl before sitting by the bedside.
It was dark in the spacious room, the only source of light coming from the full moon outside the window sill.
Sniffing the smoke coming from the blown out candles on the table, you snatched the blanket to wrap yourself inside before laying close to the warm body that was practically spread across the large bed.
The loud snores were oddly comforting, even though it sounded like the great and obnoxious roars of caraxes.
Once you laid yourself right next to your brother, you quickly felt the warm skin of his burly arm wrapping around your waist.
He brought you closer.
“… Mmm… Sister, is that you?" Jace murmured hoarsely, awake now.
His face resting closer to yours.
He held you closer, tighter. You hummed in response, placing your hand right on top of his as you tried to get more comfortable.
"Same nightmare, hm?" He asked, his soothing voice whispering.
"Yes." You breathed out.
You can practically hear him and his thoughts right now, you swear he must be sick of you at this point, but you know he would never say it out loud.
"Our brother clouds your mind." Jace lightly scoffed, showing his disapproval but remaining sweet with you, "and your judgement. Why don't you ease your mind? He's a dunce, sister."
"It's not that simple, Jace." You argued, huffing at his words to which he quickly laughed. "Aerion does not have control over me! It's just… that night… he scared me."
A moment of silence filled the room.
"He was not the same after that night."
Jace swallowed at that.
The young prince tried to collect his thoughts, he only pays attention to Aerion unless he's doing something foolish.
And that was usually on the daily.
He does recognize the fact that his younger brother changed.
He's just not sure if it's for good.
Over the past years, rumors and whispers only increased.
It was worse back in King's Landing of course, comparing both brothers to each other, debating who was truly Targaryen or not.
Aerion has the look of a true Targaryen. He claimed Vermithor. He was always their grandfather's favorite grandson. Daemon seemed to pay more attention to him too.
And now you.
Always seeming to worry for your twin, making every effort for Aerion.
He enters your mind like he owns it.
It infuriates Jace. What makes that devious idiot better than him? It was obvious his little brother was well liked, even if he was a pain in the ass.
Jace still cared for him, of course, that was his brother, no matter what.
But…
"He's still our brother." He answered, nudging your shoulder before shutting his eyes and held you against his chest. "Rest now, sister. Duties call for us on the morrow."
You wanted to discuss further but ultimately you knew your brother was right.
In the morning, you had duties with your mother.
Boring duties to be exact.
Studies… dragonback… Valyrian lessons…
Shutting your eyes finally, your breathing began to slow down and the warmth from Jace's body was helping you ease back to sleep.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
THUD!
"This match's victory belongs to me, once again. Get up, idiot." Aerion demanded with such arrogance in his voice and manner, staring down at Luke, who fell too harsh on the muddy ground once again during their lessons.
It was always like this.
Every lesson, defeating his little brother. It was clear to Aerion that Luke was a lost cause.. .he wasn't making any progress.
It was an easy feat every time.
Now if it was with Jace, that was a different story.
Lessons between him and his older brother always went on, never able to declare who wins.
But unfortunately, Jace was off—at mother's beck and call like always. Too busy with his newfound place at mother's council.
Now Aerion was stuck with Luke as his opponent.
The silver haired prince released his hold on him, taking his boot off his stomach and walked back into position.
As he walks back to the other side, he can see Daemon's gaze clearly on him.
Luke slowly emerged from the mud, trying to wipe his face from the mess.
"O-Okay!"
The young boy felt all the more embarrassed.
"Perhaps, we shall let us be finished." Daemon suddenly spoke, looking over at the two princes as if he was growing bored, ready to head back inside already. "Do keep trying, Lucerys. You'll be as skilled as your older brothers soon enough."
To that, Luke appeared worried and a bit gloomy, like a puppy kicked to the side.
Aerion continued to keep that signature smirk on his face, snatching off his helmet before ruffling Luke's curls roughly.
"Run off, find your bride-to-be. Training, same time on the morrow." Aerion ordered blankly, watching as his little brother jolt but quickly nodded, "I won't go soft on you. You have the blood of the dragon, it's time you embrace it."
"Yes, Brother." The young prince nodded once more but slowly this time. Seemingly trying to appease his brother but also himself.
Aerion released his hold on Luke and shoved him towards the direction of the castle.
As he stared at the back of Luke's head, his eyes trailed over to the figure nearby that was walking towards him from the castle.
A dangerous glint settled in the dragon prince's eyes.
You tightened your hold on the skirt of your dress, bunching up as much fabric as you can to not ruin it by the mud.
Huffing from the long walk but as you came closer, noticing your younger brother going back to the castle.
You smiled, waving at Luke.
But he kept passing by—avoiding your gaze, you can tell by his stance alone that he probably wasn't doing well in training today.
And he was training with Aerion. That was hell itself.
As soon as you reached your twin brother, you could begin hearing the soft bellows coming from the cave where Silverwing and Vermithor resided on dragonstone.
"Must you always torment our sweet brother?" You questioned playfully, there was no hint of annoyance or malice in your tone.
"Oh… Do I need permission, sister?" Aerion appeared disinterested by your words, his hands moved to smooth down the creases on your dress before firmly settling on your waist.
A small yelp left your lips from complete shock when he suddenly pulled you closer, practically pressed up against his training gear.
He tilted his head, a small smile appearing on his lips. "Hm?"
He was certainly enjoying this.
Without another second going by, he leaned down to smash his lips into yours in a feverish kiss, full of passion and desire.
Your hands moving to wrap around his neck, internally groaning at the fact his gear was in the way.
You swallowed every second of this heated kiss, relishing his tongue in your mouth like he's claiming you for the first time.
How much you often think about that night…
"Fuck. I needed that." Your twin brother broke away from your lips, desperately moving to trace his lips down your jaw to your neck. "You have not been visiting my chambers, sweet sister.”
You suppressed a giggle at how desperate he sounded, roaming your hands into his short silvery hair.
Aerion groaned at the feeling. He certainly missed it.
"I missed your cunt-"
You quickly moved back a bit to cover his mouth with your palm, flustered by his sudden confession. "Hush!"
"Hush me with your cunt then. You can't deny me any longer." He swiped at your skin with a long lick of his tongue before pulling away, laughing at the disgusted look on your face.
You wiped your hand on his gear before fully emerging from his embrace, "Scoundrel."
You wanted to stay irritated but you couldn't.
Aerion always found a way to weasel himself in your heart, you couldn't stop the rush of excitement that's bubbling in your chest every time he would… well, act like himself.
He was a dangerous force to be reckoned with.
And it made you want him even more.
You brought your hand back up to his face, swiping at the smudge of mud on his cheek as you both maintained eye contact.
"Mother had asked me to bring you back inside. Supper is starting soon." You spoke once more.
He hummed, "I'm dirty. I must bathe myself first. Will you join me, sister?”
His eyes darkened with need, lowering his face to the point his lips ghost over your soft and plumped lips.
It felt wrong to reject your twin.
Perhaps this time, you both could actually spend some quality time together instead.
•───────•°•❀•°•───────•
Splash! Splash! Splash!
"Mmm! A-Aerion! Oh—"
"Fuck- Stay like this… keep riding your dragon."
The steamy water only continued to make waves in the spacious bath, some spilling over the edge and falling on the ground but both of you didn't care.
You continued to pull yourself up, holding your weight by holding onto your twin brother's shoulders, practically digging your nails into his pale skin as you skillfully pull yourself off his cock before slamming back down.
You couldn't help but let out a sharp cry once feeling his cock's tip hitting your cervix again.
Aerion was curving up into you, practically teasing your sweet spots with his tip, meanwhile your pussy is happily getting stretched out once again, your soaking walls clinging to every inch as if speaking of missing him and his mean cock.
He would never admit aloud, but he could cum from just being inside you alone.
This whole time, his hands were occupied with holding onto your ass. Forcing you to keep fucking yourself on his cock as he thrusts up ever so rough just to hear you cry.
Aerion urgently moved to squeeze your breasts, jiggling them around with a teasing tongue poking out of his mouth to lightly flick at your hardened nipples meanwhile looking up at you, maintaining such pleasuring and dirty eye contact that he was basically fucking you with just his gaze alone.
You were absolutely in love with whatever the fuck was wrong with him.
His hot, wet mouth quickly rush to wrap around your left nipple, tongue suckling until he was pulling sweet moans from your lips.
The wet sounds of you riding your dragon, as your brother loves to call it, echoed through the spacious area of Aerion's chambers. Soft sounds of your moans and his occasional grunts and hums of approval against your skin also being a bit nosy.
If anyone passed through the doors, they could probably hear it all…
Though, it didn't matter in the moment.
You were meant to be together. You were meant to love your twin. You were meant to be fucked by your twin.
Pulling you from your thoughts, Aerion released your nipple with a hard pop before kissing the curve of your cleavage and groping handfuls of your breasts.
"I'm close, B-Brother..!" You softly whimpered.
Sweat glistening on your body, even when bathing in a tub of now cooled water.
That's how long time has passed, you were already late to supper once entering the bath after your brother.
That is when he took the initiative, forcing you to sit firmly on top of him before he slammed his hips up, thrusting up into you with such vigorous speed to the point even more water began spilling out of the tub.
"Fucking cum on my cock," he growled against your skin, relishing in the pain of your nails digging into shoulders to the point he was starting to bleed.
He only continued ramming his cock upwards as his left hand trailed down beneath the water to rub against your clit, watching as you violently came undone.
The pressure in your pussy tightened, tightening around his girth, your walls clamping around him like a vice.
"Aerion!" You cried out, allowing yourself to cum finally, spilling all over him as you hear him groan at the hot feeling.
It didn't take long for him as well. Your brother followed shortly after as his hips smacked up against your ass one more time.
Jets of hot cum flooding your sweet cunt as he roared from intense pleasure, like if he was truly a dragon.
You couldn't help but collapse on top of him, your whole body feeling like jelly and stickiness.
Panting tiredly, your hands wrapped around his neck and clung to him even more.
His broad arms also held onto you, smoothing down your back to calm both of you down.
He leans towards to kiss you, and it's nothing short of messy. It's all tongue and wet once you slowly pulled yourself off, continuing to remain seated on his lap as he crashed his lips into yours, filled of need.
You tried to make it slow, meaningful, this time but he only urged for something more aggressive and sloppier with the kiss.
You looked back at Aerion once pulling away, lips all swollen and covered in spit, out of breath.
The hand that was on your lower back traveled to cup your jaw, pulling you back for one more kiss.
He bites your bottom lip once finishing, and you couldn't help but giggle when he slowly released his hold on you.
Before you could say anything, a loud bang on the door was sudden.
"You're late to supper! Mother is seething, Aerion!" Jace shouted, you can hear the irritation in his voice.
You completely forgot all about dinner.
Reluctantly, you pulled away in frantic, making a loud splash as you climbed out before rushing to put back on your gown —not caring that you were still wet.
Behind you, Aerion let out a loud and annoyed huff as he stayed inside the bath, not bothering to move as urgent like you were.
"It's just dinner. Lighten up. It is entirely tedious."
"AERION!" Jace yelled more stern this time, to which your twin brother laughed.
He shook his head lightly before moving to also get up, snatching the towel off the chair nearby and pat down his hair dry.
"All right, all right. I'll hurry to change, I was bathing." Aerion responded, still taking his sweet time.
As you remained quiet, not wanting to get caught by your older brother, you swore you heard Jace let out a huff through the heavy wooden doors.
"Y/n wasn't in her chambers either. Find her on your way to the dining hall. And don't take long!"
To that, Aerion shot you a smug look. "I will. Do not worry, brother."
You stifled a giggle, trying to be as quiet as you could while continuing to tie your own dress laces.
Jace went quiet for a moment, it seemed like he was gonna say something else but instead, he began to walk away.
Once the sounds of his footsteps began to die down, you decided to leave first, so as to not make it seem suspicious if you guys did show up to dinner at the same time.
Opening the doors to the dining hall, a few servants bowed once you entered.
You kept your head low, giving a generous smile to every servant before approaching your mother, giving her a kiss on the cheek then towards your younger siblings.
"You are late," Your mother firmly noted but her eyes were soft on you as you were busy giving Luke a fat kiss on his cheek.
Which Luke let out a disgusted groan, wiping at his reddened cheeks in slight embarrassment, trying to wipe off your kisses.
You grinned, like always, making your way to greet your cousins, "I'm always late, Mother,” You responded playfully.
As you finished with greeting Rhaena and Baela, you gracefully sat yourself next Jace, immediately snatching the lemon off his cakes and popping it into your mouth.
Rhaenyra sighed, not in annoyance or frustration.
Daemon looked amused as he sipped on his wine.
And with perfect timing, Aerion arrived as well.
Yawning into his hand, snatching a wine glass from a servant's platter as he made his way to sit next to you.
He sprawled on the chair, as if he owned it, to which your mother sighed once more, this time with slight frustration.
You swore you heard a laugh coming from Daemon.
"Forgive me, mother." Aerion spoke lazily, slightly turning his head towards you as he took a sip from his glass, "Can't keep up with time."
His words made you laugh, hiding your lips behind your palm.
You couldn't help but press your thighs together from the sight of his smirk.
Jace couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes, not finding any of it funny.
Rhaenyra looked over to your twin brother with that usual look she has whenever dealing with him but then, she suddenly turned over to Daemon.
It was as if they were speaking to each other with their minds.
Watching as your step-father nod, your mother suddenly turned to look back at all of you,
"Children," She started, you watched as she fiddled with the ring on her middle finger.
You know she always fiddled with her rings whenever something was on her mind.
Swallowing slowly, you pushed back your plate to give your full attention.
"Aerion, Y/n… it will be your namesday soon." Rhaenyra acknowledged, replacing the serious look on her face with a fond smile. "Your grandsire, King Viserys, wishes to see you all, and be there to celebrate with you."
With that news, you lit up.
You swore till this day, you were always your grandfather's favorite.
It's been years since you had last saw him.
Of course you wanted to reunite with him!
But Aerion seemed unimpressed, "We'd have to go back to King's Landing? Seriously? That place is a hole of dirt."
"Aerion," Rhaenyra warned, urging him to not complain. "The King only wants to see his family celebrate together. It is your ten-and-eighth nameday afterall."
She paused.
"And… He also discussed your betrothals in his message.."
Once you heard that, both you and your siblings grew even more shocked.
You were already receiving betrothals from great houses ever since you were ten, but if the King was now discussing the topic, you know you would be wedded soon.
The thought frightened you, of course.
Rhaenyra sighed, seemingly trying to form her words together before she fully acknowledged you, "He also mentioned a possible betrothal between you and Aemond."
To those news, your face paled.
You were at loss for words.
The thought of marrying..
.
.
.
"L-Let go of me..!"
"Let this be a lesson to you and your bastard brothers!"
.
.
.
Marrying that spawn of complete evilness?
Not a chance!
You would rather slice your head clean off before ever entertaining that idea.
"Who's that, again?" Aerion spoke up, looking completely bored while taking a bite out of his bloody steak.
You snapped your head towards him, not finding any of this funny like he was, but he genuinely appeared confused, not having any recall on who Aemond was.
Before either you or Jace could open your mouths to tell him to shut up, your mother spoke up once more.
"Please, my sweetness, don't fret," She hurried to ease your discomfort, a small but genuine smile on her face as she straightened her posture, "I had already let him know that would not happen."
The conversation should have ended there.
It was relieving that your mother had immediately rejected the idea.
But…
"I had already proposed the idea to the King that you and Jacaerys should be wed."
And with that, the room instantly fell silent.
Silent to the point, you could hear a pen drop.
You felt as if you were about to faint in your chair, your eyes widened and heart dropping.
Jace choked on his wine, getting it all over his lips and chin.
Meanwhile, Aerion stopped his chewing.
He was eerily quiet.
Suddenly, his table knife clanked on the wooden table loudly, echoing across the large room.
"Are you fucking mad?”
Seven hells.
HIIII chapter 2 is outttt😋🫰🏼
thank you all for being so patient!!
and to be honest, if aerion is ooc it’s simply because i made him a bit ooc considering the fact this is set in hotd universe😭 i truly think he would be a bit more softer and less cruel considering he’s in the era where dragons reign and thriving and he’s the son of rhaenyra..she would do a decent job at raising him.
and THANK YOU @hxtd @a-lina for proofreading and editing as always <3 love u sm twin
taglist : @nyaaaaa008 @baekxo07 @ae-gax @blurpleuni-squid @f1flowergirl (won’t let me tag u) @numberonerwitch @bambijuicee @helo1281917 @sinarainbows @giaaaarosaaaa (won’t let me tag u) @awhsya @goawaysha @godnesssstufff (won’t let me tag u) @pauxf013 @redwitchbitch1 @xpctogisatronus @purplegardenwhispers
summary : your mother, rhaenyra targaryen, during her marriage to laenor velaryon had reconnected with her former lover, daemon targaryen—developing an affair in which resulted into pregnancy. carrying you and your older twin brother, aerion. rumors and gossip spread through the realm like wildfire, claiming aerion to be more legitimate and more fit to be king than your eldest brother, jacaerys. as both sons fight for their rightful place as heir to the throne, they fight for your hand in marriage
pairings : aerion targaryen x twin!sister!reader, jacaerys velaryon x younger!sister!reader
warnings : incest (reader is targaryen), tension, sexual content, age gap (reader is 2 years younger than jace), misogyny, self-harm, aerion is a warning itself, violence, reader is lowk a little shit towards everyone, angst, teen pregnancy, birth, vermithor and silverwing are claimed !
“Don’t touch.”
…
“Don’t touch!”
Aerion refused to listen to his brother, still moving his hand mindlessly to touch the dragon egg in the steamy pot, the same way he picked for the cradle of their baby sibling. He took great pleasure in seeing Luke cry and pout when he wanted to pick the egg but alas, Aerion always got what he wanted.
In awe, you still kept your gaze on the egg, mesmerized by the pretty scales. Aerion had picked a beautiful egg.
From afar, all the siblings could hear the screams of their mother during her labor. You swore it would be a girl this time, mentioning to your mother that the babe should be named after one of the conquerors.
“—...ow!”
“I said don’t touch it!” Jace shouted, immediately scolding Aerion, watching his younger brother dunk his hand into an ice bath containing wine, while Jace put the head of the pot back on and locked it.
You sighed at the sight in front of you before suppressing your giggle, “You never listen.”
“Why would I? I am a dragon, I don’t have to listen to anyone.” Aerion boasted, puffing out his chest proudly as if he actually were a dragon himself.
You finally giggled but Jace remained stern, giving Aerion a good nudge on his shoulder.
Luke was too busy playing on the floor with Ser Harwin, wooden toys in both hands as he screamed and crashed the figures together, completely forgetting the whole ordeal back from the dragon pit.
All of you remained waiting in your mother’s chambers, anticipating when she would finish giving birth and hopefully come back to her chambers to greet you all first with the babe.
“Mother will be fine,” Aerion said, voice calm… and oddly confident.
Jace glared, feeling somewhat more annoyed by his younger brother. “You don’t know that.”
Aerion shrugged his shoulders, not bothering to look at his brother before he came closer towards you, pinching your cheek with a bit of harshness before you winced, shoving him off lightly.
“Yes I do.”
That seemed to only tick Jace off even more.
Luke swallowed, his sweet little brown eyes shining with tears. “S-She’s been screaming for hours. I don’t wish for Mother to die.”
“Childbirth is natural, Luke… Mother is strong.” You said, agreeing with your twin as you smiled down to Luke, offering him a warm embrace. “Pain is temporary.”
“The princess is right. She will be fine.” Ser Harwin spoke, trying to ease the little prince’s mind.
Jace’s face tightened, continuing to glare at Aerion.
You looked over at Jace and then back at Aerion, you could notice the tension from a mile away.
Sure. Their little quarrels can be amusing, especially when you seem to be caught between them from time to time.
Time seemed to pass so slowly. It was utterly quiet and boring.
But also nerve-wracking.
You couldn’t deny that you were also awfully worried for your mother. You silently prayed that she would be healthy, and so would the babe.
Jace turned his head slightly, looking down at your lap and saw your hands fiddling with the fabric of your skirt.
He knew.
Slowly but reassuringly, his hand moved and grasped yours, offering some kind of comfort, to which you appreciated graciously.
“Mother!” Luke cried, the quiet comfort between you and your brother breaking as Luke rushed across the room with impatience and relief, throwing his arms around her.
“Luke! Be careful!”
You and Jace followed as well, but were more careful than your younger brother.
Aerion stayed behind of course, never the affectionate one but he looked visibly relieved.
Mother was alright. That’s what mattered.
“My sweet children,” Rhaenyra murmured, her voice quiet but warm. She hugged you all tightly, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead.
“Princess,” Ser Harwin greeted, bowing his head slightly out of respect.
Rhaenyra nodded in return, offering the commander of the city-watch a kind smile. Rhaenyra’s gaze slid to something softer after a second went by before she looked away again, remembering her children were still here..
Her eyes trailed from you, Jace, and Luke before settling on Aerion, who appeared to pay attention to the babe in Laenor’s hands.
Aerion’s face was scrunched up, nose slightly twitching, eyes squinted.
The babe’s hair was brown. Yet again.
Then Aerion saw Laenor’s thumb brush the tiny boy’s cheek with tenderness, shushing him with quiet but loving words.
It seemed stupid to have this much irritation and hatred towards his own father. If he actually was their father.
Aerion wasn’t a fool, unlike everyone else around him.
That wasn’t his father. It couldn’t be. He refused it since the day he was born, along with you.
Rhaenyra’s gaze narrowed immediately, always the intuitive one when it came to the little troublemaker, Aerion.
“Aerion,” she said, voice low. “Come.”
Aerion begrudgingly but obediently approached.
Rhaenyra’s gaze flicked over him, searching for trouble like routinely when it came to him. “Did you behave yourself while I was gone?”
Aerion stood firm. “Yes.”
Rhaenyra stared, expecting to catch something from his demeanor alone.
…
“He filled Aegon’s chamber pot with bees, Mother!” You interrupted, grinning as you watched as your mother lightly pinched his cheek. “The queen was furious!”
The young prince let out a small wince, glaring at you with slight annoyance, “Ow…! Sister is lying, Mother! She’s a snake!”
“Am not!” You shouted.
“Yes you are!” Aerion shouted back.
“Aerion leave our sister alone!” Jace butted in, trying to ease the growing argument between his twin siblings.
Just the sight alone of her children quarreling was a headache but a sweet sight to see. Rhaenyra quickly ruffled both you and Aerion's fluffy white locks.
Then Rhaenyra nodded her head towards Laenor. “Here,” she said softly, and you all turned to look at the babe. “Your brother, Joffrey.”
Laenor lowered the babe in his arms, just a bit, presenting him to the rest of his children.
“Gentle, sweetlings..” he murmured. All of you went meek, astonished by how little he was and lively he seemed to be as his tiny hands raised in the air, balled into fists.
"Mother…, look," Jace said, opening the warm pot as she moved to find a seat. Rhaenyra glanced at the dragon egg as she carefully sat down with Ser Harwin's help.
"We chose an egg for the baby." Luke finished for Jace.
You quickly moved to be seated next to your mother, wrapping your small hands around her, eagerly basking in her warmth.
"Ahh...that looks like the perfect one.”
"It's not everyday a dragon egg leaves the dragon pit, my princess. I thought it was best to escort them." Ser Harwin explained.
Rhaenyra nodded, reassured, "Laenor and I thank you, Commander."
Jace closed the pot and you focused your eyes back on the newborn.
As Laenor was coddling the babe, whispering sweet things. You can hear him clearly, "You will make a fine knight," he had said.
You caught yourself staring far too long, practically ignoring all around you. Squinting your eyes too many times in hopes little Joffrey would magically turn into a girl.
You remember wailing like a spoiled princess upon the introduction to little Luke after birth.
You were bullied endlessly by your twin for years after the events, to the point that even Luke made the assumption that you hated him but that was never the case.
With silence disappearing quickly, Rhaenyra uttered, "Ser Harwin wishes to be introduced to Joffrey."
The Velaryon didn't argue. He simply gave the babe to Ser Harwin before he started to rock the babe gently. "Joffrey, is it?" he asked.
Laenor nodded. The name left you slightly baffled, it was an unusual name for a Velaryon or a Targaryen but you did not want to voice your opinion.
Finally, Harwin lifted his gaze. He looked first at Rhaenyra, a nod so slight it was almost imagined. Then to Laenor, a deeper, grateful nod.
"Father, may I hold Joffrey?"
Suddenly, Luke came closer. His tiny hands reaching towards the baby, trying to hold him before getting yanked away by Jace and your father.
“No, no, no." Laenor fiercely exclaimed, dragging them both out, "Off to the dragon pit, you three."
"But I wish to hold Joffrey!" Luke whined.
Laenor’s voice gentled, the practical seafarer reasserting himself. “Enough. Your mother needs rest. Jace. Luke. Aerion. Dragonpit. Y/n, septa studies.”
To that, you began to join Luke’s whining. You absolutely hated your readings, you rather be out there with your brothers.
Trying to cease a bond with a dragon considering that you and Aerion still hadn’t gotten the chance to bond with one yet. Or have an egg hatched in your former cradles.
Rhaenyra’s eyes caught Aerion’s before the gathering would head out the chamber doors.
“Aerion,” she called.
The young boy stilled, turning back around before walking towards his mother as his siblings left the room with Laenor. “Yes, Mother?”
Her gaze searched his face, more serious this time.
“Be good,” she whispered.
Aerion let out a small huff, already used to this talk. “I will.”
Rhaenyra did not look convinced, her hand moving to brush his bangs away from his eyes, adoring the pout on his chubby face.
“I mean it. Be good to your sister. I don’t wish to see any more quarrels between the two of you.” She continued, urging him to actually listen. “That is your sister. You protect her..not fight her. Understand?”
For a moment, Aerion was quiet.
He looked back at Rhaenyra with less annoyance now, showing that he was taking in her words.
He nodded, truthfully this time. “Yes Mother.”
She gave him a soft smile, moving her hand away to allow him to leave.
The door closed right behind Aerion.
.
.
.
Huff..
Huff…
“Let go of me..!” You cried out.
Huff..
Huff…
Luke had already been beaten to the floor, nose broken with blood trickling down his swollen face.
Baela and Rhaena were holding up each other, staring with fear in their eyes.
Jace was stagnant in where he was, feeling useless. Scared.
You continued to cry out, your trembling hands tried to reach behind you to release Aemond’s hold on your hair.
You were in distress. Aerion watched as your pretty silvery hair was tangled into Aemond’s hands, face slightly cut from his scratches.
He had only arrived just shortly, sensing something was wrong when you didn’t come to bed..
Call it twin intuition if you must.
The young boy’s chest was heaving heavily, eyes slightly widened and expression filled with immense anger.
Protect her..
Save her..
He quickly moved once Aemond raised the rock higher in the air, about to strike you right in the head with it.
Wielding the Valyrian steel in his right hand, Aerion moved it swiftly with the intent of saving his sister.
“RELEASE HER!” Aerion roared.
The blade smoothly cut across the prince’s face. Deepening the cut further, blood gushed out.
It all happened so quickly.
Aemond had released you without a second thought, clutching his left eye… or the remainder of what’s left.
His yells of agony could be heard from miles away as he fell to the ground.
And the strange part was…
Aerion didn’t feel guilty.
You fell on your bottom, harshly. Immediately crawling to where your older brother was, clinging to Jace like a lifeline as you cried into his neck.
As the yells furthered, the Kingsguard had finally been alerted.
All of them move past you, your siblings, and cousins to get to Aemond.
“My prince… let me see…” You could see from just his expression alone that Aemond no longer possessed a pair of eyes.
But you weren’t watching him.
Your eyes slowly gazed over to Aerion.
He was still standing where he had cut Aemond’s eye out.
No movement at all from the little prince.
But you swear that you’d seen the faintest glimpse of a smirk on his pale face.
.
.
.
When writing the history books of House Targaryen, maesters would say that Aerion had meant to kill Aemond that night.
Surely not for the sole purpose of protecting his sister..
Had that very night been the start of his cruel, monstrous ways?
hi guys !! omg it’s been a fat minute..but hi !! i had to tap in that aerion obsession..that’s my man 😻😻
this is the only chapter that’s not timeskip don’t worry don’t worry
you’re being fed with chapter 2
also creds: @a-lina @hxtd
love lea !! thank you for proof reading and helping me hehe 🥹🥹🩵🩵
Theodore Nott x Ravenclaw!reader
Summary: Theodore Nott thought he was playing a harmless game of a dare, until the quiet Ravenclaw he targeted turned out to be the only fascinating thing in the castle.
word count: 2.5k
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The Slytherin table at breakfast was usually an exercise in enduring Draco Malfoy’s theatrical complaints. Today was no exception.
Theodore Nott sat at the end of the bench, a cup of black coffee held loosely in his hand, his eyes tracking the morning owls as they flooded the Great Hall. Beside him, Blaise was meticulously buttering a piece of toast, while Draco was mid-rant about the incompetence of the Ministry’s owl-post service.
Theo wasn't listening. He rarely did. The politics, the posturing, the endless obsession with who was who—it was entirely, profoundly boring. They never spoke about any other topic, ever.
"Look at her," Blaise murmured suddenly, nudging Theo’s elbow with a smirk. He pointed his knife toward the Ravenclaw table. "The quiet one. Third from the end. She’s been staring at that bottle of maple syrup for three minutes like it’s a cursed artifact."
Theo shifted his gaze. You were sitting alone, a book propped open against a goblet, staring intently at the small pitcher of syrup in your hand. You looked completely detached from the chaotic chatter around you, existing entirely in your own head.
"Ten Galleons says you can't get her to go to the library with you by the end of the week, Nott," Draco chimed in, his attention easily diverted by the prospect of a wager. "She doesn't talk to anyone outside her little Gryffindor shadow-group with the Weasley girl and Loony Lovegood. Even then, she barely opens her mouth. Quite pathetic, really. "
Theo swirled his coffee, his sharp, analytical mind assessing the girl across the hall. She looked harmless. Quiet. The type of Ravenclaw who probably memorized herbology charts for fun. He was bored, and the prospect of taking Draco’s gold while proving a point was mildly entertaining. He could get himself a nice butterbeer this weekend if he won, and food always tasted better with someone else's money.
"Ten Galleons?" Theo murmured, a dry, cynical smile touching his soft lips. "Make it twenty, Malfoy. I’ll have her carrying my books by Friday."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The opportunity presented itself that very afternoon.
The library was quiet, bathed in the muted, golden light of late autumn. Theo spotted you tucked away in the West Wing alcove, surrounded by a small fortress of ancient texts. You were holding an ink bottle, turning it over in your hands with a concentrated frown.
Theo stepped into the alcove, his leather shoes clicking softly against the stone. He pulled out the chair directly opposite you without asking.
You flinched, your wide eyes snapping up to meet his. For a second, you looked like you were going to gather your things and bolt.
"Relax," Theo said, his voice low, smooth, and deliberately unbothered. He leaned back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. "I don’t bite. Unless you’re into that."
A faint blush crept up your neck, but you quickly looked down at your book, your shoulders tensing. "Nott," you mumbled, glancing up slowly. "The library is full. Surely there's a table closer to your friends."
"My friends are tedious," he replied smoothly, watching the defensive wall you were trying to build. "And you looked like you were having a very intense staring contest with that inkwell. I was curious."
You pressed your lips together, tapping your quill against the parchment. "It's nothing. I was just... thinking."
"About?"
You hesitated, looking at him skeptically, as if waiting for the punchline. But Theo just sat there, his chin resting in his palm, his grey eyes steady and entirely focused on you. There was no mockery in his posture—just a calm, quiet patience.
"It's stupid," you muttered.
"Try me," he murmured. "I have a high tolerance for stupid. I live with Malfoy."
A tiny, involuntary smile tugged at the corner of your mouth, and just like that, the floodgates opened. The shy, hesitant girl vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense spark in your eyes.
"It's just that people take ink for granted," you said, your words suddenly tumbling out like wildfire. "But iron gall ink—the kind we use for writing—is actually a chemical reaction. It's made from tannic acid extracted from oak galls, which are caused by parasitic wasps, mixed with iron sulfate. If the ratio is even slightly off, the acid will literally eat through the parchment over a century or two. So technically, half the restricted section is slowly destroying itself from the inside out because some medieval scribe didn't balance their chemistry."
You stopped abruptly, your breath catching. Your face flushed a deep, brilliant crimson as you realized how long you’d just ranted to a complete stranger. "Sorry. I... that was weird. You didn't ask for a history lesson."
Theo didn't move. He didn't blink.
He just stared at you, his analytical mind completely derailed. He had expected a shy, stuttering girl who would blush at a generic pureblood compliment. Instead, you had just delivered a terrifyingly specific, brilliant lecture about wasps and self-destroying books.
It was fascinating.
A slow, genuine smirk spread across his face. The cynical facade he always wore felt a little looser, a little lighter.
"Affascinante..." he murmured under his breath, the Italian word slipping out before he could stop it.
"What?" you asked, shifting uncomfortably.
"Nothing," Theo said, leaning forward, his grey eyes locking onto yours with a sudden, genuine intensity that had absolutely nothing to do with Draco’s twenty Galleons. "Tell me more about the wasps."
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
By April, the courtyard had become a shared habit.
The stone benches were warm from the spring sun, and the scent of damp earth and blooming aconite hung heavy in the air. You sat with your legs swung over the edge of the stone wall, looking down at a small patch of clover between the flagstones.
Theo was right next to you. His black school cloak was discarded on the bench, his white shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He was leaning back on his hands, his head tilted back to catch the sun, looking entirely at peace—a rarity for a Slytherin in the middle of a bustling Hogwarts afternoon.
"Look at that one," you whispered, pointing down at the grass. "The four-leaf one over there."
Theo opened one grey eye, glancing down lazily. "Are you going to tell me it’s a mutation?"
"It is," you said, a bright, easy smile breaking across your face as you spun around to face him. "It’s a rare genetic variation of the white clover. The odds of finding one are about one in ten thousand. But the funny part is that in the Middle Ages, people believed that if you carried a four-leaf clover, it would grant you the ability to see fairies and spirits that were normally invisible. So, essentially, medieval wizards used to walk around fields for hours just hoping to get a glimpse of a Bowtruckle."
Theodore let out a low, genuine laugh—the kind of laugh he never used in the Great Hall. It was quiet, entirely unprompted, and it made your chest feel warm.
"So what you're saying," He murmured, sitting up and turning his head to look at you, his sharp features softening into a teasing smirk, "is that you’ve been sitting here staring at the dirt for twenty minutes because you're looking for a shortcut to passing Care of Magical Creatures?"
"I don't need a shortcut, Nott, my grades are perfect," you shot back, nudging his shoulder with your own. "I'm just appreciating the history."
"You are ridiculous," he said softly. He reached out, his long fingers gently brushing a stray lock of hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear. His touch lingered on your cheek for just a second too long, his thumb lightly grazing your cheekbone. "Ridiculous, and incredibly beautiful."
The compliment was delivered so casually, so effortlessly in his dry, smooth voice, that it took you a second to process it. Your breath caught, your face immediately burning a furious, bright pink. You looked down at your hands, trying to hide the massive smile tugging at your lips.
"You're just saying that to distract me from the fact that you haven't started your Transfiguration essay," you muttered, your voice small.
Theo chuckled, leaning a bit closer so his shoulder was pressed against yours. "Maybe. But it doesn't make it any less true."
On the other side of the courtyard, under the shadow of the stone archway, the rest of the world still existed.
Draco Malfoy was leaning against a pillar, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes narrowed as he watched the two of you laugh. Beside him, Pansy was whispering something to Daphne, her expression a mix of amusement and sharp calculation. Blaise Zabini just smirked, twirling his wand between his fingers, his eyes locked onto the way Theo’s hand was still resting on the stone wall, just an inch away from yours.
To the Slytherins, it looked like a masterpiece of a game. Theo Nott, the aloof pureblood, completely charming the quiet, brilliant Ravenclaw exactly as planned.
But from where Theo was sitting, he couldn't see his friends at all. He didn't hear Draco's scoff or Pansy's whispers. He was entirely occupied by the way the sunlight hit your eyes, and the fact that for the first time all year, he wasn't bored at all.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The heavy oak doors of the library usually felt like a shield, but tonight, they felt like a cage.
You sat in the absolute furthest alcove of the West Wing, hidden behind a mountain of ancient Arithmancy texts. Your knees were pulled tightly to your chest. The silence of the castle was supposed to be comforting, but right now, it only amplified the echo of Draco Malfoy’s drawing voice from an hour ago.
“A dare’s a dare, Nott. But you’ve been dragging it out for months. Are you finally done playing with the quiet Ravenclaw, or do you actually like hearing about the structural engineering of Roman aqueducts over breakfast?”
And then Zabini’s low, amused chuckle.
You pressed your forehead against your knees, blinking back hot, burning tears. You felt entirely stripped bare. Humiliated. It all made sense now. Theodore Nott—aloof, devastatingly sharp, a cynical pureblood from the Sacred Twenty-Eight—hadn't spent the last four months sitting at your library table because he found you interesting. He’d done it because of a joke.
You were just a hyper-fixated, shy Ravenclaw who didn't know when to shut up. When you got comfortable, you didn't just talk; you erupted into a wildfire of random, useless information. You had genuinely believed Theo liked it. You had thought the quiet, intense way he stared at you while you rambled about the historical trade routes of nutmeg was because he cared.
Instead, you were just a punchline in the Slytherin common room. A stupid nerd.
A sharp, distinct click of leather shoes on stone broke the silence.
You didn't look up. You didn't need to. The scent of cedarwood, expensive ink, and the faint, crisp chill of the dungeons always preceded him.
"I figured you'd be here," Theo said. His voice was its usual self—low, dry, and terrifyingly calm. But there was a slight edge to it tonight. A tightness.
"Go away, Theo," you muttered into your knees, your voice thick.
"No." The leg of a wooden chair scraped against the floor as he sat down directly opposite you. He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "You dropped your Herbology essay in the corridor. And you've been missing for an hour. Talk to me."
"I don't think you need any more material for your friends," you said, finally lifting your head. Your eyes were red-rimmed, your jaw clenched to stop the trembling. "Did you win? Whatever the bet was, did you collect your Galleons? You can stop coming here now."
Theo stiffened. The lazy, arrogant posture he usually held instantly vanished. His grey eyes, usually so unbothered and analytical, narrowed in a flash of genuine panic.
"You heard Malfoy," he stated. It wasn't a question.
"I'm an annoying, nerdy Ravenclaw," you spat, the words spilling out like venom, though your voice cracked. "I know. I get it. I’m frustrating and shy, and I ruin perfectly normal conversations because I can't stop spewing out facts like a broken textbook. Did you know that human tears contain an endorphin called leucine-enkephalin? It acts as a natural painkiller. So technically, my body is trying to chemically fix the absolute joke you made out of me. Isn't that a fun fact, Nott? Go run and tell Blaise."
Theo didn't laugh. He didn't even drop a sarcastic counter-defense.
Instead, he let out a sharp, ragged breath and slammed his hand flat against the table. The noise cracked through the quiet alcove.
"Che cazzo state dicendo..." he muttered under his breath, a low, furious murmur of Italian rolling off his tongue as he pinched the bridge of his nose. He looked up at you, and for the first time since you’d known him, his cool, aristocratic facade was completely shattered. He looked desperate.
"Listen to me," Theo said, his voice dropping into something fierce and completely devoid of his usual mockery. "Yes. It started as a stupid, mindless dare because Blaise is a textbook idiot and I was bored. That was October. It is now May."
He leaned closer, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made your breath catch.
"I forgot about that miserable bet three minutes into our first conversation," he said, each word deliberate and heavy. "Do you honestly think I’ve spent the last seven months listening to you explain the global history of maple syrup, or the exact architectural flaws of the Astronomy Tower, for a handful of coins? I don't give a damn about the money, and I give even less of a damn about what Malfoy thinks."
You blinked, a single tear slipping down your cheek. "Then why—"
"Because everyone else in this castle is entirely, profoundly boring," Theo interrupted, a ghost of his dry, cynical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes remained entirely serious. "They talk about Quidditch, blood status, and gossip. You? You have an entire kingdom of useless, brilliant things inside your head. You look at the world and actually see it. I didn't sit here every day because I had to. I sat here because I'm completely ruined for any other girl who doesn't look at a bottle of ink and tell me the literal chemistry of how it was made."
He reached across the table, his long, pale fingers hovering just an inch away from your hand, giving you the choice.
"You are a nerd," Theo murmured softly, the lighthearted, teasing spark finally returning to his eyes, though his tone was fiercely genuine. "But you're my favorite part of the day. Don't you dare stop talking."
The tension in your chest slowly deflated, replaced by a strange, warm flutter. You looked at his hand, then up at his face, finding nothing but absolute sincerity in his sharp features.
"The ink chemistry fact was actually quite interesting," you whispered, wiping your cheek with the back of your sleeve.
Theo let out a low, relieved laugh, his hand closing gently over yours. "I'm sure it is, love. Tell me more facts, I can't wait to hear them."
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